From Sparks to Stories

  Guys, I am rethinking my life, because Who uses matatu? Well… I’m currently seated in one. In fact, I used one in the morning too. It’s not just transport, it’s a lifestyle, a commitment, a situationship I didn’t sign up for but here we are. So what does that say about me? Anyway, I’m here having a deep life conversation with my newly-found friends. You know how matatus do that, force bonding. One sharp corner and suddenly you’re sharing life philosophies with a stranger who smells like strong cologne and ambition. Now… plot twist. One of these guys casually mentions he hasn’t used a matatu in FOUR YEARS. Four. Years. The other one… acha tu. Her relationship with public transport is “once upon a time.” And I’m here thinking we are the same species. Do you know these people use matatus for experience? For thrill? Like it’s some kind of extreme sport. “Bro, have you ever hung on a door at 7am traffic? The adrenaline??” Meanwhile, for some of us, that’s not adrenaline, that’s surviv...

I was about to name this piece "you cannot shame the shameless" but I decided.  You wanna know why?  Free will guys. Free will.  But anyway...  The city under the sun. Such a beautiful name. Right?  So poetic. So promising. You hear it and you imagine golden light kissing skyscrapers, people walking with purpose, maybe a saxophone playing faintly in the background as life unfolds in soft, cinematic motion. Then you arrive in Nairobi. And immediately, you realize the sun is not kissing anything. It is beating. Beating the tarmac. Beating your confidence. Beating your sense of direction. And if you are not careful, it will beat your bank account too. By 4:00am, the city is in full performance mode. Matatus roar like they are in a Fast & Furious audition no one asked for.  Conductors hang halfway outside the doors, yelling destinations like auctioneers who are emotionally invested in your travel plans. Kwani you guys don't sleep? “Town! Tao! CBD! Ha...

  Wait. Guys!  I think I’m officially qualified to say, “niko pahali pa hatari.” Because wait… what? Is this what comes with being 26? You people never warned me that once you hit this age, relatives stop asking how you’re doing and start asking about your marital status like it’s a government project. Suddenly, everyone is invested. Everyone is concerned. Everyone has suggestions. You can be building a career, healing, figuring yourself out, learning how to be a decent human being, but none of that seems to matter if there’s no wedding loading. Apparently, kumbe 2 6 comes with a wedding countdown. You never really start a sentence with “so” unless you are in a crisis. So… today I am in one. A very big one.  The other day my mother casually joked about wanting a grandchild.  I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because my brain needed time to process the plot twist. This is the same woman who, just the other day (okay, maybe a few years ago), used to iss...

Wow… 26 already. Time really does fly! Turning 26 feels like standing on the edge of something electric, a place where lessons from the past meet the endless possibilities of the future. It’s that sweet spot where reflection meets ambition, and gratitude meets curiosity. Honestly, it’s a big person’s age, there are things you can’t just do anymore, and yet, there’s so much you can. They say, at 26, you start to know yourself in ways you never did before. You see your strengths, your quirks, and the sparks that make you come alive. You’ve stumbled, you’ve celebrated, and you’ve realized that life isn’t just about reaching a destination, but how you move through the journey. And yes, just like Mike says, the mistakes… they start to cost more. The lessons are harder, the risks weigh heavier, and the stakes feel higher. But here’s the thing: each “expensive mistake” teaches you something you wouldn’t learn any other way. They sharpen your judgment, stretch your patience, and remind you tha...

It is January 10th, 6:44 a.m. I can't turn my head off.  Funny how I haven’t slept at all, today, or maybe since yesterday. Frankly, I don’t want to sleep. I’m afraid the rest of the day will take a toll on me if I do. But here I am. It’s been a while since I last wrote. This morning, I feel inspired again. And you probably already know what my inspiration is. Yes, you guessed right. It’s a girl. She’s a beauty. Truly. I noticed it at first, felt it even, but brushed it off because of a silly pact I made with myself: no pursuing girls from church. Not after what happened the last time. But this one feels different. She really does. She’s calm. Collected. And when she smiles; man, when she smiles, my head goes into a frenzy. Crazy, right? I finally told her I found her attractive. I said, “It would be unfair if I never told you how beautiful of a human being you are.” It took courage, but I meant every word. My voice didn’t shake at all, my heart did. It has been a while since I fe...

I won’t lie—my writing mojo had packed its bags and gone on an unapproved sabbatical. The other day, Diana texted me, clearly unimpressed, to ask why on earth I’d gone months without giving you guys something to read. “We’re starving here!” she said. I promised her I’d write something soon, but if I’m honest, I had no idea when—or even what—I’d write about. But all credits to Wanyama for this one. You know, the kind of conversation that derails your train of thought but somehow manages to put the wheels back on track? Yeah, that’s the one. So, here we are, all thanks to Wanyama—because if there’s one thing about him, he has a knack for stirring the pot and getting my creative side in motion. For some reason, many believe that men don't cry. Or maybe it's that men shouldn't cry. Perhaps, as some might argue, men were simply not meant to cry. I find myself both agreeing and disagreeing with each of these notions in equal measure. There are moments when holding it in is ...