What a gift to have died so early, I thought.

The child’s body lay on the bed. I reached out to touch her, I had never been this close to someone who had just died. Naturally I was scared, but curious. Her hands still warm, felt as though there was still life left in them. And for a moment, I wondered if her mind was still working, if she could still hear the voices around her. I stood at the back, unsure of my place among the tears and wailing that filled the air. Her mother’s cries cut through the silence, heavy with unbearable pain. I could see it in her face, the doubt, the disbelief. A mother’s instinct to protect, to hold on, now powerless in the face of what was now inevitable.

As others cried, I found myself oddly distant. I could not bring myself to join in, to let the pain of what was happening take hold of me. All I felt was envy. What a gift, I thought. To have died so early. To never have learned to fear death… to just let go. The child had escaped. I envied her more than I had ever envied anything in my life.

If it were not for the fear of what comes after death, who would willingly endure the agony of time? If we could simply face death with the same ease we fall asleep, who would choose to stay, knowing it is all just a slow, painful walk towards that same end? I had one wish…

I remember when I was younger. I wanted to breathe underwater. At night, I would imagine myself swimming far and wide, never needing to come up for air. Back then, I thought drowning was the worst way to die, the water closing over my head, the suffocating feeling of air lost, struggling. Maybe if I could breathe underwater, I would not have to hold my breath all the time. I would swim away from it all, away from the voices telling me I will drown, away from the hands trying to pull me back. I’d be free.

By high school, I had outgrown the idea of being a mermaid. It seemed childish, and my wishes grew more complex, more desperate.

I wished I was smart. No, not just smart, but undeniably smart. The kind of smart everyone sees, the kind that made me feel safe in a classroom. Maybe then I’d not sit in the back, pretending to understand, praying no one would notice how much I struggled. Maybe I’d not be so afraid to raise my hand, terrified that my answer would be wrong, afraid of being judged. Maybe, if I were smart, studying would not hurt so much. Life would not suck like it did. Maybe I would not be so afraid to speak, to stand, to be seen. Maybe, if I were smart, I’d finally feel like I belonged.

But even that wish faded.

Then, I wished for confidence. The kind that makes things easy, makes friends easy, makes love easy, makes life easy. Maybe, if I had confidence, I wouldn’t rehearse my words a thousand times before speaking. I wouldn’t worry about being liked, about being enough. Maybe I wouldn’t feel like I had to pretend, to be someone I wasn’t. Maybe, just maybe, if I were confident, I could stop pretending for once.

But that wish didn’t last either.

Eventually, I settled for a different father. He had to be the problem. I wished I had been born into a family that didn’t drown in silence, that didn’t drown in fear. Maybe, things wouldn’t have been so painful. Maybe I wouldn’t have spent my whole life proving I was something, anything, just to be seen. Maybe I wouldn’t be so afraid to leave my job, to start over, to try something different. Maybe I wouldn’t be so good at pretending. Maybe I wouldn’t live a lie anymore.

But my wishes never came true.

“I mostly feel it when it’s quiet. When my thoughts settle… enough for me to notice the silence. Distant at first. Then louder. Then sharp. Then painful.

My breath shortens. I lie there, staring at my phone, convinced that if I close my eyes, I won’t wake up.

The first time it happened, I rushed to the hospital. The doctor… she was calm. Too calm. Tests were done, she listened but looked at me not in the way I feared. ‘If this is what you think it is,’ she said, pulling back, ‘you wouldn’t have made it through the night.’

The second time, the third… the fourth… the answer was always the same.

‘You are fine. Your heart is fine.’

But then she asked, ‘Have you ever thought of seeing a mental health professional?’

A strange relief. A strange disappointment.

I wasn’t dying? So then… what is this?”

Looking at the still, lifeless body of the child, all I could think about was… if I could have one wish, just one, it would be: to not be so afraid of death.

To live without that constant reminder, the voice in my head that never stops, the one that whispers, one day, you won’t exist. It doesn’t matter if I’m happy or sad, succeeding or failing, surrounded by people or alone. It’s always there, it never leaves. Still the world continues, unmoved by my fear. And I can’t help but wonder… what do they know that I don’t? No one else seems haunted by this truth. How do they laugh, love, make plans for years ahead, while I can’t stop thinking about the moment it all ends? The child had escaped. I envied her in a way I couldn’t explain. I wished for her freedom.

“Thus, conscience makes cowards of us all.” From The Hamlet…a piece that perfectly captures my thoughts


To live, or not to live

that is the question

Is it more honorable to endure life’s relentless struggles

The pain, the misfortune, the chaos thrown at us

Or to fight back against this overwhelming wave of problems

And, by resisting, end it all? To die…to sleep

Nothing more. And by that sleep, we end

The heartache, the endless suffering

That life naturally brings. It’s an outcome

To be deeply desired. To die…to sleep…

To sleep, maybe to dream…there’s the catch.

Because in that sleep of death, what dreams might come

When we’ve left this mortal life behind,

That uncertainty stops us in our tracks.

It’s the fear of the unknown

That makes us endure misery for so long.

Who would willingly bear the pain of time

The humiliation of oppression, the arrogance of the powerful,

The heartbreak of unreturned love, the slow wheels of justice,

The disrespect of authority, and the rejection of good people

When we could end it all with something as simple as a knife?

Who would carry such heavy burdens,

Sweating through the misery of life,

If it weren’t for the fear of what comes after death

That undiscovered place no one has ever returned from?

It messes with our minds,

And makes us choose the troubles we know

Over the uncertainty of what lies beyond.

So, our conscience makes us hesitate,

And our natural courage gets paralyzed by overthinking.

Plans that should be bold and daring

Lose their momentum,

And we fail to act.

I’d love to say I’ve outgrown this behavior, but sadly, I haven’t.


It’s not that I’m not spontaneous…it’s just that the activities need to be worthwhile. Otherwise, I get bored, then exhausted, then uncomfortable, then irritable, and then…boom. I’m “acting crazy.” Crazy as in leaving without saying a word.

My mum knows this about me, yet still: “Bondi, we’re just going to the supermarket. Just to grab a few things, then straight home. I promise.”

Maandishi Haya Sio Mageni Jijini…

We get to the supermarket, pick up those “few things,” and then, Rose, my mum’s ever-chatty friend, appears. “We’ll just drop Rose home. It won’t take long,” Mum reassures me. But no sooner am I in the car, sinking into false hope, than we take that dreaded Impala Road turn. The one that leads straight to Rose’s house.

“Let’s pass by Rose’s place. Just for a quick hello to the husband.”

A quick hello. The same quick hello that always spirals into hours of gossip. Hours of me sitting there, uncomfortable. I lose it. “Mum, stop the car. I’m going home.”

“Bondi, I can’t stop the car. We’re almost there,” she replies. I don’t wait for “almost there.” I open the door and threaten to jump out of the moving car. My mum slams the brakes…she knows I’m not bluffing. I hop out and start walking, consequences be damned. I know there’s a thorough beating waiting for me later, but in that moment? Freedom.

“You can’t just leave me here! This is so embarrassing!” Mum yells. “That sounds like a you problem,” I reply, flag down a boda boda, and off I go.

Rose: “Nyathini wiye rach.” (This child is mad.)

Fast forward many years later…

My mum decides to invite guests, her clique of friends, and yes, her friend Rose will be present. Guests known for their invasive questions and endless small talk. I’m not in the mood. I’ve made it clear.

“Mum, if you’re having guests, just tell them I’m not in.”

Does she listen? Of course not.

By noon, the house is buzzing with chatter. Rose is already in her element, dissecting who married whom and critiquing poorly planned weddings. Then it happens: “Bondi! Come and greet Rose and the guests!” my mum shouts from downstairs. I ignore her. Stay glued to my bed, watching Kill Me, Heal Me. “Bondi, stop embarrassing me! Come out now!” she yells again. Still, I don’t budge. A minute later, my younger brother Toto appears at the door. “Eh, unaitwa. Acha kujifanya huskii.” “Toto, go tell her I’m not in,” I reply.

Five minutes later, the shouting resumes. “Tell her I said COME OUT!” Now it’s a full blown operation. My mum dispatches a squad to retrieve me…the house help included. “Bondi, unaitwa…unaitwa…unaitwa, toka tu kidogo.”

Nope. Not moving. Let them sip their tea awkwardly downstairs. This was a mountain I was fully prepared to die on. “Mum,” I thought to myself, “you brought this on yourself. Simple instruction, just tell them I’m not in.”

Later, I heard that Rose had commented, “Eeh, nyathini pod wiye rach. So her madness continues.”

Eventually, the guests leave, and I’m officially the villain. My mum storms into my room and tells me, “One day, you’ll have children who will embarrass you in front of your guests. Then you’ll understand.” She storms off, vowing never to speak to me again.

By day three, she breaks the silence😂😂, but not without guilt trips.

I’d love to say I’ve outgrown this behavior, but sadly, I haven’t. My mum, on the other hand, seems to have outgrown the drama, or so it seems…

To be alive, at least for me, is to pretend I’m okay.

I’m feeling awful. Really, really awful. That’s been me for a while now. Sometimes I laugh about it. What else can I do? I can’t even cry anymore. The emptiness… it just sits there, like an awkward guest I didn’t invite but now I have to entertain. I don’t know what to do with it.

To be alive, at least for me, is to pretend I’m okay.

If I could do anything right now, I’d like to ride a bicycle. Somewhere quiet, surrounded by trees. No psyched up strangers or friends telling me, “You got this!” (I don’t.) Just me, riding alone, stopping to breathe every minute. Trees don’t judge you for stopping. Trees don’t make you feel like catching your breath is some kind of crime. They let you be.

If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll catch that feeling again. The one I used to have when my friend cycled, and I’d sit on the back for hours. I don’t know what to do with the new feelings I’ve learned. I just want to sit and be. I miss that.

If I could do anything right now, I’d like to run.

It used to be my secret wish, i’d pray, actual prayers, for madness. To wake up wild and reckless, running with no destination. To run and not feel. But now I know madness comes with a price. It’s not the freedom I imagined.

Still, I’d like to run. Fast and far. Too exhausted to care.

Most days feel impossible to survive, the emptiness, it just hangs around. But dying? That’s not easy either… I’m too afraid. So I’m stuck. Unable to live, unable to let go.

Thank God for Netflix’s From Scratch. I stumbled upon it again today. My brain, mercifully, forgets the plot and only remembers the feeling. It’s like watching it for the first time.

It’s getting harder to feel these days. Harder to lose myself in a story and believe, even for a second, that life might hold something magical. These endless loops of days… But for now, I’m glad I pressed play. Watching From Scratch, I felt it again. Just for a while, I feel it again.

Cham miel ka pod ingima tho luro

“Eii yawa, Tho! Aol. Odhis ni bro tieka chieng’ moro,” my mother yelled, as we exchanged worried glances.

We found ourselves huddled in the hospital on a Friday morning, anxiously waiting for my father to wake up.

As a child, I used to look at my father during parties and marvel at how he could turn a dull party into one that was full of so much warmth and laughter. He would often be seen laughing with a bottle in his hand, dancing to his favorite song, Piny Osiko Tok Sikie. His own personal mantra for happiness and freedom.

“Cham miel ka pod ingima tho luro

Cham miel ka pod ingima tho luro

Odhis madh kong’o ka pod ingima tho luro.”

He believed that happiness could be found in the simplest of things, which for him entailed sharing stories over a round of drinks and dancing to his favorite songs.

Eventually, as I got older and started my own path towards adulthood, I began to understand the magic that comes with having a drink in hand, a song in your heart, and a night full of laughter.

“He is trying to open his eyes.” Someone shouted.

After what had felt like an eternity of unconsciousness, my father finally woke up.

As he tried to piece together and make sense of where he was, he burst out laughing, which was both funny and scary at the time. “Eeh! I expected the afterlife to look somewhat different than what I am seeing now. “Where are all the angels? Are those demons? Heck, I’ll settle for Nyalego’s face, who thought it fit to deny me food after an entire day of tending to the cattle.” He didn’t stop laughing.

“Odhis ni chal ni pod omer (this man must still be intoxicated”),” my mother said, partially relieved that he was okay, as we burst out laughing.

“When I heard the gunshot, I knew everything was over. I was really looking forward to those praise and worship songs somewhere in the land of milk and honey,” my father went on.

His statements, while funny, could not conceal the magnitude of what had occurred. It turns out that what we thought was his typical night out on a drinking spree turned into a near-death experience from a targeted attack by those seeking sensitive documents that he had. Fortunately for us, the bullet meant for him missed its mark, and my drunken and shocked father collapsed. It makes perfect sense why, when he woke up, the first joke that came to mind was one about the afterlife.

The other extended family members came in throughout the day, but my father continued to crack jokes, making light of the situation. To him, life was a fleeting dance with fate, with danger waiting in the shadows, so he preferred to live in the present and enjoy every moment he had.

Fast forward to the present. I adopted the song as my favorite, and to this day, in the quiet moments of the night, when the weight of the day begins to lighten and no one is watching, I find myself dancing to Daddy’s favorite song, Piny Osiko Tok Sikie.

“Cham miel ka pod ingima tho luro

Cham miel ka pod ingima tho luro

Akinyi madh kong’o ka pod ingima tho luro.”

He clearly passed on his love for having a good time and other questionable traits, but his greatest gift to me was the lesson to enjoy life’s pleasures while I can, for death is always lurking in the shadows.

Tomorrow is not guaranteed, so always live your life with this in mind.

Others may not see it right now, but they will soon understand

In a community surrounded by hills and lakes, lived a young girl named Awiti. Awiti was a tribute to the tears and prayers her parents had to endure before they had her. She was born after the loss of many.

Awiti loved to dance and every step made by her feet on the ground matched the waves in the lake and the swaying grass blown by the breeze.

Her dance steps were however covered in doubt. The other children, caught up in their dance, seemed not to notice her graceful steps. Every time she lifted her feet she overheard the other children whisper that she seemed strange and that her steps were not as colorful as theirs. So she started avoiding dancing whenever she was around the other kids, afraid her steps were not good enough.

One day, under the shade of a guava tree, her grandmother Akinyi noticed the pain that covered her face and tried to find out the cause of her frustrations.”Osiepa, why do you look so troubled?” Awiti, hesitantly playing with the beaded bracelet on her wrist, replied.

“Dani the other children, they dance around me like I don’t exist. Like I don’t matter and treat me like I am not deserving of the spotlight. Dani, do you find how I dance weird?”

Akinyi, smiling, moved closer to her and took her hand. “Awiti, I think you are a beautiful dancer my child. Rejection Osiep chunya is normal. Not everyone will like you or what you do in this life. It does not define your dance or who you are as a person. It only changes the path and shapes the steps you will have to take moving forward. And I will need you to always remember these words everytime you feel doubtful of your abilities or who you are.

You, my child, are a vessel through which the spirits speak. Others may not see it right now, but they will soon understand that you, are a treasure waiting to be discovered by those who truly see the value in your dance.”

At the next community gathering, grandmother Akinyi, determined to help her rediscover her confidence , stood up and called out to Awiti.”My beautiful daughter, Osiep Chunya, with steps that tell the stories of my forefathers. Please join me for a dance and allow our ancestors to guide us.” Awiti, even though hesitant, joined her, and they started dancing.

She stepped lightly into the ground, barefoot, as if the land were sacred, twirling and jumping into the air while swaying her arms. Each step a tribute to the people that once graced this life.

A silent dance with a flow known only to a person, in harmony with the secrets of nature.

Enchanted by the beauty in her dance, the villagers joined in the joyful celebration, dancing while embracing their differences. As a result, Akinyi’s words were passed down through generations, encouraging children to embrace and love their unique talents. Every step, no matter how small, brings a unique shine to life.

In sleep

In sleep

I find relief

An escape from the corridors of reality’s harshness

Where voices command my confidence with compelling demands 

And racing thoughts are never ending

Inflicting silent pain

As I question my existence

In sleep

I create a world that’s mine alone

Where seeds of hope are sown

At last, I taste happiness

A heaven I’ve built for my mind’s rest

At last, a place where peace exists

Ayaa’s heart would flutter with unsettled emotions

In a house filled with silence and pain, there existed a small room in the house that was protected by a door that knew many emotions. In this small room lived a father who spoke in the language of the doors. When trouble tiptoed, the father would flee into this room, slamming the door with a bang. The door bore witness to the whirlwind of his emotions.

Right next to father’s small room lived a little girl named Ayaa, the only girl among little boys in the house. A family of three boys, a girl , their mother, and father. Ayaa’s heart felt everything, even though it was not as big as father’s. Every time the door went “Bang!” Ayaa’s heart would flutter with unsettled emotions. It understood the story that was being told and knew something was not right. She wished, with all her might and power, that the bangs would stop. She wanted to feel calm and happy.

One night, as she lay asleep, the moonlight painted her a path into the garden of wisdom. In this magical garden stood an old lady who introduced herself as Tula. In Ayaa’s tribe, Tula meant owl, and owls were known to be wise and intelligent. Guided by Tula’s wisdom, she began to understand that the door’s bangs were not arrows aimed at her little heart but echoes of emotions seeking a safe heaven.

When Ayaa woke up the next morning, she ran into her father’s small room, knowing he’d already be awake. He almost always was before her.

“Father, are you okay?” she asked softly. “The door bangs… I really don’t like them. Every time it slams, this anxious rhythm echoes through my room. So please, if you could try not to bang it so much, it would really mean the world to me.”

Father was very surprised to learn that, despite Ayaa being small, she was able to understand and feel what was happening. He felt really bad that his actions had affected her that much. So he made a choice to be careful, and from that day on, he stopped the bangs. The door, once marked with anger and detachment, turned into a portal to heartfelt conversations. Ayaa’s heart was no longer captive to anxious beats. She finally found the calmness and peace she had wished for.

I’m afraid

I’m afraid of snakes

A cold and dry slither on my neck

As the sound of hisses twirls around my ear

Makes darkness, trees and picnics dreadful

I’m afraid of beds

Beds equal sleeping

And sleep leads me to an endless cycle of bondage

A slave to images and memories of the dead

To relive the painful events that led to their death

I’m afraid of my mind

Black are my thoughts

With whispers of evil slipping in and out

A trip to hell might just be the perfect distraction I need

I’m afraid of mirrors

The beautiful reflection I see when I smile

Is followed by whispers

Whispers I know I’ve heard before

And the smile slowly turns into a frown

I’m afraid of love

Love leads to awkward situations

Situations that lead to disappointment

And a night filled with hopelessness,

that loneliness might just be the fate I’m destined to suffer

I’m afraid of sharing my insecurities

But I just finished writing them down for you to see

And snakes are also my favorite creatures

The black, brown and blue patterns

That shimmer in the light

I find hard to resist

Because

Most times fear is a knock I choose to ignore

An evil man is a predictable man

I am neither frightened nor amazed by the actions of an evil man

Confident is what I feel in the company of one condemned to wickedness

For an evil man can only indulge in evil deeds

But in the presence of a nice, genuine and generous soul

A soul with neither blemish nor defect

I feel discomfort and a sense to be cautious

For unless you have experienced temptation in its fullest,

The enticing ‘advantage’ of an evil act and rejected it

You are capable of one day turning into an evil man