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When Her Tears Took Me Back to Mine.

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My girl was in tears. Kilograms to grams. Kilometres to metres. Litres to millilitres. In her maths test, these conversions turned into a monster. She’s sharp in maths-that one she got from me (not bragging). But this time, the results came in below expectations. She was inconsolable. On my end of the phone, I listened to my baby shed tears. And I had to remind her sometimes an A can look like a D. Don’t get me wrong, I was disappointed by the result too. But first, we needed to go through the emotions. My questions started spilling: Why the big drop? Don’t you like the teacher? Did the leg injury, which happened just a week before end-term exams, affect your concentration? Am I too busy to support you with schoolwork? Are you going to school so early that by class time you’re already tired from beating stories with your friends? I know her potential. So I let her cry, assuring her I wouldn’t hang up, that I was on the other end. She needed to cry. She need...
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BARE MINIMUMS & MATHREE MORNINGS

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Lying awake in bed after my morning alarm… lazy, hoping time would move backwards. It’s Friday, and my body aches. I’m just fatigued. Now I’m in a mathree, cramped like luggage. As usual, the windows are just for decoration — no one uses them anymore. Okay. Let’s just breathe on each other like the oxygen inside has been specially conserved for this journey. And honestly, what’s with people playing their stuff on loudspeaker in a quiet public space? Ever heard of ear pods, headphones, earphones... or just something?🤷🏾‍♀️ Exactly a week ago, after work, a colleague gave me a lift. We got talking about nothing and everything. And when I say everything, I mean the kind of conversations you really want to have, but never quite find the right person or the right moment for. You know... the unsaids. But first, pause. I can’t pass my candy lady at the stage without stopping. Even going three days without buying from her loads me with a weird kind of guilt. “Leo umechelewa, na unakaa ...
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Mathree Mondays & Prayer Lists.

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Monday morning. Counting every damn minute — not for a promotion or a miracle — just for this mathree to finally reach my stage. If you know, you know. That awkward sit-like-you’re-ready-to-jump position? Yeah, that one. Because with the way the seats are hanging by a thread and the fleas possibly hosting a conference under your thighs, you stay ready so you don't have to get ready.   The conductor? Red-eyed. Bruised lower lip. Smells like he's been wrestling his weekend. And yet, the audacity to demand fare like we’ll vanish through windows! Midway through, the driver hears there’s a police crackdown ahead. Man mumbles something in mother tongue. I don’t blame him. That mathree couldn’t survive a body inspection. We alight. A mess. Trying to get my change back from a half-drunk conductor feels like asking Pharaoh for a quick release from Egypt. The insults! I give up. Write it off. I choose peace. But wait. Didn’t I promise myself a good Monday? I remember yesterda...
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Dust, Choma & Confessions: A Kitengela Catch-Up to Remember.

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Koa openly says that if lunch is on the ladies, pilau njeri it shall be. Iker, slightly MIA on the WhatsApp proceedings, seconds him with no apologies: “They” are not good in the kitchen. So Kitengela it is —the chosen catch-up destination. How we agreed to this still puzzles me. I suspect Lulu played mind games, and her counterpart, the moran, quietly agreed. Me? I didn't overthink it. I simply reminisced on our last catch-up in the same region, Koa hosting. Why lie—that choma was top-tier. But again, would I expect less from this Maasai host? Wendo texts that she’s already on Mombasa Road. Alma says she’s leaving from Karatina but promises to join. Please, Iker, pick up the phone already. Yes, Hails accompanied me. In my monkey bag I carried two plastic bags—precautionary, as she gets car sick and pukes like she is on a payroll. She was excited to go anywhere with me—my handbag in a human form. Lulu picks us from Eastmart. We wait a few minutes for Zola, who is trying t...
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Of Matatus, Emotional Storms, and the Girls Who Don’t Speak.

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A matatu ride. A letter from my daughter. A realization about unspoken storms. This is how Hope Club was born—in the quiet spaces where pre-teen girls hide their hearts. But for real, what happened to Kenyan matatu users never opening windows? My goodness. I found myself in a 14-seater with 18 of us packed in. Wah, I don’t know what we’re incubating to hatch into😏? The heat, the discomfort, the sneers when someone dared pick a call... it was comedy and chaos in motion. Anyway, a couple of days earlier, I had received a letter. Not just any letter, but one from my 10-year-old daughter. It was a full complexity of emotion that even adults struggle to unpack. Fear. Insecurity. Protectiveness. Love. It was triggered by what I considered a harmless shift in our normal routine. Nothing dramatic. But to her, it meant everything. She didn’t like it. She even wrote that she felt unloved. That word gripped me like a hand to the throat. I couldn’t wait to get home, to hug her and talk. To ...
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For My Future I Toil

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A personal tribute to my uncle, mentor, and family pillar -25 years gone, never forgotten. Let’s go back… mid-90s. Uncle Gakuo. His white pick-up truck. All of us. Our mums. Our huge bags-bigger than some of us. Nduta Gakuo, Cira Gakuo, Shiku Gakuo, Shiku Kariru, Waithera Marua (big), Waithera Marua (small), Wambui Njung’e, Shiku Mworia, Minneh Njoroge… And of course me-the ‘last’ born of the pack. Those registration numbers on the truck-to this day, I hear “709” and I feel nine years old all over again. Boarding school in an Assumption Sisters hostel was no joke. Oh my… Sr. Mbatha. Madaraka Primary School, Thika: top-performing. For My Future I Toil. That was the motto. And indeed, my mother’s brother wanted only the best for us. 25 years on. His candle still burns brightly in my heart. His love for extended family, those lively get-togethers- all gone with him. I often imagine him and Mum, taking tea outside under our avocado tree. Whenever I think of my education, Uncle Gaku...
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Hi, It’s Me. I’m the Problem, It’s Me.

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Mental Health Awareness Month Reflection. Dear friend, I’m sorry I snapped at you that Saturday afternoon. You were just checking in. But I was struggling — with finances, with feeling stuck in my career, with carrying this quiet weight. And you? You were going through a divorce. You’d just survived a near-death illness that had you in ICU. I promised to be there for you. To check in more. To be a better friend. But I’ve barely picked up your calls. I want to call when I’m upbeat. When I sound like “me.” So I text. I choose WhatsApp, because you can’t hear the heaviness in my voice there. Dear friend, Remember when you borrowed me 5k? I told you, “Once you get it from someone, please share.” Truth is... I needed it too. But I didn’t want to say. My boss once asked what happened to that dream of becoming a counsellor. I told him, “I paused on that interest.” He asked why. I laughed and said, “I think I realized I need the counselling more than I could give.” We chuckled. But i...
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Feeling Stuck : “When Your Mind Goes Blank”

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A strong feeling of the world shrinking into silence. One moment I am sitting in a simple meeting — not even the scariest one I’ve ever had — and the next, my mind emptied. Completely. Not a thought, not a word. Just blank. Abit of nervousness but something deeper. Something old. Like a bully that has lived in my mind for years. The one that whispers, You’re not good enough. You should do better. You are slow. You are stuck I’ve worked in the financial field for years. And yet, I couldn’t find words to explain the simplest of things. I stumbled, I overtalked, I shrank and tried to cover up the mess with a flurry of nothings. It’s not the first time. The truth is, I feel stuck. Stuck in a cycle of hardwork, barely smart. Watching peers sail past me. Seeing others rise while I stay seated. And worse — carrying the shame of that stagnation, like a stain I can't scrub off. Countless opportunities search in the past. Rejections now a rhythm. On the few occasions I get the chance to spea...
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40 Floors Up: 4 truths per decade.

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So apparently, I am turning 40. Four-Zero. Forty. The age I used to imagine meant high heels and high bank balances. Reality? I own crocs in two colors, countless pair of sneakers and I check price tags like they’re crime scenes😏 I thought by now I’d have it all figured out — career, family, finances, skincare. But let me tell you, I still Google things like “can you get grey hairs on your eyebrows?” and “how to say no without guilt.” So here is to 40. Not just a number. A milestone. A monument. To every version of me that walked the path-I see you. I honour you. I’m standing here with a cocktail of emotions: awe, relief, laughter, and a slightly panicked "Wait… how did we get here?!" So, in honour of this milestone, I give you: 4 truths per decade — the lessons, the bruises, the beauty, and the bafflement — as gathered from each floor I’ve climbed. Floors 0–10: The Obvious and Not-So-Obvious Climb I was 8, going on 9. Quite short, barely able to carry my oversized b...
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My Cesarean Story: No Floater, No Panic, Just Faith

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PART 2:  Into the Theatre, Out with a Daughter. Don't scream. Don't shout. Just breathe. Walk a lot during pregnancy. Hemorrhoids? Don't dare constipate! Those nipples, first baby latch—you will call your mother! You know SIM 2 could give way? Jesus! Your hooha could tear—and girl, the sewing back. 😳 My headspace as I approached labor... Reality... Contractions, ever so intense, so close. Let me tell you, Maina—wueh! When they say teach your child the right path, and they will not deviate from it when they grow up ...they were right. The number of times I called God, Jesus, and all His angels. I recall one prenatal check-up—I was a bit body-conscious. My doctor, sensing this, casually told me, " Shyness will disappear at childbirth. " Look, the way I was pacing in the labor room, my  bottom on display🤭 (BTW, what is it with those open gowns at the back?) Mum whispering to Njeri at some point. No one warned me this pain goes to the brain. I had the...
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