Dear Madame Heavens,

I have been watching you.

I must confess, I always thought yours was a curious name, but you have been true to its meaning, and what a fine job you have done!

You smile as you speak, but your smile does not reach your eyes. It clearly is not Botox, because the furrows on your forehead are as clear as the missing billions. But your eyes, your eyes are cold. Not from your air conditioned office, or perhaps it’s the air up there on your high horse that is making you look slightly dead, but only in your eyes.

Yes. A fine job you are doing.

And no, please do not step aside. Had we foolish Kenyans known, we would all be barking up the same tree, you know the one; the one that wields all the power.

Your world must be made of rose petals, but only the freshest and sweetest of them. The stems and their thorns must have been tossed out, lest they make for a sore sight for your already cold eyes. What did you say Madame Heavens? They did not seek your permission to throw out the stems? That throwing out stems is not your business anyway? Right, apologies Madame Heavens, let someone else suffer the pain as you shoot yourself in the foot.

But do not tire your cold eyes, go ahead and turn away, Big Daddy has got your back… The rest of Kenya can only hope to be someone’s Sweetie.

Looking forward to the next elections.

Yours truly.


Teachers… first taste of a love hate relationship?

A man who caused fear, who would not let me be.

He was my living nightmare.

I dozed off to the twilight zone. Where he came to life in vivid fashion; he would move towards me, as if in slow motion, and always on grey scale. A dark cloud always hovered above his head, and when he spoke, nothing came out. All I felt was a cold force swallow me, I was suddenly enveloped by ice, my limbs would not move, only my thoughts poured out of my brain. They came out as letters, not the entire alphabet, but letters that had meaning.

They were grades.

My grades.

Poor grades.

I, F, E, D

I woke up with a start, gasping for air. Swallowing cool mouthfuls, looking around my room, feeling him but not seeing him. When will this nightmare ever end?


The one part of my childhood that send a shiver down my spine, and not the delicious type of shiver. No. It’s the kind that happens when your most favourite character is about to open the door, then he hears a squeak in the floor boards behind him, and you know he is about to be knifed by a psycho killer… and the door still won’t open, because there is a dead body behind it, his best friend’s corpse, they really should have stayed on campus and done beer bongs instead.


Who was born ready to be cast as a Death eater. For his uncanny ability to suck life out of children, eliminate any joy in your being.


With his dark yet pale skin. His small beady eyes always bloodshot, as if he washed them in tomato puree and didn’t do a good job of rinsing them. He summoned fear, quietly through his little eyes, as he looked at our answer sheets, looking for his next victim, his cane at the ready. Pass mark was 28, out of a possible 30.


Whose long spindly legs carried him swiftly. We seldom heard his footsteps, he simply appeared at the door, then locked it behind him. Perishing the thought of making a quick escape from the surprise CATS and monotone lectures. His boney arms lay limply at his sides, misleading everyone of the power they delivered with that awful cane.


The deliberate yet unfortunate reason for my high grades. My first love hate relationship.


Inspiration drawn from:

Culture we do not need!

You learn how to cut down trees by cutting them down. ~ Bateke proverb.

Albert Chinualumogu Achebe wrote beautifully in Things fall apart, a novel that depicts the life of Okonkwo, a leader and local wrestling champion in Umuofia – one of a fictional group of nine villages in Nigeria inhabited by the Igbo people. It focuses on his family and personal history, the customs and society of the Igbo and the influence of British colonialism. The underlying theme was to capture the culture of an African people, more so the Igbo community. Chinua was inspired to write this book as a response to European authors had maligned and erroneously captured Africa as godless, backward, dark and uncultured.

Every people, country and state has its own way, mechanisms that gel together to form a nation existing to serve its people. Some however, have encouraged cultures that have worked against it, bring a country once full of glory to its knees, with its people reeling in shock and bracing themselves for harsher economic times.

Kenya is one such place, I worry for our state and for the State.  Proverbs are wise sayings not meant to be repeated, but exist to be learnt from. One proverb that we can learn from is this.

 You learn how to cut down trees by cutting them down. ~ Bateke proverb

It is plain, actually stupid simple.

The only way to eliminate is to eliminate. Kill Corruption!

Corruption has been our Achilles hill for as long as I remember. It has eaten us from within, and now it owns us. I am not one to be party to dooms day prophets, but if it walks like a duck and sounds like a duck, then it is a duck!

To Cabinet secretaries who find customized condom dispensers of more use than increasing the basic pay of policemen, I say, The poor man and the rich man do not play together. ~ Ashanti proverb.

To those ministers who buy “stainless steel” wheel burrows that cannot serve their purpose I say, One cannot both feast and become rich. ~ Ashanti Proverb.

To those who borrow from Peter to pay Paul while lining their pockets with the interest, I say, The wealth which enslaves the owner isn’t wealth. ~ Yoruba proverb.

We all want to break free of the rat race, but where will you spend your wealth if you country is no more?

I thank @jessamayann.wordpress.com for the quote challenge. Now I nominate these three able folk to partake of this goodness.

Nasaye @nasaye, https: Hazel @ //diynyumbani.wordpress.com/ and Wairimu @ wairimumurigi.blogpost.com


Are You there?

The bible says, seek and you will find.

But I cannot find Him, nor can I feel Him. Where is He?

Am I locked in an abyss, void of light and love, joy and laughter? Am I paying for sin committed in my past life, carrying generational burdens for which I did not own?

Am I yet evil? To want to question Him, to want a conversation with Him? To want to understand and therefore trust Him?

Are You there?

Looking back…

Face your regrets, knowing that you do not live in your past.

It must be the weather.

Got me in a pensive mood, endless cups of sweet coffee wrapped up in my fuzzy leopard print snuggie is not doing the trick today.

Mmmmmh, I cannot seem to gather my thoughts. Perhaps if my eldest wasn’t unwell, my spirits would be higher. His little nose is red, reminds me of Christmas..what is that carol with Rudolf and his red nose? He won’t eat, not even his favourite snack… cookies and warm milk. Sigh! This is terrible.

He sniffles and turns his watery eyes towards me.

“Mama…am I sick because I refused to wear socks when you told me to?”

Bless his little soul, the early onsets of “your choices have consequences” taking residence. But no, this is not the cause of his illness. I explain it had nothing to do with it, he must have caught a virus from school.

He still looks at me;

“ Mama… I won’t do it again, I will dress warmly so I get better.”

Oh! He is so sweet! A plant a kiss on his forehead, and tuck him in a little tighter, as if the cold would not find him if all corners were secured.

I see regret on his face, he believes that playing outside without shoes and walking inside without his socks caused him this pain. At his tender age, he feels troubled by his choice and wishes he could undo it.

Yes, regret, an emotion felt early in life. But only recognized later, and effects become stronger as one grows bolder.

If I could, I would have my children remain as children. Protect them from ugly people with sick intentions. Hide them from the harshness of truth, and wrap them with the only emotion God intended…love.

Face your regrets, knowing that you do not live in your past.

To live vicariously, a better option.

A life full of colour soon turns grey …

He just sat there.

His heart pounding loudly through to his ears.  A thin cold sweat dripped down his forehead and on to his desk, making a silent splash onto a page. The page that looked up at him, patiently waiting for words to be written, words that should be informed, accurate but not verbatim. Knowledge ought to flow from his curious mind to the tip of his pen, because foolishness is not kindly looked upon, and failure is not an option…not to him and especially not to his family.

The time had come. But he was not ready… he was far from ready.

He eyed everyone in the room with the suspicion of a dealer about to make a drop. No one paid attention to him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was on to him. He shifted on his seat, hoping his over active pores were not soaking his little treasured secret. He had thought his left back pocket was the most ideal position, because anyone who does a brisk body search does so quickly, and shyly. To linger on anyone’s bottom would be considered perverted, and open a door to a swift law suite. Yes, Daniel was cunning, and had thought this through, or so he thought. Only one detail eluded him…and it was coming at him with the might of Thor’s hummer.

“Damn it!” He thought. “Why isn’t he going out for is cigarette break like he usually does? He has picked the wrong day to quit the fag!”

The folly with Daniel is this…. He is very much a last minute person and the King of turn up. He preferred his whiskey cheap and potent, and his girls easy and sleazy. He consumed both quicker than Mswati acquired brides, a reputation built on a his YOLO mantra . He did not believe in missing out on anything, except studying, because this far he had come on his secret lists aka mwakenya.

Yes, four years down the line, Daniel had sustained good grades and sailed through based on his boyish good looks and witty charm.

But not today. 

At the front of the class sat the old professor, ever so popular with the students for his humorous banter and “academic angle” walk. The sagacious professor had lost his zest for life, robbed of his will to live and left as a skeleton, hollow and deprived of any desire, except for that which brought him to his current status.  Prof. had recently found Jesus, out of necessity more than a sincere will of the heart.  He had been given six months to live, his lungs could no longer bring him life. Years of dragging tobacco through his pipes to his blood had left him scarred, he was now living with Cancer, discovered too late to correct its course. The old professor, now clung to what was left of his time with a sharp mind but weakness could not allow him the luxuries he once knew. He quietly made a mental bucket list, wondering if anyone would find it silly, should it be found in his time capsule next to his grave.

Two destinies now tangoed , each one regretting his choices.

Daniel, needs to pass his finals to graduate. The answers wait in his left pocket.

Old professor, knowing fully well that one more cigarette would send him to his grave, prays for mercy as the aching for a taste of sweet tobacco competes with the daily prayer.

Yes… we all need to live the day, but consider your future.

Why I write…

In as much as misery likes company, sometimes being on your own is the only misery you need.

I can not remember what I was reading or where I was reading this, but these words echoed deep in my soul and spoke of me in a voice as clear as day and as cold as the abyss that is my mind.

In as  much as misery likes company, sometimes being on your own is the only misery you need.

I often find myself craving to be alone with my thoughts. The hustle and bustle of life leaves me deflated, a cup of sweet black coffee and silence wielding instant remedy for my spent body and depleted spirit. So in silence my mind will wonder, and then I pen most of my PG rated thoughts.

I write because there are many like me.

I write because I do not fear.

I write because I have experience, in life and in being.

I write because I aim to make a difference, and a little comic relief might be all you need.

I write because someone has to say it, and yes, I will call you out.

I write because I can, I have allowed myself to free my spirit and give legs to my thoughts.

I write because the art of letter writing is dying fast, and writing letters to myself is flat out weird.

So… I write.

Go on, be silent, think of everything, or nothing at all… it will not kill you to be alone with yourself.