If you think Nairobi is chaotic, then you clearly haven’t stepped into certain West or Central African city. Ni mbaya. That’s the only accurate summary of my experience.

The heat, dearest gentle reader, will have you thanking God for Nairobi cold. You know that July chill that has you contemplating texting your ex-situationship? Yes—that one. You will crave it with your entire being.

And the Nairobi heatwave? has nothing, absolutely nothing, on that tropical heat. You will literally sweat through your eyes. I’m not talking about tears, but actual sweat trickling from your eyeball.

Now, I can guarantee you one thing: you will not get a direct flight to this city. And if you do, you probably boarded your grandmother’s broomstick or some equally unorthodox means of transport. Travelling within Africa is expensive, and airlines, no, let me call them what they are, air matatus, have perfected the art of unnecessary stopovers.

You land, twenty passengers get off. Twenty more get on. One hour later, you’re descending again in another country. At this point, just shout “Next stage!” and collect fare.

Scratch that, you have landed in this city. Even mid-descent, as I looked out the window, I could not help but wonder, what in the Bungoma am I getting myself into? No shade to Bungoma, but the question felt urgent. The infrastructure alone was enough to trigger a quiet internal crisis.

The landing was followed by the usual ritual of collective impatience. Everyone stood up immediately, despite the aircraft doors remaining shut, as though standing was somehow going to accelerate the process. The intercom, as expected, pleaded with us to remain seated, an instruction that exists purely for tradition at this point. After twenty minutes of awkward shuffling and silent competition for overhead luggage, we finally disembarked.

What followed is something I am still not entirely sure how to classify. Whether it rises to the level of discrimination, I will leave to you.

We approach passport control with our documents aligned and faces arranged into respectful neutrality. There are four of us very calm, composed, and deeply unaware of what awaits.

Seated in a small immigration cubicle is this lady, thick, uncanny, and radiating authority. She reminded me, quite vividly, of my preschool teacher, the one who had mastered the art of instilling fear in small children without ever raising her voice. Her eyes were piercing, and her demeanour entirely unwelcoming..\ At that moment, I should have turned around and requested political asylum back on the plane.

But I soldiered on. I handed over my blue Kenyan passport with a half-clenched smile the kind that says, “I am harmless”. The moment it landed in her chubby hands, I had a brief, irrelevant thought that the constant stamping should have at least resulted in some level of muscle definition. It had not.

Immediately she opened my passport, she unleashed seven full sentences in rapid, aggressive French, loud and almost theatrical in intensity. It cut through the room and drawing everyone’s attention. Heads turned, conversations paused, and I, completely unequipped for that level of linguistic assault, froze.

Confusion set in first, then fear. kicked in, the kind that grips you instantly and begins constructing worst-case scenarios. Because the truth is, I fear immigration officers more than I fear death. Death is final but Immigration officers? they operate more inhumanely. They can detain you, question you, hold you indefinitely, and if things take a turn, deport you unceremoniously, possibly in a cargo plane.

To be fair, I knew I was travelling to a French-speaking country. I had done my due diligence. I came armed with the essentials: Bonjour. Bonsoir. Comme ci, comme ça… and, for reasons I cannot adequately explain, kupe kupe kubambam. But one of it helped.

I stood there, staring at her, hoping she would switch to a language I understood. She did not. Instead, my confusion seemed to provoke her. Her expression hardened, and she launched into another barrage this time faster, sharper and more disjointed. At this point, it was no longer just me; it was us. All four of us, standing there, collectively bewildered as words flew over our heads.

Then, she escalated to launching some documents at us with the accuracy of someone who had been waiting her entire career for this moment. It took me back to primary school. Those days when you are sitting quietly and suddenly your math book is airborne because the teacher apparently cannot mark an uncovered book.

At this point, between the confusion, fear, and adrenaline, I briefly considered making a run for it, straight past passport control, into the unknown, to start a new life, to grow some cassavas or something.

But then a miracle happened. A kind gentleman stepped in and translated the gibberish into English, gently, like a man used to rescuing strangers from unnecessary suffering. May God bless his soul and increase his bandwidth.

A few eternities later ( in full SpongeBob narrator voice ) we hear her speaking fluent, coherent English to some white ladies, who also spoke French, if you are curious. I laughed. We laughed. My inner chi cracked an even louder laugh. TO BE CONTINED…

My mother used to have a sizeable vegetable garden behind our house. She grew everything, sukuma wiki, managu, tomatoes, onions, pumpkins, guavas, even the occasional stubborn cabbage that refused to behave. The garden flourished abundantly, the kind of green that made your eyes rest easy just looking at it. In the middle stood a well, our faithful source of water, and around it we had crafted a narrow raised path so we could walk through without disturbing the delicate ecosystem beneath our feet.

I loved that garden. It fed us in every sense of the word. I spent countless afternoons there, harassing the guava trees for mapera, chasing birds away like a tiny, territorial vulture, and pretending I was the self-appointed guardian of my mother’s paradise.

But in the middle of all that abundance stood one peculiar tree. It didn’t bear any fruit and no one knew what species it actually was. It just stood there, flourishing yet giving nothing, merely existing. I had countless times floated the idea of cutting down the tree to my mum because, in all honesty, I didn’t think it was serving any purpose. It was occupying space that could have been replaced by other meaningful species. However, my mum vehemently refused. Cutting down a tree in our home was considered a taboo. Under no condition were we allowed to cut a tree, no matter how useless or ugly it looked.

Years passed. I grew up. The garden grew older with me.

And then one season, something miraculous happened. The tree began to bear fruit. Small red fruits sprouted directly from the branches and the stem itself, clinging to the bark like beads. We stared at it in disbelief. For years it had given nothing, and now suddenly it was heavy with life.

We didn’t even dare touch them at first. We suspected they might be poisonous. We observed from a distance like there was something sacred, almost mysterious, about the transformation. And then one day it occurred to us collectively, like it was a revelation from God Himself, that it was a fig tree.

Yes, all this time a fig tree was flourishing right under our noses, and to think that I had once proposed an insidious idea of felling such a culturally significant tree. I bear that shame to this day.

In Christianity and Judaism, the fig appears at the very beginning of the human story, its leaves used to cover Adam and Eve when their eyes were opened after eating the forbidden fruit. In the Book of Judges, trees speak and the fig tree is honoured among them. In Buddhism, enlightenment itself happens beneath a fig tree. Civilizations have rested their myths, prayers, and awakenings under its shade.

Closer to home, the reverence feels even deeper. Among the Kikuyu, Maasai, Kalenjin, and many other communities, the fig tree is not treated casually . It is respected and protected. Some believe that when a fig tree falls, it signals misfortune or a disruption in the spiritual order. It was once said that if a particular branch of the Toroso fig tree ever touched the ground, conflict would erupt in Mt. Elgon, a belief many later connected to the SLDF clashes that occurred in the region. Whether understood literally or symbolically, such traditions illustrate the deep belief that the fig tree “speaks” and offers guidance to the community.

Interestingly, my grandfather bore the name Mogoiywo, which practically means a fig tree in kalenjin. For years it sounded like just another family name, something ordinary. Now it feels meaningful, almost poetic, as though reverence for the fig tree had always existed in our lineage long before I understood it. It feels as if that stubborn tree in my mother’s garden was not random at all, but quietly connected to who we were.

Some trees are late bloomers. And perhaps some people are too. Not everything that delays is failing. Some lives take years before they bear visible fruit, and that does not make them worthless. It simply means their roots are growing deeper first.

Some things do not need to rush to prove their worth.
Some things are sacred simply because they stand.

And like my mother’s fig tree, some of us are only waiting for our season to bloom.

It’s the 1st of February 2026 and my little castle of happiness has come crashing down hard and fast. Well, this year I had promised myself joy, happiness, and nothing short of that. I had created this beautiful bubble of happiness in which I had conveniently locked out anything that would inadvertently make me sad. I had a simple mantra: everything is fine… I’m happy.

But in the midst of my floating, cruising, if I may, my peaceful bubble was burst faster than the curtain in the temple split into two when Jesus cried Eloi.

My promise to myself to find joy and happiness, dearest gentle reader, is not tenable anymore. I am miserable to levels even incomprehensible to me. I have been awake since 3 a.m., thinking, pondering rather, and oh boy, tears have opened like the floodgates in Noah’s time, only now I don’t have an ark and the waves are tossing me up and down, side to side.

I am now starting to think that maybe I don’t deserve happiness, perhaps because of some ancient curse placed upon me. I do like to think that I’m a decent human being, not perfect per se, but very incapable of inflicting pain. So why does it feel like I am paying for karma that isn’t owed to me?

Grief is a strange thing. It makes a house full of people feel empty. Everyone is asleep or laughing in the living room or going about their day as though the world has not just ended, and yet you are there, carrying the ruins quietly in your chest. Life continues normally for everyone else while yours feels like it has paused mid-scene.

I am mastering the art of silent suffering. Crying in the bathroom with the shower running so no one hears the betrayal in your breathing. Letting the water hit your face so you can pretend, even to yourself, that these are not tears. Staring at your reflection in the mirror and wondering when exactly your eyes started looking older, redder, sadder, like you have seen something you cannot unsee. Then wiping your face, practicing a smile, and stepping out like an actor returning to stage.

“Everything is fine… I’m happy.”

The show must go on.

It is almost comical how you can laugh at jokes while feeling like a ghost attending your own life. There is something deeply lonely about suffering quietly in a crowded house, about wanting to scream and yet choosing to whisper.

For the longest time, I thought happiness meant building a perfect bubble where nothing bad could reach me. But maybe bubbles were never meant to last. Maybe they were always going to burst at the slightest touch. Perhaps real joy isn’t pretending everything is fine. Perhaps it is learning how to sit with the fact that everything is not fine and still choosing to wake up the next day.

Maybe being this soft, this breakable, this deeply feeling person is not a curse after all. Maybe it is simply what it means to be human.

Growing up, I was a very nonchalant child.

I was raised in the village, Moiben, to be precise. A small, remote town in Uasin Gishu that borders Elgeyo Marakwet. I like to think I was a happy child. At least, that is what my memory offers me now: nostalgia soaked in sunlight, long days spent at home, and a quiet sense of belonging.

My earliest clear recollection is my first day of school at St. Marcel Academy, the best learning institution in our village. I remember how excited I was. I had always loved reading books, and the idea of a place dedicated entirely to learning felt like an invitation into a larger world. Something stirred in me that day, something hopeful.

I remember the red sweater I wore. That same sweater would reappear years later, in 2007, during the post-election violence, when my mother woke my siblings and me in the dead of night and told us we had to leave for safety. That, however, is a story for another day.

The first day of school was hard. I cried. And for crying, I was beaten. Even now, that still baffles me. I am not entirely sure where this essay is going. And no this is not quite about my childhood or my upbringing, although I do intend to write about both someday.

I am writing this in the aftermath of a deeply emotional conversation I recently had with my siblings. It was brutal. I cried. One thing my brother said lodged itself firmly in my chest: he called me a hypocrite, for reasons I will share in time. He later apologised, but the damage had already been done.

When he said it, I stood up and walked away.

In that moment, something inside me cracked open. It reminded me why I have always chosen silence over confrontation. It reminded me of that nonchalant child I once was the one who learned, very early on, that stillness was safer than expression.

2025 was an unbearably difficult year for me. I lost count of how many times I cried. But cry I did deep, unrestrained weeping. I cried at school, at home, in matatus. Name the place, and I can almost guarantee my tears have already baptized it.The peak moment everything spilled over was when I cried in front of my father. He looked at me, stunned, and said he had never seen me cry as an adult.

That was when it truly dawned on me: I had always been that nonchalant child. The one who rarely cried. The one who never showed weakness. Perhaps it was because my childhood was tough. Perhaps it was because children can be cruel. Somewhere along the way, I learned consciously or not that crying did not make things easier.

So I hardened.

And yet, as I sit with these memories now, I find myself wishing I had cried more as a child. I wish I had let the tears come freely, without fear or punishment. Maybe then, I would not be learning how to grieve out loud as an adult.

I recently watched Frankenstein yes, the movie adaptation of the book I swore I would never betray by watching a film version.

I know, I know. I have publicly declared (loudly, might I add) my hatred for movie adaptations of books. As an avidreader, I used to believe my brain was far too imaginative to be outdone by any director with a camera and budget.

But I digress.

Watching the film sent me on a trip down memory lane that I was not emotionally prepared for. I suddenly remembered the first time I read Frankenstein. I must have been in Class Five, and I swear that was my villain origin story. That book traumatized me before I even opened it. The cover alone was so horrifying I needed two weeks to gather the courage to pick it up. It just sat there on the shelf, marinating.

You know those books kids hide behind bigger, friendlier books?Yes. That was me. Hiding Mary Shelley Frankenstein behind the Moses series like a coward.

When I finally flipped the first page, my heart was racing. I can still remember the exact moment I picked up that book, how terrified I was of the cover picture, how convinced I was that reading it would give me nightmares or possibly summon something into my bedroom. Spoiler: I did get nightmares. Although I can't tell if it was from the book or from the afro cinemas that I was consistently watching.

Back then, I hated Frankenstein’s creature. I Absolutely detested him. To me, he wasn’t misunderstood, he was just tall, ugly, and terrifying, which was enough for my 10-year-old self to write him off.

But then this year, older, allegedly wiser, and definitely more dramatic, I watched the movie. And suddenly? The monster wasn’t the monster. His maker was!

How did I miss that as a child?

Why did no one tap me on the shoulder and whisper, “… it’s giving deadbeat father energy”?

The movie cracked something open in me. For the first time, I felt the creature, his loneliness, his desperation, his heartbreak. I went from “kill it with fire” to wanting to knit him a sweater and sign him up for therapy.

It made me think about how many times in my life I’ve rejected something ,or someone , simply because my first encounter with them scared me. How quick I am to label something monstrous before I even understand its story. That in itself is growth✨

Kenya is the only place where your auntie will send ten Bible verses in the family WhatsApp group about why women should “submit” quoting proverbs 31, but will stay suspiciously quiet when another woman’s body turns up in the news. The conversation will now shift to what was she wearing or what did she do to provoke that man, or why was she out late at night. Or when men post that women are bitter feminist when we bring up real issues that are facing women

It would almost be funny if it weren’t soaked in blood.

This month alone has felt like a horror film on repeat. BBC released a documentary on child sex trafficking in Kenya, around Mai Mahiu, an exposé that should have pushed the nation into action. Instead, it was dismissed by the Cabinet Secretary like a bad Nollywood script.

Not long after, within the same county a club thought it was “entertainment” to have hostesses dressed in primary school uniforms, essentially making pedophilia cosplay chic. Then came the viral video of an Uber driver raping an unconscious woman, someone, instead of calling the police, propped their phone against the window to record like it was a Netflix original.

And just when you thought the moral compass couldn’t spin further out of control, Maskan’s recent exhibition on GBV forced us to confront what we try so hard to scroll past: that Kenya has become a country where violence against women has been normalized.

And if you think the crisis is just “out there” in headlines and exhibitions, think again. It’s also in our living rooms, WhatsApp chats, and dating lives. Someone I once dated (bless his fragile heart) looked me dead in the eye and said, “I would never date a feminist.”

Imagine telling a woman you like that the one quality she possesses that is believing she’s an actual human being deserving of dignity, is a dealbreaker. That’s like saying, “I’d never date someone who breathes oxygen.”

The irony is I am a feminist. (Shocking, I know.) I wasn’t hurt; I was mostly curious. Like, what did he expect me to do with that information? Apologize for believing I shouldn’t be murdered for existing? Bake him a cake for announcing his misogyny so boldly?

This is how deep the rot runs. Even in supposedly “progressive” spaces, the F-word, ‘feminism’ is treated like it’s a contagious disease rather than the most basic demand for equality and survival.

The Rise of Apologist

Here is where it gets absurd. Instead of confronting violence, apologists have made a cottage industry of defending it. They twist logic like origami:

“She provoked him.”

“Women nowadays are too empowered.”

“What was she doing out at night?”

“what was she wearing”

Sometimes I honestly don’t know if these people are saying this for rage bait, to poke the wound and enjoy the outrage, or if they genuinely believe it. And if it’s the latter, then God help us, because that means a good portion of society has fully outsourced their critical thinking to misogyny.

And honestly? I don’t understand the entire charade. The commandment “Thou shall not kill” is simple. Straightforward. Full stop. Period. Yet somehow, apologists have written a whole appendix of “special circumstances” and “but what if she…” clauses. It’s absurd. Like, did Moses stutter on Mt. Sinai? Or did we just decide patriarchy had editorial rights over the Ten Commandments?

It’s victim-blaming and worse, it shifts the burden of survival onto women, while men remain largely unbothered by accountability.

Feminism Isn’t the Villain Here

Whenever feminism is mentioned, apologists scramble like cockroaches when the lights come on. To them, feminism is “too much,” “too radical,” “the reason marriages are breaking.”

Newsflash: feminism is not killing women.

Feminism, at its core, is the audacious belief that women should not have to negotiate their safety like they’re bargaining in Gikomba. It is the demand that women be allowed to live, love, work, and walk freely, without calculating how much risk comes with wearing a skirt, leaving a relationship, or simply existing.

From Rage to Action

Is Outrage necessary, yes it is

But outrage without change is a wound like a that never heals. Kenya needs laws that do not whisper justice,but roar it. Laws that are not shelved in dusty books, but enforced in streets, stations, and courtrooms.

Kenya needs a cultural exorcism, to cast out the curse that calls misogyny natural, that teaches women endurance instead of freedom. We need to unlearn the lullabies of silence, and to strip away the myths that make violence ordinary.

And we need new songs. Songs where boys are taught that tenderness is not weakness, that respect is not optional and that womanhood is not a burden to be beaten down.

Until then, women will keep digging graves for their sisters, while the society continues to bury its head in the sand.

Just like heaven and earth shall pass and His word remain, so will your heart and willing to live in this Nairobi uncharted love waters.

This scene has stuck with me, deeply resonating like the phrase ' dust ni constant' This phrase on the other hand is seldom said in sorry. Often it is worn in a dry laugh, a shrug, but it carries deeper weight almost like a battle scar. It is the anthem of the soldiers who have fought a good fight in the name of finding love. Those who often say 'ni life' with a twinkle in their eye and pain in their playlist.

The Gospel According to dust

The Gospel is simple ' prepare your heart, wear emotional sunscreen for when dust arrives...it doesn't discriminate'. The heartbreak has no exception. It is more of a call for vigilance for dust will strike unsuspectingly like a thief in the night

A bit sad innit

‘‘It'll pass’’ is like grief in italics a soft blow, poetic and wrapped in incense if I may say.

But dust ni constant' this is like heartbreak in bold. One that has you hurling insults and contemplating visiting kamba land to make their lives miserable. This will have you crying in a matatu, while pretending you have dust in your eyes. This will have you replaying sauti sol’s feel my love like a lunatic

Final Word:

But we’re all grieving something, aren’t we? Fleabag ’ had a forbidden love and ecclesiastical closure. You had someone who said “I’m not ready” …then posted photos in matching hoodies with their real person.

Still, we dust ourselves off. And we love again, foolishly, fearlessly, like we don’t remember Brenda from last time.

Because yes, heartbreak is univeral but so are we.

💬 Been Through It?

Drop your most unhinged heartbreak line in the comments.

Or just send a crying emoji. We get it. We’ve all coughed emotionally

The ammonia stench and the damp walls although repulsive brings attention to the forgotten and desolate walls.

Well if Nairobi could have a national anthem I bet my two cents it would be ' usikojoe hapa'. Written in bold across streets, inscribed angrily in red, mostly followed by exclamation marks. You could feel the frustration of the writer and surprisingly you will find some dude in broad daylight letting it rain, if not at the sign, tactically a few meters from it.

Why are Kenyan men marking territories like stray dogs

No vertical surface is safe in the hands of Nairobi men, as they have turned most, if not all of them into urinals. From River road to Kenyatta Avenue and the 'affluent' backstreets of Westlands to highway pillars in Embakasi, all of them bear the same face of defeat (urine stains).

It's like a game of 'spot the yellow patch'. And the rules are simple, if there is a wall, pee on it. And if there is a 'usikojoe hapa sign' even better, it's now a challenge.

‌The Urban Irony

We live in a developed city, you can literally have WiFi in a matatu and advanced mobile payments systems, but somehow a functional public toilet is the least of our priorities.

If you walk down a street you can find three churches, five if not more mpesa stalls... But good luck finding a public toilet. Unless the suspicious alley with a suspiciously looking puddle counts.

It's ironical to say the least

‌Broken system breeds broken habits

It is very easy to blame individuals, and indeed personal responsibility is important. But we cannot ignore the root cause of the peeing pandemic. If public infrastructure fails to meet the needs of the population, then they turn to the fastest and easiest route, turning it to a habit and an acceptable norm.

Well, while Katibu wa marizingira has been busy making noise and chasing wild geese in the name of noise pollution. He has conveniently overlooked the critical issue that lies at the heart of the environment, lack of access to clean public toilets.

A city let alone a community cannot function without access to these facilities. Can you imagine the health risk associated with public urination as compared to noise pollution. Which one is more urgent and pressing? I'll let you be the judge of that.

‌The Bigger Pee-ture: Cities That Hate People

The problem isn't just public urination but what it represents. It is symbolic of poor urban development planning that only prioritizes and romanticizes digital nomads but can’t provide basic sanitation. We don’t need miracles. Just: Free, clean, safe public toilets in busy areas, Urban designs that center people’s needs, not just cars and contractors and Civic education that reminds grown men they’re not fire hydrants

Until Then…

Carry sanitizer. Mind your step.

And if you must write on a wall, forget political slogans.

Just write:

“Usikojoe hapa...

By Cynthia Yego

I stepped into a matatu and immediately I entered a world of loud music, chaotic driving and blinding graffiti-lit interiors. For some, this is a vibrant display of creativity and youth culture. But beneath the surface, the matatu experience is a mirror reflecting something much deeper, about who we are and the kind of leadership we choose to empower.

A Culture of Noise and Disorder

It starts with the noise, from deafening bass lines pumped from customized sound systems to conductors that yell destinations over music that no one can hear, and horns that blare with reckless abandon, not to signal danger but to assert dominance. The streets are a battleground of sound, and matatus are its foot soldiers.

This isn't just a nuisance, it’s a form of public pollution. The auditory noise erodes any hope of peace or predictability in our cities, much like how political noise, empty promises, scandalous headlines, fiery rhetoric overshadows genuine progress in our governance.

No Rules, Just Power

Matatus operates under an unwritten code that more often than not, rules are for the weak, or at best, for those who can't bribe their way out of them. Overlapping lanes, illegal stops, wrong-way driving these are not exceptions but the norm. Police roadblocks are less about law enforcement and more about quick cash exchanges that vanish into personal pockets.

In many ways, matatu culture embodies the same defiance of systems that we see in our political class. Laws are extensively written and institutions are indeed established but influence and impunity often override accountability. We vote for leaders who campaign on order but thrive in chaos because they know how to bend it to their will, just like the matatu crews.

The Fare of Uncertainty

You Step into a matatu and ask how much to town. The answer could change within seconds, depending on the time, weather, or the mood of the conductor. There is no pricing standard, no reliable schedule, no recourse for being overcharged or stranded. Just like the tax burdens, fluctuating prices, and economic instability we endure from the same leaders we elect there is a lack of consistency.

This unpredictability keeps citizens in survival mode, unable to plan their day, budget properly, or rely on the system. This is precisely how poor governance survives, It Denies citizens the power that comes with certainty and structure.

Why We Need to Rethink Public Transport

Kenya desperately needs efficient, state-run or well-regulated public transport. We need transport systems where fares are fixed, routes are clear, and safety is prioritized.

This isn’t just a transport issue. It’s a civic one. A functional transport system signals a government that works. It tells the public: “We care about your time, your safety, and your peace of mind.” It also sets a cultural tone that structure is not boring but important for predictably and reliability

A Symptom, Not the Disease

It’s easy to mock or romanticize matatu culture. Yes, it’s gritty and wild and uniquely Kenyan. But it is also symptomatic of a society that normalizes chaos and calls it culture. The matatu sector, with all its creativity, also reveals our dangerous tolerance for disorder, lawlessness, and noise—traits that have infected our leadership and political choices for decades.

Until we begin to demand systems that serve everyone equally, on the road and in the ballot box, we will keep getting leaders who, like matatus, speed dangerously ahead, blaring promises, ignoring the rules, and collecting their fares without ever delivering us to a better destination.