The Nonchalant kid

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.