Scooby was my first, a German shepherd with luxurious fur, and boundless energy. He grew into a gentle giant with big brown eyes that felt like deep pools of warmth and loyalty. I always came home to him wagging his bushy tail in excitement. When it rained, he would snuggle into his space and curl up into a ball, waiting out the cold and rain for playtime in the freshly filled puddles.

When my Scooby got sick, his big brown eyes shrunk. By the end, he was a little fur ball, still with a wet nose and a warm heart.

The past few weeks have been draining, my creativity has been on a fritz. I am aware my home country isn’t the only place facing harsh political conditions, but by God did it have to be this heavy?

I have shed tears for strangers, people so distraught by the hand dealt, use of brute force and potbellied bullies. I have watched a grown man break into tear-snort wails on live television about his government sponsored abduction, torture and attempted murder. I can still hear a mother of a 12 year old shot 8 times by the police, tearful cries for the president to give her back the child he callously claimed in an interview ‘he is still alive, right?’

Right after her comes another mother who says she will lead the next protest so the police can kill her, distraught by the disappearance of her son, 23 years old. A week later, her son’s body is spotted floating in quarry, battered and bruised. This is but a few cases, there have been more than 40 reported deaths.

I have tried getting away from it all, but it’s all everyone talks about. Everyone is angry, inconsolable, baffled by the audacity of one individual and his swarm.

Writing is my outlet, I can feel some light sipping in, some warmth in my bones. The fight persist against a rogue government, and I will do it best way I know how.

I intend to keep sane, I intend to win.

In a dramatic turn of events, that is in fact in character for this new generation, Kenya has found itself at a crossroads, as the contentious finance bill 2024 has been met with rejection through internet campaigns like #RejectFinaceBill2024, and eventual demonstrations on the streets. This development that the government and political leaders initially dismissed as ‘kids being kids’ has inspired a revolution that many well liberate not only Kenya, but other countries in Africa from despot political leaders. This was evident on 20th June, when the 'self-sworn lifelong president’ of Uganda, Yoweri Museveni, was quoted misrepresenting the cause saying,” Our neighbors, Kenyans, are picketing in the streets instead of working. The demonstrations are led by a bunch of tik tokers and members of the lgbtq community. Do tik tokers even pay tax?” Well, these tik tokers and hash taggers are here to stay, longer than the old and fashioned out Machiavellian leaders and they out tally your sycophants. Unlike their parents, they will ‘pass in between your incompetence ’and call you out, make rib stitching memes, go out later for a meal and drinks, then take an Uber ride home!

The political class is right to be jittery seeing as the disillusioned is over and the young generation has fully immersed itself into the economic affairs of their country, and they have decided not to leave their parents and grandparents behind. Thanks to previous regimes push for free education, an educated and tech savvy generation is translating the controversial finance bill into videos in native languages to create political awareness in the villages where the political class muddy their leather shoes and Kaunda suits when election years roll close where they splash a few thousands, false hopes and unfiltered lies, in no specific order to their parents. The young have embrace a policy of no man left behind. This tact has brought Kenyans together beyond age, race, ethnicity, political affiliation and class, an enlightenment that could never be organized, purely organic!

Even as the young were forced out of the comfort of being keyboard warrior into actual warriors in the streets of Nairobi Kenya, they still recognize their strongest suit, social media. Armed with their smartphones livestreaming and snapping photographs of the protests, the Millennials and Gen Z pushed hashtags and topics on the finance bill on X, Instagram, Tik Tok and other platforms, generating content on the peaceful protests and condemning the use of excessive force by the Kenyan Police. Even in the struggle from the chokehold of teargas and tyrannical taxes, they stayed on brand, leaving room for humor with memes and videos of the protests that gave netizens a much needed mental break after a long emotionally draining day and week. To set the mood, playlists on platforms like Spotify dubbed ‘Maandamano Baddies’ and ‘Za Mapambano’ were created, to, you know, marinate the situation and keep perspective. Never a dull moment yea? Show of discontent by boycotting politicians’ businesses, spamming their comment sections with hashtags and reporting their accounts for misrepresentation has left some leaders shell shook and prone to tantrums. But balance is key for these generations. The show of kindness by offering sodas, bread, avocados and water to the police, and making friendly banter left some policemen torn between duty and cracking a smile. They did not, however, relent with the water cannons and teargas, lest they fail their masters.

The revolution has begun, see you on the streets next week!

To Kenyans like Jacob Juma, Rex Kanyike and others who met force instead of love, for the love of their country, rest, we will take it from here.

At a point in every human being’s life, the inevitable, unwelcome companion of life, grief, has dealt its hand. They have been left in a sea of emotional turmoil and endless questions. At this moment when a person is experiencing profound loss, finding someone to turn to for solace and understanding can make one feel like an anchor, dragging the rest of the ship to a halt. The lure to let go, get dragged to the floor of the sea until you drown can be overwhelming, and irresistible. Many have drowned. Others clutched and dug their nails on the side of the ship until they bled trying to come to the surface, and survive, if by the hair of their (chinny?) chin. Others chose to ignore their loss and join the crew in popping bottles and getting sailor drunk. A few got dragged by the ship until the water levels evened out and let them float with ease. Many people find the wisdom of the religion offers a beacon of hope, a light in a path that is muddied by bedlam unfathomable. Others find shamans, psychics and other ‘traditional’ alternatives as a way to give their lives meaning without their loved ones. Its an opportune moments for all 'reapers' to leap the souls of the vulnerable.

Truth is, death stumps us all, in the most stupefying way. The scramble for meaning and understanding of ‘what just happened’ is a grasp at straws in the dark, in a shed full of sharp tools. And the dark lingers, oh it lingers.

So, the question really is, how to sojourn the valley of the shadow of death, and eventually come out, Alive.

She was 5 when she had her first panic attack. She had been visiting her grandma in the village on a school holiday with her cousins. Tendeo, her younger brother, was too young. He was 3 years old, and could not stay away from his parents longer than a few hours, so he stayed home. Except for the language barrier, having come from the city where she mostly spoke English and not her vernacular language, she did enjoy rolling in the mud and chasing the chicken back to the coop at sundown as instructed by granny. Granny had a lot of visitors who would come in for a chat and a cup of tea. She would introduce her grandkids by referring to her children, “this one is Stella’s, her first one”, and the guest would either be Auntie or Uncle, Granny or Grandpa, depending on their age.

So when an Auntie approached Zolani and one of her cousins, Lezola, just outside the compound, they did not think much of it. When she suggested that they walk to her house for some samosas and soda, they blissfully and happily went with her. As they had their fill, the drug took effect and their reality got murky and foggy. The two young girls were locked in a dark, dump room for a day before they were found. When they were found, only Lezola was crying. Zolani’s tears were dried marks on her cheeks, as grandma lifted her off the floor, stiff as a corpse. “She is in shock, I will need to talk to her for some time as we head to the hospital”, urged the doctor who had rushed with the rest of the crowd to rescue the children.

Zolani became scared, almost everything gave her a fright. She was scared mostly of the dark, and almost everything that followed the darkness. So whenever darkness would start sipping into the world, she ran as fast as she could to avoid it, to feel safe in the light, preferably at home. Although she still went to therapy, some situations just overwhelmed her.

Zolani’s younger brother Tendeo, did not mind the darkness. In fact, he enjoyed playing outside after the sun set. He would tease Zolani and scare her by putting off the light, hiding in dark corners and jumping out screaming. This would upset Zolani, and more often than not invite punishment from his parents.

Since Tendeo did not understand the source of Zolani’s seemingly irrational fear, he kept doing it, he thought it was funny that his older sister fell for it every time.

One day, nearly a year since the kidnapping, the lights went out unexpectedly, a power outage that affected the entire neighborhood. Zolani, scared and out of breath ducked under the dining table where she and her family were having dinner. Tendeo, excited at this grand opportunity to scare her, climbed off his seat slowly and quietly. Following the sound of his sister’s whimpers, he felt his way to her under the table. Both parents had left the table looking for candles and torches. He took a long breath, got closer and then let out a bellow that was almost animal like. A thud, then Silence.

Confused, he let out a chuckle as he felt for her form in the dark, “Zo?” no response. Then he felt her stiff body, lying flat on the carpet. A cold sweat washed over him as he shook her, commanding a response, anything, but Zolani remained still. Panicked, probably for the first time, Tendeo called out, “mom, I think something is wrong with Zolani, she won’t speak to me”.

Both parents shuffled into the dining room, candles on hand, looking for both children. As the light showered the room and their vision adjusted to it, they saw Tendeo’s skinny body hovering over Zolani’s. Her figure lay motionless, lost in the realm of unconsciousness. Then blood.

The past few years have been hellish for me and a couple of my friends. When we finished Uni, it was as if we had resurfaced from a long dive, deprived of the air we desperately craved for for the past 4 years. A renewed sense of self washed over us as the crippling anxiety of ‘what now’ awaited a few weeks into ‘the new era’.

Our last day in Uni was bliss. My best friends and I went out for some food and drinks to celebrate what we felt had been the most time consuming waste of our young lives. Later that evening, we parted. A week later, each one of us started realizing how lonely we were, and clueless about life. We had been applying for jobs but with no graduation and papers we had to wait till December to acquire any sensible opportunities, this was in the beginning of February.

I got an internship position that I immediately embraced for order. Living at home, having the unpaid internship was exactly what I felt at the time, was perfect. 4 months in I insisted on a stipend which the boss man agreed to reluctantly. A few more months in, I knew I was lost.

Here is my point, I left that job last year, and I have never been happier. My friends have also had to endure impossible working conditions to keep a job. When I think about my new resolution, I get scared and excited. Writing brings me joy, it comes to me. I hope my friends do have the courage to do the same, you know, pursue something they love, despite the fear.

One of them has, Teaching French kids English. She hopes to do her masters in Belgium, but it is not going as smoothly with finances. I keep telling her, ‘it’s better than the alternative sweetie’, she tells me the same. I hope that keeps her going, it does for me.

At times, life feels a turd ungrateful for all we put out into the universe, but that sense of entitlement has never been rewarding. I guess the best we can do is our level best, then hope that what we put out will be put back. You know, karma and all that.

With the help of my entire family and friends, she sunk me deep in doubt and helplessness. My thoughts and feeling were crowded by indecision, the pain of social conformity, the guilt of feeling like I do not belong, the shame of daring to imagine I can do something different. For so long, she made me believe that I had to have a protuberant title before my name. Her voice was amplified by the constant jabs of my family, they stood behind her and cheered me on away from my dream, and stupid little me saw it as support and kept going.

For 9 years I had been following the wrong path like sheep, with my shepherd leading me to the slaughter, I followed, mindlessly. My hesitation was met by false encouragement, an incentive towards the direction she wanted me to follow. When the gentle way did not work, she brought in the muscle, the guilt trip and gas lighting of parents, the fear of loosing it all. Fighting back felt futile and made no sense, in the beginning.

What happens when your voice is tuned down, shoved down your throat, and other voices talk louder, are affirmed and encouraged. What happens when the words that are cutting you down start to make sense, and you can no longer hear your own voice? My mind got foggy and the fog only got thicker with every step I took. The hand I took to guide me felt comfortable and safe, I trusted her wholeheartedly. She promised me a shore, a beach I could lie on, she promised me a steady sail, that beyond the fog it got clearer and warmer, that the sunrays would hit my face and I would be home, I would be happy. And in the embrace of the fog, my soul went quiet, and I mistook it for peace.

With the passing of every moon, my foggy mind grew weary, it wanted the beach, it couldn’t wait, it knew it was dying. I understood that I had to change course, for I was so unhappy. But that meant letting go of her hand, and that scared me as much as the fog that was choking me. When she realized I was getting over the fear, she turned on me “you will be back! You cannot do this, you will starve to death without me!”

I walked away, breaking into a cold sweat. I figured if I was going to die, I did not want my last moments to be filled with feelings of being lost and afraid. I had to dream, even when the dreams scared me stiff.

I have to be honest, she still lingers. Every now and then, when I receive rejection, or run dry in my writing, I feel her chilling presence eyeing my failures. I feel the resentment and shame she carries in regards to my decisions. I still am searching for the warm beach, but until then, I am content with my clear vision.

I am finally getting out of my own way.

Allow me to be your tour guide in the country Kenya, more specifically our capital, Nairobi, and its matatu culture. Here is a crash course on what a matatu is and everything you need to know if you plan on exploring this part of the ‘safari’ (adventure). Like every other country in the world, Kenya has public transportation, these are vans and buses that have designated routes. The only difference is the drivers and touts/conductors here are extra. The vans and buses are pimped to their style. Example, you have a public service vehicle and are a fan of Jayz, his face will be plastered all over the exterior and interior of the car. Just to drive the point home, the cars are fitted with speakers and music systems that blast music flamboyantly as if to deafen their passengers or shut down traffic. Either way, you will leave with a ringing in your ears, or a new playlist, or both. It is the most common, cheapest, fastest means to get around. They will use a foot path, trust me. That being said, it is not for the faint hearted. I remember I first got into a matatu for the first time by myself when I was 10 years old, and even then my mom made sure I had two of my cousins with me and made us memorize where we would alight. Not all matatu routes have the dapper swagger, but even those with calm interiors will still leave that matatu culture impact.

Here is how I found myself hanging onto dear life on a matatu.

Remember how different routes differ in experiences, I leave in the exterior of Nairobi. The matatu’s on those routes are in less neck breaking speeds, they will stop for passengers to alight or board. My mother always says somedays I act foreign, this was one of those days. I forgot I was in Nairobi. I was coming from an interview with a psychiatrist, which had felt more like a therapy session than an interview. I was in my head about the session, all the while wondering where the stage (bus point for picking and dropping passengers) was. It was at this moment that I heard the tout yelling over the music ‘tao tao’ to mean, Nairobi town, my destination.

I probably should have taken a moment to analyze my surroundings. If I had, I would have noticed several things; that I was not in a stage, and that the matatu had no intention of stopping since they had spotted a traffic cop that I had not. As it slowed down, the tout/conductor grabbed my hand as if to guide me in, only he pulled me, and I got startled. Suddenly I had one foot in, a hand on the door frame, my bag was fluttering outside, the matatu was picking up speed and all I could see was the matatu’s rear tires grinding the tarmac. In that moment, as my life threatened to leave me, all of life’s struggles felt futile. In those few seconds before the conductor bundled me inside amid gasps and sighs from the other victims of his box of death, I had made my peace, I was ready. This had me thinking later on. Maybe, just maybe, when the moment comes, for those who are able to tell that it is their last moment, they are able to let go and really be ready for death to take them. Faced by the inevitable, all we can do is embrace it. And that has helped me come to terms with death. I believe, when death visited her in the night like a thief, when the pain in her chest overwhelmed her and all she could do is lie there on her bed, when she saw it, she understood it was time, and she let go easily because it really was going to be ok.