CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE IN NAIROBI: A SURVIVOR’S STORY

I can’t believe I’m finally ready to write this post.

Shit. Fucking hell.

Here goes.

I was at a funeral last Friday. Another one.

Christ, I’ve seen so many families cry this year. Remember my January posts, this one, this one, and this one?

And, this post I wrote about my friend’s passing?

It’s like every month of this year, someone around me died or lost someone they loved.

The month of May was not spared the touch of death either.

My favourite cousin’s father died this month after a short illness, and our whole extended family traveled upcountry on Friday last week to pay our last respects and lay him to rest.

The funeral service was packed, we couldn’t even get inside the church to listen to the sermon. So many of us had to stand outside and listen to the proceedings from the blaring speakers.

He was a pastor, and you could tell that he had impacted a great number of lives while he was still amongst us. It was truly humbling to see that many people come to pay their last respects to a wonderful man.

My baby brother and I were outside during the service, busy chatting with the wife to one of my other cousins. We were just catching up, making jokes. We’d missed her after months of not being together.

And then, out of the blue, with the conversation between my brother, my cousin’s wife, and I getting funnier and louder, I saw him.

He had just walked into the compound, and he was probably looking for a familiar face when our eyes met.

My heart froze. I just looked at him, into his eyes, willing him, nay, daring him, not to come and say hallo.

He quickly looked away as he walked past us, but, I kept my eyes on him for five more seconds.

I was transfixed. I didn’t want to be the first to look away because a part of me wanted to show him I wasn’t scared any more.

Another part was just trying to comprehend if this really was the man that I remembered from so many years ago.

The other part was just trying to mess with his head. ‘Boy, I see you! Run!’

But, I needed to look away because every extra second was becoming unbearable for the little girl inside.

I was a bit frazzled after that, and I remember telling my brother that I was going outside to look for another family member.

Anything to ensure that I don’t come into any contact with this individual.

I think my baby brother understood immediately because as I started to walk away, he followed suit, leaving my cousin’s wife standing there confused by the abrupt end to our engrossing conversation.

Sorry, T!😥😥😪😪😫😫

She probably thought we were so rude. I did feel slightly guilty for dragging my brother along when I was the one with the problem.

Hope she didn’t think ill of my brother. He was just being a loyal sibling and friend.

For good reason too. He’s the only witness to what I am about to tell you.

Our history with this man I was avoiding now dates back twenty years ago.

Our birth mother had just passed away, and we were living with our aunty, Wahu, and her husband (mum and dad as we now refer to them) in their huge house.

At the time, dad’s ailing grandfather was also staying with them. He was a mean old man, but my brother and I (mostly me because I was the cheeky one) always found a way to make him laugh.

Owing to his age, and his deteriorating health, he needed a constant caregiver. We too needed a minder because we were still young, and our adopted parents had full time jobs.

Their youngest son, Sam, had just joined med school, so he wasn’t available to look after the three of us.

That’s when mum made the fateful decision to hire extra help from upcountry. One of dad’s relatives was struggling with school fees for his young kids, so mum decided to hire their eldest son in the hopes that he could use part of his earnings to educate his younger siblings.

He was a teenager when he came to work for the family. I think he was in his late teens at that time.

It worked out well for the first few weeks, if I remember correctly. My grandfather was happy with the arrangement because this was someone he knew, someone he could trust, and definitely someone he could order around (my granddad loved ordering everyone around).

My mum was happy because now there was someone to take care of the old man, my baby brother and I, the house and the yard.

Everyone was seemingly covered, and life became manageable again for my adoptive parents.

But, things weren’t so rosy if you peeked below the surface.

After he had acclamatized to his new surroundings, the nightmare began.

My mind has successfully blocked out most memories from this time, but this is what I do remember;

– the taste of his mouth from him forcefully kissing me whenever he’d find me alone in some part of the house

– screaming myself hoarse and wondering why no one could hear me everytime he’d pin me on my back and mess with my privates until it hurt (usually happened on Saturday mornings- we were home from school, and the house was usually empty)

– how painful it was to take a piss after he’d touch me down there

– my baby brother’s confused and scared look when he’d heard me screaming one time from our room only to run and find me pinned to my back, kicking and screaming, with the houseboy forcibly fondling me (He stopped when he noticed my brother was at the door)

– him twisting my wrists painfully or squeezing my hands everytime that I tried to resist him, or I refused to do as he said (like touch him down there, I was not a fan)

– I remember endlessly kicking him, punching him, scratching him, trying to get him away from me, and he would be smiling and laughing all the while as he held both my hands together tight with his one hand, use his free hand to abuse me, and use his lower body to keep my legs still.

To stop me from screaming, he would be suffocating me with his mouth (his idea of kissing)

– I remember how tired I would feel after every encounter, and how sore my wrists, my hands, my arms, my privates, and my legs would feel. My head would also ache from the screaming and the crying

– I also remember how stupidly defiant I was. I would insult and berate him (with the little English and Swahili I could master back then) after every episode knowing full well he was going to come after me again.

I would fight, and I think that’s where my violent streak comes from (Don’t worry, I’m much calmer now).

This is just the gist of the abuse that probably started in 1999/2000 and ended in 2001, to the best of my recollection.

There was never any penetration. Not that I can remember. I don’t think my mind would have been able to block that out.

I never told my mum. I never told my elder brother. I never told my best friend. I never told a soul until now as I narrate to you what I went through.

I don’t know what, if anything, my baby brother remembers but he must know something. We talk about everything else in our past except those two years this man was living with us.

If I remember correctly, the man left as soon as or slightly before my grandfather died. I was in class five, quiet, withdrawn, and yet highly attention-seeking when I was out of his reach. I think I just wanted someone to ask me what’s wrong.

No one ever did.

When it hit me that he wasn’t in our lives anymore, it’s like I awoke from a deep sleep.

I remember I started making friends in school. I began to actually focus on schoolwork and getting better grades. Like better grades to a point that I started receiving academic awards in class 6 and beyond.

Before that, my grades were sucky, and I would get into my fair share of trouble with my class teachers, Mrs Okumu (class 3) and Mr Nyambu (class 4).

I was exhibiting behavioural issues at this time that no one really latched onto.

But, now that he was gone, I was a whole new girl. Making friends became easier. My studies became easier. I was finally able to flourish.

I pushed the memories of that time down so deep, and for years, I couldn’t allow myself to think about it.

Then I started writing this blog, and I began to see how events in my childhood had almost messed me up completely.

And, I began to realise the power and the healing that comes from writing about them, not so much for people to read, but for me to acknowledge my pain, and to be open and naked enough to show others where the wounds were.

It was easier to talk about my mother’s suicide, my father’s abandoning us, my dalliance with depression, drugs, and sex in my previous posts than it was talking about the sexual abuse.

But, I knew one day, I’d have to. It’s part of the journey in shaping my own narrative devoid of the horrific things that happened to me, to us, when my brother and I were kids.

Yap, that’s it!

In memory of the little girl I was before this, and in solidarity with the millions of children abused in our country, Kenya.

💜♥️💖💜♥️💖💜♥️💖💜♥️💖

Advertisements

LEGALIZE ABORTION BUT EMPHASIS ON PREVENTION OF UNWANTED PREGNANCIES IN KENYA

I am a 28 year old, sexually active woman.

I have been sexually active for almost a decade now.

Gosh! Reading that last part out loud makes me feel a certain kind of way about my age.

(Weird thing on the same note: I got my driving licence exactly 10 years ago, and I have never touched the wheel of a car since then. What exactly is wrong with me?).

Anyway. Where were we?

Oh yeah, sex!

I love having sex, especially now that I do it with someone I have very strong feelings for.

Nowadays, I’m very responsible about sex. Like very responsible!

But, I wasn’t always such a good girl.

Yes, there was a time when pain, confusion, depression, and stupidity of youth ran my life.

Sex was part of my poison, and boy, did I indulge! And, in many instances, I was doing it without taking the necessary precautions.

I got away with my recklessness. I’m a lucky little girl.

Not so smart but infinitely lucky.

I didn’t get sick; I didn’t get pregnant.

How? No idea. Fortunately, my stupidity phase gradually wore out as I entered my later 20s, before I could make any life changing mistakes.

I still don’t have a strong liking for children, and I shudder to think about the kind of mother I would have become had I accidentally fallen pregnant during this tumultuous stage of my life.

I don’t know why I lack the apparently ‘inherent’ motherly instinct. I guess I just wasn’t born with it.

I would have been a bad mother, that’s a fact. Why would I have been a bad mother? Because, I’m sure I wouldn’t have wanted the child. And, being forced to keep that child would have made me resent this innocent being, because, as you know, I was a dumb child back then.

I’m sure even the shape of his/her head would have ticked me off.

It sounds mean, but it’s true. I just wasn’t ready for such a huge responsibility then.

I’m ready for the financial responsibility now, but, I don’t think I’m ready for the mental, emotional, and physical responsibility as of yet. I might be 28, but I seem to mature much slower than other females.

Emotionally that is… I’m all good in the physical sector, thank you!

Abortion is illegal in our country, and I don’t know if I would have received any help in acquiring one ‘under water’.

I hear abortion is commonplace in Kenya, but, I wouldn’t know where to start. I just don’t have the streetsmarts like other girls do.

It simply wouldn’t have been an option for me, and I’m sure it isn’t an option for millions of Kenyan girls who are/were just as naive and as reckless as I was, but also unlucky.

But, it should be an option. An option made available to the millions of horny teenage girls who are as reckless and as naive as I was back then.

People make mistakes all of the time especially when it comes to sex. I don’t see why women need to be the ones bearing the brunt of mistakes that can easily be rectified with one medical procedure.

If I had fallen pregnant at this time, I would have sought an abortion with everything in me. There’s no way I would carry a baby I didn’t want, and I wasn’t ready for simply because I would have been a pretty useless mum back then.

Motherhood is serious. You need to go into it wholeheartedly. You shouldn’t just get into it accidentally, and hope for the best, especially when you are not mature enough, and cannot support yourself and the baby.

Abortion should also be an option to girls who have been raped by strangers and by family members, and ended up pregnant.

It should be an option to women whose health and lives would be in danger if they carried a high risk pregnancy to term.

An option to women carrying nonviable pregnancies; as well as an option to women who would give birth to babies with severe defects if forced to carry their pregnancies to full term.

Abortion should be an option. A legal option to any woman in this country. An option that doesn’t carry with it any shame, or ostracism.

However, it should only just be the option of last resort.

We need to focus on preventing these unwanted pregnancies in the first place.

How?

Let’s begin by educating teenage girls on using protection everytime they engage in sex.

Not just in class. Everywhere!

Let there be government sponsored ads on billboards and on TV that specifically target young girls with the aim of informing and educating them of their individual responsibility for their own sexual health.

Let it be so in their face that any teenager or young adult engaging in sex uses protection instinctively.

We also need to start proactively giving our girls and young women access to condoms, and instilling in them the confidence to demand that their sexual partners use these every time they decide to engage in consensual sex.

It would be even more proactive to give our young girls access to female condoms so that they are completely in charge of their bodies.

Such a scenario would be so liberating!

Boys too need to be trained thoroughly on the importance of using condoms in every single sexual encounter; not just for the sake of avoiding unwanted pregnancies, but, also for their own sexual health.

While providing our girls with access to condoms and birth control, we also need to be engaging our girls on the consequences of unwanted pregnancies.

The loss of education/income opportunities, the stigma associated with early pregnancies, abandonment by the father of the child, and the physical, mental, financial, and emotional burden of having a child when you are just not ready.

If you are not ready for such a heavy responsibility, you are more than likely going to make some huge mistakes along the way.

No sane woman wants to make her child suffer the consequences of her ill-preparedness for the journey that is motherhood.

Furthermore, we need to actively educate women on seeking immediate medical attention in case of rape in order to avoid the possibility of a pregnancy, or worse, an STD.

(Can I just say that I am for the castration of male rapists especially those with pedophilic tendencies. But, this then raises the question of what would be an equal punishment for female rapists?….mmmmh, I’ll have to think further on that one).

Abortion should be made a legal and accessible option for each female in this country. But, as I said, it should only come as a last resort.

Before this, we need to pursue all preventive measures at our disposal to the fullest possible extent so that we can mitigate the risks that come with abortions, regardless of how legal and safe they may be.

It’s more than a tad unfair to make young girls, who are simply dipping their toes into the turbulent waters of sex, have to live with the consequences of one bad decision for the rest of their lives.

There needs to be a fair playing field for both boys and girls.

We need to stop making girls jump through overwhelming hoops, and punishing them for silly mistakes they made in their youth while letting their counterparts go scott free.

Hence, the urgency of employing all of these measures described plus many more instead of simply burying our heads in the ground pretending they are not having sex, and throwing them under the bus completely when they fall pregnant accidentally.

Thank you for reading! Have a nice day. Kisses 💜💖💜💖💜💖

QUESTIONS WE NEED ANSWERS TO: HUDUMA NUMBER

I hate being forced to do things. That’s exactly what I felt was happening when our government started pushing us to register for the mysterious ‘Huduma Number’.

We’d never heard about this number before the beginning of year, and all of a sudden, the government has put registration of all Kenyans as its top priority.

Not the hunger that was ravaging many parts of this country because this same Government didn’t use the data it already has proactively.

Not the spiraling public debt that could throw our economy into turbulence.

Not the surge in mental illness that is turning our men and women into killers.

Nope. Its top priority is getting us registered for God knows what reason.

The government is threatening to deny its services to citizens that do not have the number (which, btw is actually illegal).

This ‘super-helpful’ process is costing us Ksh 6 billion just ahead of an 18 billion shilling census.

Can you imagine that! More than 24 billion spent on collecting citizens’ personal data in a year that the government is supposed to be implementing austerity measures.

This Government is a punishment for our collective stupidity, greed, and naivety as a populace.

Back to Huduma Namba

I and millions of other Kenyans including children had to waste an entire day at least once in the last 45 days, queing in order to register for this supposed elixir for proper service delivery.

We are not even sure as to how this number is supposed to help us.

I have never heard anyone complain that we have too many identification numbers. Each one has a specific purpose, and keeping them separate is ideal when you live in a country run by a government gone rogue.

That aside, I don’t think our government has the capability of delivering to all of us these squeaky clean numbers that are meant to be the gateway to all of its services.

Epic fail best describes this government, and perhaps deployment of the Huduma Namba will be nothing but a pipe dream, and the citizens can rest a bit easy knowing that an incompetent government doesn’t have in its possession all of their data in one centralised location.

Some of the questions I have regarding this number include:

Is it going to improve service delivery?

How is one number the magic trick for fixing everything that is wrong with our government?

How is this unique identifier different to the other unique identifier numbers we possess?

Wouldn’t it be cheaper to declare our national IDs the only identifier?

Do we really need a census after this harrowing experience? Doesn’t this entity already have all the information it needs?

Will corruption holes in government be sealed as a result of this number?

Where did this idea come from?

Did it come from the Chinese?

Which case studies did they use as proof that this will work?

Is our data secure?

Although most of the data we are providing is already in government records, won’t centralising this data make it easy to steal.

If someone stole this information, what exactly would they do with it?

Will this data be used to monitor us as citizens?

We already live in a failed state; we don’t want to live in a police one too where all of your movements are monitored and trackable.

How is a democratic state supposed to run when the Government can monitor, and quell any opposing individuals?

We will be in a lot of shit when our government finally figures out how to control what we do online and offline.

Who stands to benefit from the tenders associated with registration and maintenance of Huduma Namba database?

Some of the companies awarded the tenders were the same crooks that sold us the registration kits for last elections. They did less than a stellar job, so what makes the Government think they’ll do a better job this time?

Will the maintenance of this database be done at the national or county level?

What happens to kids born after the deadline? How will they get registered?

Who should be held accountable in the event that a data breach occurs, and personal data ends up stolen?

Who should be held accountable if the constitutional rights of citizens to privacy, movement, freedom of speech, and freedom of association, are curtailed as a result of this massive collection and storage of citizen data?

Everything is a bit up in the air at the moment, but, soon we’ll know the truth about this number, and who it is truly supposed to benefit.

Let’s just hope the government effs this up like it does everything else so that we don’t pay the harsh consequences of mass registration.

EPIC FOOTBALL NIGHTS-MAY 2019

There are some nights that live with you forever!

I’ve had three of those nights back to back. What makes these nights even more special is that I just turned 28 at the beginning of last week.

It’s been a beautiful week thanks to amazing football comebacks and feats that nearly everyone couldn’t imagine possible.

Liverpool vs Barcelona

Going into this match, we all thought that it would be a walkover for Barcelona. I mean the first leg of this draw was an absolute disaster for Liverpool, losing 3-0 to perhaps the greatest team of all time.

There was no coming back for Liverpool on this one. They had to know the situation was utterly hopeless as the game drew nearer. They just had to.

But, these, ladies and gentlemen, are mad men. They don’t understand the meaning of impossible.

And, there’s a saying about mad men getting to do the impossible.

This entire team is full of mad men. They dared to dream, they dared to fight, they dared to stare down this monumental obstacle that was on their path to Champions League glory, and overcome it.

You have to understand the gravity of the situation they found themselves in on the night of 7th May 2019.

I’ve already told you that they went into the match with a 3-0 disadvantage.

Barcelona had all of their star players fit and ready to slaughter the Reds. Messi, one of the main contenders of the GOAT title, showed up, ready to blow us away with his outer worldly skills.

Remember, he scored two of the three Barcelona goals in the first leg of this semi final draw. He was coming to finish the job, no doubt about that!

Coutinho and Suarez, two former Liverpool greats, were also in the Barca line-up.

Things weren’t looking so optimistic on the Liverpool side. Roberto Firminio, the man with the amazing teeth wasn’t going to play.

To make everything worse, neither was Salah! Salah, the man who almost singlehandedly brought life into a fading Liverpool team last season.

The man who almost led them to Champions League glory last year, but bad boy Sergio Ramos had other nefarious intentions.

Yes. That man, the Liverpool talisman, the gods’ gift to Premier League football would not be there to try and undo the damage done to his team in the first leg.

To make this entire situation absolutely soul crushing for Liverpool, they were and still are neck to neck with Manchester City for the Premier League title.

That means they’ve been working overtime just to stay on top.

Meanwhile, Barcelona had already won their domestic title, and had the weekend to relax.

No one was giving Liverpool time off to relax.

But, despite all of these seemingly insurmountable odds, Liverpool did it.

They won the chance to go to the final by defeating THE Barcelona, 4-3 on aggregate score.

They destroyed Barcelona in a way we haven’t seen it done before. It was truly orgasmic to watch.

My men of the match: Trent Alexander Arnold, Divock Origi, Virgil van Dijk, Alisson Becker and my namesake, Georginio Wijnaldum.

If there has ever been a real live football super sub in recent history, it has to be that man, Georginio (my namesake 😁😁).

And that corner kick from Trent Alexander the Arnold is an absolute masterclass from such a young player. And, let’s not forget all of the times that he stole possession from Barca players including and especially Jodi Alba.

Van Dijk is on this list because a) he gave his all in the night of question, the same way he does every night, and

b) he is soooooooooo hot. If my boyfriend and I don’t work out, I might just give Virgil a call, and see where this thing can go.

Becker made some incredible saves and kept Liverpool’s hopes alive.

And, of course Origi! Those two goals were simply sublime. And, he has Kenyan blood, so there is that.

I can’t wait to see them topple Tottenham in the final on June 1st. That is going to be another epic night.

And, I can’t wait to see Liverpool take the Premier League as well. They deserve it!

On to the next amazing night…

Tottenham vs Ajax

After that exhilarating performance by Liverpool on 7th, I was content with the level of football action I had received. I couldn’t ask for more. That would have just been selfish of me.

But, alas, the football gods must have been feeling pretty benevolent this particular week.

Tottenham managed to make a second half comeback that transformed them from underdogs to Champions League finalists.

One man Lucas Moura truly stood out in that game. He scored a hatrick within the last 41 minutes of the game to take his team to the final.

Guess you can say he’s a 41-minute type of man (a bit too long for me but I could work with it 😉😉😉).

I know, I’m nasty. Moving along swiftly…

Imagine that!

They were already three goals down by the start of the second half. There was nowhere but down for them.

And then, here comes Moura scoring a brace in less than four minutes, and adding to his night tally right at stoppage time.

Wow! If that isn’t exhilaratingly orgasmic, I don’t know what is!

Thank you Spurs for making my Wednesday night one to remember for ages to come.

I’m so proud of Moura, so so so so proud!

And now to a team that is truly close to my heart… Arsenal.

Arsenal Vs Valencia

I won’t sugarcoat it. Arsenal have been sucking balls these last few weeks. We had every opportunity to stamp our dominance in the top 4 this season, but we squandered them away, like we usually do.

But, there is hope.

We are through to the Europa finals thanks to Aubameyang’s life saving hat trick, and Lacazette’s solitary goal.

I feel like it’s been so long since we had such an amazing performance from my team. I am glad that we still got it.

And, this means we still get to go to Champions League next season, despite finishing number five on the table. Yaaaaaaaay for us!

Yeah…so I’m a pretty happy girl now! I turned 28, and the gods decided to gift me with 3 incredible football performances that absolutely blew my mind.

Cheers to many more great football nights this year, and for the rest of our lives.

HI 28!! IT’S GOOD TO SEE YOU💜💖💜💖💜💖💜

I just celebrated my 28th birthday, and it was all sorts of a blast!

Gosh, 28! I had no idea I could grow so old.

28 feels old, but in a good way. Like rustic old, that’s definitely a good thing.

There’s a sense of peace with being 28. At least for me there is.

I am no longer the jumpy little girl of yester years.

Okay, I still am, but, now, that jumpy little girl also has a sense of responsibility for the people around her.

My spirit accepts this responsibility wholeheartedly, and this acceptance gives me peace.

For the first time in a long time, I know exactly where I am going, and I don’t have to sacrifice the people that hold me dear in order to get there.

I have finally figured out how to give myself to others, and still work on myself financially, emotionally, and mentally without feeling strained or having to sacrifice one aspect of my life at the altars of the others.

It’s a beautiful feeling, and I hope this state of being continues throughout my life; adjusting where necessary, but, ultimately always being able to meaningfully balance between work and family.

If I can hold it together like this for the next decade, I might finally be ready for a child.

That’s a scary thought. Children. From my womb, nonetheless.

Wow! I don’t know if I’ll ever mentally get to that point where I declare that I am ready for kids.

I don’t think my vagina wants me to ever be mentally prepared for that.

Maybe as the years continue to pass by, I’ll become more mature about child-bearing and child rearing. Maybe. Just maybe.

In the meantime, I’ll just focus on being more empathetic and loving towards my mother, my fathers, my brothers, my nephews, and the man whose love has ignited a passion inside me, it could consume me whole without me ever realising it.

These people are my responsibilities, and I accept them wholeheartedly.

Don’t worry, I won’t forget to take care of myself, I promise.

Perhaps as the year goes on, I can accommodate others into my little love circle; hopefully get out of my cocoon more often.

We’ll see how that goes.

I will also endeavour to be a better Arsenal fan. I’ve been improving lately; no more cussing out at the players, just enjoying the games win or lose.

Speaking of Arsenal, although in no way related, did you catch Tuesday’s amazing Champions League game between Liverpool and Barcelona?

Who knew that Liverpool had the cahoonas to overturn Barca’s goal advantage, and completely destroy them in less than 90 minutes.

Absolutely no one expected this from the underdogs. I don’t think Barca had ever even considered a defeat at this stage to Liverpool, after securing a three goal advantage in the first leg, a possibility.

It wasn’t meant to happen but it did, and that’s what makes soccer, nay Liverpool, so damn orgasmic!

Jesus!!!!!

A big shout out to my namesake (I wish) Georginio, Wijnaldum, Mane, and Alexander Arnold.

These guys made me so proud Tuesday night. If they could defeat Barca with so resoundingly, then nothing that I want for my life is impossible. Nothing at all!!

Still talking about Arsenal, although we still aren’t, kudos to Hotspur’s Lucas Moura for his incredible performance last night. He singlehandedly took his team to the finals on a night where everything was stacked against them.

Beautiful football! Beautiful moments that will last a lifetime.

Love, and kisses from this bombshell May baby. 💜💖💜💖💜💖

ILLUSIONS OF LOVE, A SICK MIND, A BROKEN SPIRIT

Once upon a time,

you were the man of my dreams.

I saw my future in your eyes,

I held your dreams in my heart.

Once upon a time,

Your smile was music to my soul,

And,

you laying next to me, asleep in my arms

Felt nothing short of divine.

I felt connected to you,

Honoured to share with you,

Stolen glances

Stolen kisses

Stolen nights.

I say stolen because you were never mine.

Not wholly.

Maybe not even in the slightest.

Everything I thought we were,

The connection I thought we had,

Turns out, Was only in my imagination.

There were no lies, just subtle half truths,

Omissions you didn’t even try to cover up,

And, I, was still non the wiser.

Poor, little, confused orphan girl,

Looking for love,

Looking for salvation,

in all the wrong places

Reading too much into

the way you looked at me,

Into the little time you gave me,

Into the half-hearted attention you paid to me.

I thought this was love,

I thought this was enough,

I thought this was all I could get,

And, this was all I deserved.

Desperate for love,

I clung to the illusion

there was something more,

That we were something more,

That we were something special.

I compelled myself to believe,

That I was in love with you,

And that you were in love with me,

I was wrong.

This wasn’t love,

It was just the creation of

A love-depraved mind,

Looking for somewhere to belong.

But, I thank you,

For taking care of me,

Instead of taking advantage of my weak mind,

And misusing me.

Thank you for letting me be annoyed with you,

When really, it was never your fault.

Thank you for the stolen glances,

The teasing,

The kissing,

And the love making.

For a time, they saved me from myself.

You are a good man, AK,

And the world deserves to know it.

Sincerely,

Your once upon a time lover,

Jiggah!

BETRAYAL- A DAUGHTER’S PAIN

I, Georgina Wangui aka Kui, have been blessed with the opportunity of having two fathers in my life.

That’s two men who consider me as their daughter, as their blood.

There are two grown men at this instant, whom if and when asked to talk about their kids, I’d be part of that lineup.

One man passed on his genes to me, and the other helped raise me.

There’s no denying that each loves me, and that I belong to both of them.

That kind of makes me feel somewhat special. Not so much, but somewhat.

This blessing of having two fathers also comes with its own set of problems.

They are men, and each has done some pretty shitty things that have been revealed to me as the years go by- things that are akin to betrayal from my perspective.

Like mind-bendingly shitty things!

I think that’s why I am not as excited about having two dads as I should be. It’s like being heartbroken twice; a never ending heartache from men I once held in such high esteem.

But, the most messed up thing is I can’t hate them. I can’t find it in my heart to push them out of my life for the dispeakable things they have done.

I can’t say a bad word to either of them.

I smile every time I am talking to either of them.

I am warm and consumed by this warmth everytime I am in their presence, or just talking to them over the phone.

It’s like in that instant, with each individual, they are just my dads.

There’s no anger towards them, just disappointment that, funnily enough, rarely shows itself whenever I’m communicating with them.

Love is a funny thing.

But, I am disappointed, thoroughly. I wish they hadn’t done the things they did. I wish they hadn’t caused the level of hurt they have on people I care so deeply about, and on myself as well.

I wish they would have been men of honour, and I wouldn’t have to feel conflicted between anger and acceptance.

I’m mad at myself too. I should be angry and let them know their actions have hurt us. I should be demanding for apologies, rather than acting as if everything is okay.

Why am I so complacent in this?

Why am I not giving them the opportunity to taste my disappointment?

Love is indeed a funny thing.

Maybe deep down, I don’t want to believe the things they did.

Or maybe, I’m just empathetic. They have to live with the knowledge of all the wrong things they’ve done, and how life has humbled them time and time again because of these mistakes.

That is pretty haunting! And, maybe that’s our revenge- us, the victims of my fathers’ hurtful actions.

I think that’s enough for me. Knowing that they are not getting away with it, that their peace of mind is altered owing to the hurtful, fucked up things they did, and possibly continue to do.

Yap, that is definitely enough for me.

So, I will continue being nice. I’ll continue loving them to my heart’s full measure.

I will revel in remaining their baby girl because, a) it makes me happy, and b) hopefully, it adds to their torment.

Sincerely,

Daddies’ girl 😁😁💖💜💖💜💖💜💖💜💖

CHRONICLES OF A SELF-CONFESSED LONER – 1

I’m good at many things. Like making myself laugh, washing clothes, watching football, and being alone. I excel at being alone, and find it quite enjoyable.

I’m also apparently really good at writing and singing. These two endeavours have brought a lot of fulfillment into my life.

But, there’s one thing I suck at…

… being close to people.

I can’t count how many people I have ran out of my life because I simply got tired of sharing my time with them. Because I got uncomfortable knowing them further than I already had.

It’s that simple. I just prefer to be alone most of the time, and when people start asking for more of my time, I start to pull away.

It’s like I don’t mind being friends with people just as long as we don’t have to interact more than I find necessary.

That’s just the way I am.

Unfortunately, this has caused a lot of pain for people whose paths I have crossed, for people who genuinely like my company and my weird personality.

I’ve done the same thing to my mummy in the past, pushing her away simply because I prefer being alone.

For the longest time, I was afraid to make friends because I was scared I would only hurt them.

The only friend, other than my mother, that I have been able to maintain till date is John, my best friend.

It’s been a slippery slope with everyone else.

Until recently, I was only making acquaintances and resisting attempts to take it any further because I am all too aware of my main weakness.

And then it happened.

I met a girl, and we became fast friends. Perhaps I believed that I was over my affliction, that now that I was older, I could commit to a friendship that required a lot of my time.

I was so wrong! I’m never growing out of this trait.

We hang out all the time, and soon, it started to eat me up.

I hate phone calls, and every time she called, my heart sunk. It felt like my time alone was being threatened, and this threat had to be neutralised using any means necessary.

True to form, I engineered the end of our friendship by seemingly sabotaging it. And, sabotage I did without even knowing what it was I was doing.

She got hurt I could tell, but, to my surprise, she only backed away slightly.

She didn’t swear that she’ll never talk to me. Rather, she seemed to understand that I needed space, and she gave it to me. She didn’t hate me.

She understood me, and despite my plans to destroy the relationship, she forgave me.

Now we are friends again but with the boundaries firmly imposed, just how I like it.

This experience taught me to woman up and tell people about my affliction rather than just pulling away, and not giving them a reason.

I hope all those people I have hurt before by pulling away from them will one day understand why.

In memory of Margaret Wambui Githendu, a beautiful woman with a lot of love and a lot of vision.

ANOTHER MONTH, ANOTHER PAINFUL LOSS

Hallo awesome people,

I’m back.

With something I would like to share. It’s a bit heavy but here goes…

A friend died by suicide on the 17th of March, and it was such a devastating loss for everyone involved.

I’ve hang out with him just a couple of times after moving back home, and each time was an absolute pleasure.

The last time we hang out, it was in his father’s car at our local grocery shop. I was sitting at the back, his favourite female in the entire world was sitting at the passenger seat, while he, obviously, was on the driver’s seat.

As we waited for the attendants to load the items that were on the list into the car, we talked, laughed, and made fun of each other, and our other mutual friends.

We didn’t have a care in the world at that point, at least that’s what it seemed like. Everyone was okay, everyone was happy.

I left the two in the car as I had a short errand to run for my mum in town.

That was the last time I saw him alive. 5th March 2019.

Before this, he had graciously accepted my invitation to our church’s Valentine’s dinner back in February.

He came, and obviously, he was the life of the party.

Here he was, trying to explain what he looked for in an ideal partner.

Before this, he had been playing with an adorable three year old princess, distracting the speakers with how much fun they were having together.

He tried his best to tone it down, but the little girl was having too much fun, and he just got sucked into it completely.

You should have heard the child giggle as they played on the grass. It was the cutest thing ever!

On the afternoon of 15th February, he, along with our two mutual friends, and Sammy, had come to help me with the preparations for the dinner that would be held that evening.

The conversations were endless, and again, everyone seemed okay. Each of us seemed happy and content just being there with one another.

And now, he is no more! He’s gone, and by his own hand, nonetheless.

It just goes to show that we never really know the extent of the darkness that lies beneath our glowing smiles and hearty laughs.

And, it’s no one’s fault.

It isn’t our fault- despite the fact that we were his friends, and could have caught a glimpse of this darkness once or twice, but couldn’t do anything more for him than just laugh with him, and make everything seem okay, albeit for just a couple of minutes.

It isn’t his family’s fault either – I know they tried to show him love and support the best way they knew how. I’m sure they went above and beyond for him, and somehow, it still wasn’t enough.

Sometimes, love is simply not enough.

You can love somebody so much, with every being in your body, but still be incapable of saving them from what is eating them from the inside.

Sometimes, love isn’t enough.

Sometimes the darkness overpowers your will to go one more day.

Sometimes the thread that holds you to your loved ones becomes too miniscule compared to the monster growing inside you.

To quiet the voices, to drown the pain, you choose to do the one thing that would crush your loved ones’ hearts.

But, at least, finally you get your peace. And, eventually, you hope, that they’ll find peace in knowing that you are finally resting.

I am in no way condoning his decision, it hurts, and I can’t possibly imagine what his family is going through.

But, every time I put myself in his shoes, or in my own mother’s shoes, I can see how the battle can become overwhelming, and no amount of talk, love, or support can stop the disease, this darkness, from taking over.

Recently, (literally two days ago), we were ranked the sixth most depressed nation in the world.

That means hundreds of thousands of us are depressed, and our suicide rates are skyrocketing especially amongst our young men.

I think the best thing we can do is to be on the lookout for the earliest signs of depression in our family members, and act upon it immediately.

We need to help people fight their demons way earlier on before the disease spreads farther, and our love, support, and listening ears can’t do much to help.

It’s like cancer – early detection is the only way we can circumvent the effects of the disease.

And, depression is a disease. A serious one, and I’m tired of people my parents’ age not understanding this point, and behaving as if all those that are depressed are a bunch of entitled brats!

Some people are born predisposed to depression.

Others fall into it because of the poisonous societal conditions we’ve managed to create over the years, and seem unwilling to change at least for the sake of our collective mental health.

Right now, I’m at peace because my friend is in peace. He was so young, but somehow the disease had progressed to a point nothing we could do or say would have changed the path he chose to find that peace.

But, I know that in order to stop such a tragedy from happening again, I need to be extra ALERT and pick up on the earliest, smallest signs of depression exhibited by the people around me.

My conversations and interactions will be more meaningful, more insightful. It’s going to be me listening more rather than talking, and allowing my loved ones to be as free as possible around me.

I hope that somehow this helps, and I hope that you too, dear reader, get to do the same for your loved ones.

Anyway,

Goodbye until the next time I have something to tell you.

Kisses 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

KIKUYU WOMEN: WE ARE WHO WE ARE

We were hanging out at the local yesterday after work, and as the drinks piled on for them (I just had one cup of yoghurt), an interesting debate ensued- one on the rising cases of women killing their husbands or significant others in this country.

Yes, domestic violence used to be the preserve of men perpetrating it against women, but now, women are meting out this violence on their husbands and boyfriends seemingly everywhere you look with reckless abandon.

It’s alarming to say the least.

During this particular discussion, I was the only female at the table with 5 of the boys, six if you include Sammy, just trying to help each other unwind after a disastrously hard day.

The conversation started with us airing our divergent views on one of the most perplexing marital murder cases to hit our dailies in recent weeks.

A serving magistrate has been accused of murdering her lawyer husband in cold blood alongside three senior police officers.

The details of the murder are gory with the victim having been tortured by the suspects, and then fatally shot SEVEN times.

Gasp!! Who shoots someone seven times? How dead do you want someone to be for it to be necessary to shoot someone seven times?

Anyway.

The magistrate and her co-accused are set to undergo psychiatric assessments before the hearing of evidence against them, and sentencing.

I feel that the psychiatric assessment is justified because there has to be a level of insanity involved when you decide that someone has to be shot SEVEN bloody times.

He wasn’t attempting to run away, he’d just gone through immense torture. I doubt he was barely conscious or mobile by the time they decided to end him. One shot would have sufficed in my opinion.

One clean shot. Seven for what, Goddamit. For what? Madness!

This is such a scary story mainly because of who the prime suspect is, who the victim was, her relation to the victim, and the manner through which this victim sadly met his demise.

This is a woman, first, and secondly, she’s a woman with a seemingly powerful job. She is set.

Her husband is was a lawyer, and by all accounts, this couple was doing well for themselves.

What else could she have possibly wanted in life to push her to such a macabre act? What?

Sadly, this isn’t an isolated case. Many Kenyan women are offing their husbands nowadays, and reports of such incidences are increasing as the years go by.

The worst part about it, and the part that was making my friends very very angry yesterday evening is that most of these cases, whereby the woman is accused of killing the husband in cold blood, rarely make headline news. These ones are usually on the hush-hush.

I feel the only reason that this particular story made headlines was because she was a magistrate, he was a lawyer, and the co-accused are police officers.

Otherwise, this story would have never seen the light of day.

What shocked my friends even more was the fact that the woman in question is not a Kikuyu woman.

From here, the conversation took a sharp turn from how evil women are turning out to be nowadays, and how disenfranchised the boy child is turning out to be economically, socially, and emotionally, to how scary Kikuyu women are.

That’s right. Every time you hear a Kenyan woman has been accused of killing her husband or significant other, the woman is most probably a Kikuyu woman.

And, the killing is never self-defence. It’s usually premeditated with anger at the man, or a desire for the man’s wealth (~96% of the cases) as the main motives.

It gets worse.

Every time you hear that a man’s privates have been cut off, there’s probably an irate, non-repentant Kikuyu woman in the docks for that crime. (She’s probably from a place called Nyeri. Surprise, surprise, I hail from there as well).

And, you will never hear of these women serving jail sentences FYI. Somehow these things are swept under the rug, and not considered as serious domestic violence cases.

It gets even worse.

Every time you see a middle aged Kikuyu woman driving a Harrier, and/or is a landlady with flats especially those sides of Kikuyu (it’s a small town), there’s more likely an elderly gentleman who is six feet under, having died from mysterious causes.

Many of these women usually keep young men to satisfy their sexual needs. When I say ‘keep’, I mean that they sustain these young men financially.

………………………………………………………………………..

Dear reader,

I’m a Kikuyu woman, and I wish I could be, or even act appalled by this stereotyping of the women in our tribe, myself included, but the evidence is too loud to be ignored.

Everywhere you look, Kikuyu women are killing their husbands for all sorts of reasons, or beating them senseless, or taking all of their wealth, and leaving them destitute and hopeless.

Yes, Kikuyu women are to be feared.

One of the guys in the group, who is Kikuyu by the way, took it a notch further by letting us know that there was no way he would sleep with a Kikuyu woman.

Never!

It kind of hurt because he’s super cute, and unfortunately now, there’s no Kikuyu woman who will ever experience that yumminess.

All because we are known for all the wrong reasons.

We’re constantly shooting ourselves on the foot, we Kikuyu women.

If it is not our excessive love for money and material trappings, it’s our bad cooking; or our collectively poor fashion sense; or our temper that has no equal; or our inability to submit to our partners; or our lack of interest in coitus (apparently, we are known for just laying there).

….or the fact that we kill our men, or dismember them when they annoy us, or when they have become too much of a bother.

It’s not that all Kikuyu women exhibit the above traits, it’s just that many of these traits are common in so many of us that it must be a thing.

Do I exhibit any of these traits?

Let me start by saying that my cooking is phenomenal. I mean my own parents, who for your information are my harshest and biggest critics and from whom compliments are as rare as a clean Kenyan politician, think my cooking is amazing.

So do my brothers, and practically anyone I have ever cooked for in the last two years. Before that I wouldn’t be caught dead in the kitchen.

So, I’m not a bad cook. I hope that I have made that point abundantly clear.

The sex part- let’s just say that as I continue to age, I am getting more comfortable trying out new positions. But, yes, there was a time before that when all I did was just lay there.

I do, however, have a temper like seemingly the rest of the women folk in my community.

A bad one. One that can easily push me to violence in a split second.

It’s quite scary actually, especially now when you realize how many men are suffering from domestic violence abuse.

I hope I never lay a hand on my spouse (violently, that is). I hope this rotten aspect of being a Kikuyu woman from Nyeri never rears its ugly head because I never ever ever want my spouse to be part of that horrible statistic.

Am I submissive? No!

Do I have some semblance of fashion sense? Nowadays I do, actually!

Am I attracted to men because of their wealth and money? No! I am mainly attracted to people based on how cute or smart or funny or unique they are.

I was once in a relationship with someone because of how cute their nose was.

It gets worse.

I fell for my current boyfriend because he has dreadlocks! (I know, you want to hit me right now, but, I like what I like).

Furthermore, I have a ‘provider’ mindset, which means that I love providing for myself and the person I want to get nasty with.

At least on that note, the Kikuyuness didn’t rub off on me.

Anyway.

I love being a short Kikuyu woman. I wouldn’t change it for the world even with all the stereotypes that exist about us.

Like every other woman who has ever lived, I’m just going to have to rise above these stereotypes about women like me, and change/control some of the things about myself that would cause others around me to believe in these stereotypes simply because of my actions.

Enjoy your weekend, people 💖💖💖💖💖.

Making Sense of My World, One Post At A Time

Advertisements