Her Thought Piece

“You look lovely,” he says. I can hear his tenor voicing these words close to my ears. They dance around my ear lobes for a while and somehow they feel like an itch nearing my eardrums. But close is as far as they get, and I turn my head to look at him. I glare like I heard nothing. I guess that teeny weensy rush of wind I went against in the process swept those words away. In all sincerity, I felt nothing. My walls went up, on hearing those words. My fatal and first instinct is to bat away these words people use as gate-passes into our fragile hearts. Most of the time they want something right? So during my vincible days my head goes sprawling, “oh! What does he want? Definitely not me. With all this height I still look so naive? At only the first glance? Or what’s his dysfunction anyway. Would you save those words for that other girl? she looks like her life depends on it. I’m furious within this poker face and beneath the neatly plaited lines on my head. He is probably

I look at generational gap in so many ways, and my parents just make it clear how lost they feel living amongst us. Well, my dad made it even crisper, ha-ha. I had my series in CDs and would leave them at the TV area. So someday, my dad got ahold of walking dead which he chose to watch at night, mistake number one. All we could hear was him gasping, “My goodness!” every other two seconds in some kind of tone. Worse, he was alone in the living room. My old man is brave, those zombies are driving him crazy but he keeps on, until when he realizes that this thing won’t end. Well, he wasn’t raised watching series. So he relinquished the trauma! I too, got really cold chills watching XYZ but my amusement couldn’t let me back down till I got used to them, even horror movies don’t do nothing to me anymore, except Hannibal. It’s a thriller that apprehends me, and I need the lights on to get through it. All this time I zoom into the film industry asking myself why? I mean what are these

On this day I feel like Cinderella, running in her glass slippers back home, shunning the midnight hour when tick-tock hits then she turns out to be who not the prince thought. I am alarmed, truly that this year has been my princess-like charade, and once the fireworks start to go off and people start screaming in the neighborhood that it is new year, everything will change. So 3 campus years, what do I make of it? Maybe I should have pictures to show and stories to tell round a bonfire all night. But snap your fingers and for those who cannot put their thumb and middle finger together; swing them sideways to make a sound, I hope you can blink once. And yes, that’s all I can say about my years for now. It was, then it wasn’t, and believe me it’s still messing my mind up.  Can I go on being Cinderella anymore? Will friends I had in school always there for me because they were there, like the next door to mine? Will there still be like a titanic-sized room for mistakes, a

I wanted to pour my heart out but… You didn’t ask me. I am not inherently the type that just pours whenever I feel burdened.  I am a tickly lady but it takes more than the “hi, how was your day?” series of questions to  poke issues from the pits of my troubled soul. It also sometimes take more than a day of chit- chat to break through the “I-have-been-great” veil that I wear on my face. I do not ask you to  shake things off me, I do not have to be going through something every day, but realistically I  cannot be so great 365 days a year, or every twice a week that we get to talk. Disconcerting  and painful tales do not readily respond to the “how-are-you?” probes for some of us too. You look more curious than caring . That is a no-no. I am a private being. I do not spill my  beans on you just since you asked. I can tell that you just want to know and maybe feel good  that someone told you something sensitive. You do not follow up the details. Days later you  do not want t

Today I stand before thee, fellow mortals and what I have is a hefty matter at heart. Today I’ll try to plead my case and each of you reading this is already an appointed member of the jury. I am just a media student and most definitely not pursuing a law degree and yet I feel like my issue deserves a hearing. Hence, I throw this ball to the court of public opinion and I will be waiting edgily for a ruling to finally put this mind-boggling matter to rest. (In the end you can comment but finish with a standard “guilty” or “not guilty’’ verdict) So look at me, better, look into my eyes in case you need a better view of my soul. If you are scared stiff then listen and do it good and proper. Today I am desperate for a second chance (well I think even the 10th and 5th times are also called “a second chance”) but I need it bad. The weight of my guilt may not be best portrayed on my face but it is definitely shaking me like an earthquake.  Sometimes I get hold of myself and I walk ar

I recently visited Inua Mimi Rescue Centre , a home for children who have escaped tribalism, domestic violence, abandonment and such traumatizing events. I had plenty of fun, thanks to the joy these kids bore like when a friend of mine introduced himself, the kids just burst into a song that mentions his name. I mean they were so adorable and made that Saturday so memorable. I am sorry if it’s terrible to have pitied them, but that’s the kind of attitude I carried all the way from Juja to the Kibera, you know, that woiye woiye feeling. So I am there, fully determined to accomplish the day’s mission, as they say “putting a smile on a child’s face” and our idea was to do a drawing activity having brought plenty of painting stuff for them to get wild on. They draw and their 10 minutes are over. I collect their pieces as we grin at their creativity and tell them how breathtaking they are, but one. That was of a 7 or 8 year old boy, a drawing in red pen of a tilapia, a love shape,

“I’m beautiful, I’m funny, I’m gentle, I’m kind,” I tell myself while standing by the mirror. It’s my daily routine, the kind of confidence I must don before I step out of the door. It’s the dose I need to have the strength on my feet to walk hand in hand with the man that I say I love. “You’re beautiful, you make me laugh, your soul is gentle, your heart is kind,” he told me, not once, not twice. That was when his world revolved around me, when he would pursue me relentlessly, when he had the conviction, he loved me and wanted me to be his. And I was, and I loved him back and I felt beautiful, funny and kind. Time passed on and I am still his but I am not sure anymore. “You’re beautiful, you’re gentle, you’re kind,” is what I tell the reflection I see when I look at me, because now I have to remind me that; he doesn’t say it anymore. I am his but the four adjectives are thrown to others but me, he doesn’t realize I need them as much now as he needed to say them w