23 July, 2025

I have held onto this story for a little over a year. It was the first interview, but I couldn’t bring myself to write it until now. I will tell you why in a bit—first, a disclaimer.

Trigger Warning

This story discusses depression and suicide. If this may be distressing for you, please consider skipping this article or reading it with support.

This story hit way too close to home. I did not know how to write it. Which voice to use? Which person? Heck, I didn’t even know what I wanted to achieve by putting it up. Now, after a year, I have a clearer understanding of why I want to share the story. I want to share it to raise awareness about mental health issues. To those struggling, I hope sharing this lets them know that they are not alone. For those around those who are struggling, I hope this serves as a reminder to be kind and to check in on your loved ones.

Two things:

First, I’ve faced my struggles with mental health. There were moments I didn’t think I’d make it through. I’ve attempted suicide— twice. But somehow, I’m still here. I got help, and I slowly found my way out of that darkness.

To my family, if you’re reading this and this is how you’re finding out, I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to put it into words then. But I’m okay now. Truly.

This is probably why it was or still is challenging to share the story.

Second, Max*, in the story you are about to read, dies; he shouldn’t have died like that.

Apologies for ‘spoiling’ the ending. I have given you the information in advance because I don’t want to raise hope, the hope for survival. Unfortunately, in this story, death, depression or whatever you want to call it, wins. I won’t bore you with mystery. I know what happens, and so do you. Now we can get on the intriguing journey leading to the event.

What follows is the story as told by a friend during our interview.

***

I first met Max* in high school, Cheplaskei, and we both had transferred there from other schools. We didn’t talk much then, as we were in different streams. I was in Biology class, and he was in Physics, so he was someone I was acquainted with.

After high school, he lived close to my home, so we became close. We'd hang out a couple of times, and he'd tell me about his goals, dreams, and ambitions.

At this time, I was already enrolled in school, RVTTI. Max* had taken a gap year to pursue business opportunities; he owned a motorcycle and delivered gas. He inquired about school, and I suggested he look into enrolling at RVTTI as well. This was around June. He applied to RVTTI, got in and was set to start school in September. I was in session, and we wouldn’t meet as frequently.

Over time, I started noticing that he was drinking more— he would down a whole mzinga by himself. He kept to himself, rarely interacting with others; his neighbours corroborated this. He went about his business, then stayed alone in his house. I think he only had two friends, me and another dude. I’d have to knock on his door whenever I wanted to hang out.

Talking to him, I’d realise that something was not right. I did not acknowledge this; it is something I regret not addressing. One day, he told me that life wasn’t worth living, alluding to thoughts of ending his own life.

I froze. I didn’t know how to respond. I didn't have the emotional bandwidth to hold what he’d shared. So, I left his house. I told him we’d meet another time, then I distanced myself. I regret that.

When September came and he joined RVTTI, we met again. By then, things had taken a turn for the worse; he was heavily drinking, getting mzingas. His business suffered, and he had to move. I’d meet him at his new place, a shop where he was working. He’d ask me about how to manoeuvre exams, if missing some tests would affect his overall grade. I’d advise him to speak with the teachers and explain that he was working to pay his fee, in the hope of receiving makeup tests.

He asked me another time, December of that year, if I used cocaine, told me he knew where to get some, and he could hook me up even if I wanted it then. I took this as a joke, mostly because I didn’t know how to deal with it if he was serious.

In January, I graduated and secured a job in town. While on my break, I was going through WhatsApp statuses and came across his. It said that Max* had passed away the previous night, and it was his brother who had posted the status update.

I was shocked, to say the least; I couldn’t believe it. I wondered if he’d gotten into a motorcycle accident or something of the sort.

I decided to follow up with the brother about the cause of death. The family chose to keep it under wraps; he had died in his sleep; that was what there was to know. No post-mortem was done. Max*’s brother disclosed to me that he had OD’d on hard drugs and his depression meds (he had been diagnosed with depression and was taking meds for it).

I did not tell anyone about Max*’s death. I was in so much shock that I didn’t even attend his funeral—I did not have the courage. I doubt that my parents know he passed away; he used to deliver gas to my parents’ house, but I didn't have the language to disclose this to anyone.

After his death, I had trouble sleeping. I’d have nightmares where I’d see him in my room and would scream [he says this laughing uncomfortably]. I developed some sleep paralysis and wouldn’t sleep with the lights off.

The dreams came from a place of fear and guilt. I was disappointed in myself because I knew he was suffering from depression, and I didn’t acknowledge it or seek help for him. I wish I had done more, taken some action to help Max*.

The only other person I know who suffered from depression was my uncle. My family would have meetings to help him out, especially with alcoholism; they would organise and take him to rehab, over and over. The unfortunate part of this is that we, the kids, never knew what was going on; it was handled by the ‘adults.’ I could see how the struggle affected my family and my uncle’s nuclear family. The mental health struggle led to seclusion from the other family members.

I still struggle to talk about what I feel. Even after everything, opening up doesn't come easily; not with my family, not with my friends.

I’ve always found ways to cope alone, not because it’s the best way, but because it’s the only way I know.

This story may be my first step toward something different. Toward saying the hard things out loud.

***

If you or someone you know is struggling mentally or having suicidal thoughts, please seek help (see hotlines below):

Kenya:

Befrienders Kenya: +254 722178177

http://whatseatingmymind.com/emergency-hotline-numbers

Germany:

Emergency: 112

Suicide Hotline: 116 123 (free)

Hotline: 0800 181 0771 (to Samaritans), 0800 111 0 111 (to Samaritans), 0800 181 0772 (to Samaritans)

Website: samaritans.org

International Helpline Berlin

(English):

030-44 01 06 07

(Russian):

030-44 01 06 06

Postfach 580251 10412 BERLIN

Telefonseelsorge Deutschland

National:

0800 1110 111

0800 1110 222

15 July, 2025

Remember when I told you you'll get to read some of my brilliant friends' writing? Well, you are in luck today!

Introducing one of the wittiest(you might find out why later) humans I know. Her work is refreshing to read. I love reading her pieces, so it would only be generous of me to share the goodness. 

Please give a warm welcome to her, send all that lovely feedback, let's ensure we are graced with her presence again.

****

Hi, I am ten.

A ten-over-ten in a ten-over-ten world.

Poetry draped in silk. 

I write to reveal what silence hides.

I hope to write myself into a film.

****

By Ten

Your twenties are for realising that being the lonely child stays with you longer than you expected. This was a tweet I came across the other day, which got me thinking. I was born with my hand clung around an invisible suitcase, ready to leave at the slightest discomfort. I used to take pride in this, but I will now say that it is no longer something I take pride in, nor wish to be associated with. 

I used to assume this suitcase was light, but it recently dawned on me that it's the heaviest suitcase I carry, packed with years of not being chosen and years of being relegated to the bottom shelf. See, this is what people do to you, and since you don't know any better, you also grow and choose to put yourself on the bottom shelf. 

One thing about putting yourself on the bottom shelf is that it's very lonely at the bottom. Asake said, 'Lonely at the top', weuuuuh (for my Kenyan people). He has not been at the bottom, alone in darkness, because let's be honest, when have you ever seen a well-lit bottom? Even basements are dark, cold, and dingy; now, this is where you grow up. 

Of course, you might master the art of getting by, the act of getting tough, even sarcasm, wit, and comedy. You will learn to buy love, you will learn to purchase confidence, and you will learn to buy approval. What they don't tell you is that these are free things. 

Whenever you try to buy free things, you realise quickly, or not so quickly in this case, give it fifteen years, how expensive they are.

"How dumb can one be?" You ask.

Let's be kind; the human brain is fully developed by the age of twenty-five. Well, in small-town chronicles, you get to see the world, and that's when it hits you just how broken your world is.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the currency of free things. You pay for these things with jokes at your own expense; you learn to take abuse disguised as jokes, because why would you get mad when you made a joke, so no one else could? 

You learn never to accept things because people give free stuff to those they love, but not to you—people don't love you.

You learn to be smaller than a grain of sand. Your worth, even though you are probably a genius with an IQ that will have MIT people wanting to invent a new term for your brilliance, will now be determined by someone saying you are good.

Here's another fun fact that people rarely share with you: you're good! You must tell yourself this, believe it, and be it. 

You learn not to be a burden, you learn to put everyone else, even the cat, before you. God, I hate those things —cats, cat people, yes, I said it.

Eventually, you develop this fire personality. People call you an empath, or perhaps you call yourself one; who knows? 

You are highly sensitive, but thank God for your genius brains. You now know how to deceive people, and so no one ever suspects just how incomplete you are. 

You walk around fooling everyone you are whole when you are not, until the cracks begin to form, until the girl who stopped growing up at nine is now twenty-five but doesn't know how to deal with a twenty-five-year-old problem. 

At nine, everything froze, but life did not. So the nine-year-old is trapped in the body of a twenty-five-year-old. The nine-year-old wants everyone to like them, and that means stretching beyond the elastic limit. 

It means going into debt trying not to be a bad person; it means accepting that you will fund the lifestyle of someone who cannot choose you. It means losing friends because your burdens, even though they are overflowing and spilling, make room for people you will never open up to.

As a grown-up, you have friends, but you are a nine-year-old who doesn't know how to communicate without feeling like a burden. You frown every time someone says you are cute because how dare they lie to you?

You live in fear. In a world where risk-takers are rewarded, your fear of disappointing people will hold you back, setting you back seven years, but that's okay.

To the little girl standing outside in the pouring rain at pickup, to the little girl lonely girl who is shivering at dusk because you were forgetten at pickup, the little girl crying nonstop in school for a whole day, the lonely girl who had to lick love off a knife because it wasn't spoonfed; you are safe now.

8 July, 2025

I got sick. I don’t usually look sick, I’d be smiling, but in immense pain, a nasty sore throat, the kind that won’t let you swallow your own saliva, was the culprit this time. Your own saliva or your saliva? I think “own saliva” sounds more dramatic and therefore befitting to the situation. The sore throat had to start on Friday, because sore throats don’t care for weekends.

I tried all the remedies, including gargling with salty water, drinking lemon-ginger-honey water, resting, and watching Departure (which is a good show) on Netflix, among other things. I wanted to be alone, no plans, just me in bed resting, and I felt lonely, which makes no sense. Being sick has a way of reminding you that you are single, ha-ha. By Sunday, I was wondering when the issue would resolve. I looked at it (my throat) with a flashlight and a mirror, and it was nasty, like the pain.

My friend came over on Sunday, made me food, gave me painkillers, and for the first time that weekend, I could eat! I was so bloody hungry, but couldn’t swallow. The painkillers were a lifesaver, at least when it came to my hunger. As Sarrah was leaving, I was convinced that I was healthy again, maybe because of the pause in pain and the ability to eat and get my body some much-needed energy, but primarily because of how loved and cared for I felt.

Monday, I woke up in pain and decided enough is enough! I will see a doctor. I got the quickest 15-minute appointment I could find. The whole consultation lasted ten minutes, during which she told me to continue with the remedies, as she was ninety per cent sure it was a viral infection.

I hope it’s a viral infection that will clear up soon. Today I went back, because I couldn’t sleep from the pain, even after popping painkillers, and asked her to do a test for Strep, now I wait for the results.

All this to say, I was to work on and publish a lovely story about finding community and belonging, but I was busy fighting a sore throat. The story will be out when it’s ready. I’m mostly talking to the interviewees who are eagerly waiting for the write-up. Ninah, Sonnie, Angie, Nasubo, Laura—I promise the story will be out soon.

There’s no story this week. You can enjoy the little poem as a consolation prize, and I will go back to the remedies.

PS: You can blame all the editorial errors this week on the sore throat.

***

What is it you’re searching for?

To be known or to know yourself?

Do you long for someone to know you fully, wholly?

Would you like to know you?

Why are you you?

What draws you in?

Where did you learn that?

Is it true?

Is it serving you?

How easy would it be to unlearn?

To learn?

What do you believe in?

What liberates you?

What do you want liberation from?

Who do you love?

Who loves you?

What is love?

Who are you?

1 July, 2025

I hope you remember the definitions from part one. If not, I’d strongly suggest going back, or better yet, check out the source at the bottom of the page.

I am part of an organisation at school, INGENIUM, which brings students from ten European countries together yearly to work on a project. I spent a week with the organisation in Romania. 

A few weeks before the exchange, maybe a week or two, I was operating in a different vibration, a higher vibration. I felt good; I could interact with people and be deeply connected with them, and the conversations had depth and meaning. I did not know it then, but I think this was hypomania, and it continued even in Romania, leading to mania.

During the exchange, I was confident and driven. I felt like a leader in the group, connected with people, and it felt great. I had no negative emotions; everything was positive. I could turn around every negative thought immediately, and seeing it as an opportunity for growth was easy. This period was bliss, an unfiltered niceness for some days. The feelings grew in intensity, and over the last four days of the trip, I got into the manic phase.

I would not eat or sleep much since I was operating on an extremely high energy. I was busy thinking and writing. Writing, writing, writing, I wrote grandiose concepts and ideas, things I would usually not write. Everything was working out, and on top of that, it felt amazing. I would look back at my life and realise I had accomplished so much . Nothing was impossible!

I wrote in my Notes app that I was the next Steve Jobs. I had great ideas to revolutionise Apple. I came up with new concepts for political systems that would work better than our current ones.

I dreamed of talking with the world’s top presidents and leaders, and I would think of ways to connect them and create a unified world. I found these thoughts absolutely normal; I did not filter them. 

I can’t pinpoint precisely when the psychosis began. Nevertheless, the buildup starts on my ride to the airport for the flight back. There is a stronger disconnect from reality; the ambience is intense and vibrant. 

While in the car with my friend, I told him that life was a movie and I was the protagonist; and of course, like in a movie, nothing could harm me. I stuck my head out of the window and felt the wind through my hair. I enjoyed the music and the colours—the colours, they were more intense than I’d ever experienced. 

This, however, was the turning point; I had taken for a fact the movie protagonist thing. I was immortal, and the belief in immortality could be dangerous, especially in a state of psychosis.

I had forgotten to check in for the flight. How would I remember amid all the great world-changing ideas?

Concepts of organisation were distant from me. I went to check in at the counter. This would cost me forty-five euros, but I didn’t care; I had an infinite supply of money. I actually couldn’t check in , the flight was overbooked, I would have to hope that someone wouldn’t show up, to get a seat. I told my friend that I knew I’d get one; I was the protagonist, and the protagonist always gets the seat.

I think my friend noticed that something wasn’t quite right. He tried to communicate that to me. I didn’t understand what he was on about, wouldn’t listen and would talk over him. He asked if it wasn’t abnormal to think I was in a movie. I would respond with, 

“Yeah, man, it is absolutely abnormal. Isn’t it amazing that I feel that way?”

I must have looked very confused, so the security came to help me with my bags.

I thought telepathy exists!

Essentially, I made the security guard take my bags. Again, I was the main character, Neo, in ‘The Matrix’, and  I could control things. 

I find myself sitting at the gate, restless.

My friend was still around. He had realised that things were spiralling out of control, and he did not know what to do. I remember the look on his face—it was a look of worry and pity; he felt sorry for me. 

My experiences were mixed in the sense that I was both Neo and in a dream (usually, I can control the events of my dreams). I walked around the gate and tried to open doors with my mind, open a portal into the plane, and would get confused when this did not happen. I went to the washroom, got naked. I missed my then-girlfriend,  so I opened the cubicles because I was convinced her room in Kenya would be behind the doors – that is how it works in my dreams. Some cubicles were occupied, so I knocked on them, then called her to open the door. I asked if she could hear me knocking, then hung up. When I got to the open cubicles, I was excited to see her finally and was disappointed to just see the dirty toilets. 

Someone saw me walk around naked; it was a man who was peeing in the pissoir. His face when he turned around. I still remember it. He looked at me, thoroughly disgusted.

I imagine it was either that man, my friend, or even people who saw me walk around naked who called the police. I locked myself in the cubicle and was texting my girlfriend, so when the police came knocking on the door, I didn’t know who it was, I said,

“Just come in”. I still thought it would be my girlfriend. 

The police started shouting for me to open the door and they tried forcefully kicking it open. It took me sometime to realise that someone was trying to get in, and the door was locked. I told them to wait, and I’d open the door. 

They stopped banging, I unlocked the door, and they came in, opened it, and shouted at me to wear my clothes. I looked at them, confused, wondering what the hell they wanted.

My memory from here is jumbled. I don’t remember everything. I was just so exhausted. I thought in a distorted and different reality, like rebirth, and multiple realities.

The entire ordeal was so fucking exhausting, it drained me of all my energy, you have to remember that I wasn’t eating or sleeping for the past couple of days.  

I wanted it to end. I closed my eyes and willed myself to the end. I tried to die. I thought that if I died, I would be reborn as a different kind of being. I had to live through all the existing cycles at least once before getting to nothingness.

The cycles would include a human’s, a tree’s ,a planet’s life…you get the gist. I remember thinking, I don’t want to be a fucking planet. I’ll be floating around in space for like billions of years before something happens. Maybe a little meteorite would give me some excitement.

I didn’t want that, I thought I had to—the only way to end the discomfort of this human cycle. I closed my eyes to block everything out and die on the spot. Of course, this did not work, and the next thing, the police were leading me to the ambulance.

In the ambulance, I thought of multiple realities and how they might split when a decision is made. I wanted to hop between them, and I wondered how to get out of my current one.

“CUT!” I shouted. 

Like in the movies. I wanted to tell everyone that the scene was over. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they opened the ambulance doors and there was a whole camera crew. 

I was taken to a psychiatric ward . I still wasn’t in touch with reality. While trying to get information from me, the psych staff overwhelmed me. I was asked questions like,

“What did you do?”

“Why did you do this?”

“Do you know how you got here?”

When they tried to check my blood pressure, I freaked out and wouldn’t let them. They couldn’t get any information from me, and I had to be transferred to another hospital where blood and urine samples were drawn to determine if I was on drugs (needless to say, it wasn’t). I had a brain scan as well to check for a tumour; nothing.

Then I was taken back to the psychiatric ward, where I was calmer and exhausted. I answered their questions and had my parents on the phone, helping to answer questions. I was then sedated and went to blissful sleep. My bro and dad came to Romania the next morning, and were there for me. We then flew back to Germany, where I waited for two months before getting a psychiatrist and a diagnosis.

The first two weeks back home, I just crashed; it was a terrible withdrawal from the psychosis and the high of the mania. I was broken, and I only wanted time to pass by. 

I took things very slowly. I signed out of my exams for the semester and informed my tutoring job colleagues that I was taking time off. I chilled, played video games, helped my parents out in the garden, hung out with my fam, and sketched. I sketched a lot. Drawing was a way of expressing creativity, finding purpose, and healing. I sketched situations from Romania (see cover art) and wrote about them. 

Freeing myself of all responsibility and letting my family check up on and care for me was refreshingly amazing. I am thankful for that time and the people who were there.

I staggered my reintegration. I moved back to Karlsruhe (where I study) and did an enjoyable gardening gig before returning to uni. When I started the semester, I didn’t find anything different. I joked about the psychosis with my friends and just kept on with my life.

I underwent iterations of the meds before finding the right dosage and combo. All in all, I recovered pretty quickly, and my transition back to society was smooth.

I have to observe my mood daily and note shifts and triggers. I have an app for this. I went for therapy and I talked to my friends, family, and partner about my experiences.

Sometimes I feel anxious or fearful of the possibility of another psychosis, but I also see in myself a craving for a manic episode or phase. It is a little dangerous to crave it, but the manic phase was the best feeling I’ve had in my life. It is an impalpable feeling; I felt purpose and connectedness in everything I did. My perception of the world was vastly different, intense and vibrant. It was like experiencing an unnatural high for three days straight. I am aware of the dangers of craving it, and still find it natural to long for the feeling.

What would have been helpful in the hypomanic phase, something I am learning and doing for myself, would have been someone from the outside stepping in, letting me know that something is off, grounding me.

The manic phase and psychotic episode would be challenging to ground; I was detached from reality, and presenting a rational argument would have been futile. The helpful thing would have been for someone to be around to make sure I don’t do something reckless, and call an ambulance, police, or someone.

In moments where I’ve been through mild symptoms of a psychosis or intense paranoia, I called someone familiar with me and the matter to help get me back to rational thoughts. This proved to be particularly helpful. 

If there is someone out there on the verge of a psychosis, I recommend activating your social network. Tell people how you feel, what you fear and how they can help you. Avoid things that may be a trigger.

Professional help, self-protection, self-care, and consideration are good. If you see some symptoms in yourself, talk to your close networks and seek help.

cover image by the interviewee[JH]

23 June, 2025

“Most of the time, I don’t feel bipolar; most of the time, I feel like myself.”

A FEW THINGS TO NOTE

This is a story about living with a bipolar I disorder

Bipolar I is diagnosed when one has at least one manic episode before or after a hypomanic or major depressive episode.[1]

A Psychosis is a mania that causes a break from reality.[1]

Mania and hypomania are different but have the same symptoms; only mania is more severe.[1]

For the second attempt at the interview, he FaceTimed me from his sunlit room, his longish blonde hair falling over his face. We both chuckled nervously at our start, unsure how to begin, and we mumbled a “Hello” to add to the awkwardness.

Then I dove in,

“Do you want to tell me how your journey living with bipolar disorder began? Like, how did you find out you had Bipolar?”

Last year, I had a major psychosis, and my psychiatrist told me that if one has a depressive phase, followed by a psychosis or a manic phase that leads to a psychosis, then you are categorised as bipolar I.

Because I had a depressive episode before the psychosis, this is what led to the diagnosis.

What does depression feel like?

I never really saw myself as depressed.

When people talked of depression, I imagined that they were in a state of depression and that it was very clear what the state was. But how I experienced it felt vague. I couldn’t have told you then that I was depressed. I felt like I had a bad day or a few bad days; it was unclear then. I put it in a category of a reaction to what was happening outside.

Reflecting on it now, I can tell that it was a depressive episode, mainly because I am out of it. My symptoms included a lot of self-doubt and fears about the future.

I ruminated constantly along the lines of;

Is what I am doing right?

Am I messing things up?

Am I fit to live in modern society?

Am I capable of living?

Who am I?

What is my purpose?

You might think these are questions everyone asks themselves, but I felt like I was losing myself. The questions made it difficult to perform day-to-day tasks, such as getting myself to school, out of bed, or socialising. Socialising was especially difficult, a major side effect of constantly asking myself if I'm good enough.

The blow at the time was the evaluation leading to the diagnosis; it was non-existent or at least very strange, rushed and sudden. There was no testing or anything; the psychiatrist looked into her smart books and said,

“Psychosis equals Bipolar”, and that was it.

On my first appointment with her, which took a lot of waiting, two months after the psychosis, I felt powerless to her verdict. Suddenly, I was diagnosed with this thing, with this label, this condition, and it felt rushed.

The entire process felt rushed, like the psychotic break, which came out of nowhere.

Yeah, there wasn’t much testing during the appointment. However, she did one thing that added to my confusion about the whole process: She gave me two sheets of paper to fill out for self-assessment.

For ADHD, she asked me questions in person for the first form. The form had about ten questions that would determine if I might have ADHD, and after answering, she said I ticked seven of ten.

She gave me the second form to determine if further tests needed to be done.

I had barely processed the bipolar I diagnosis when she introduced the possibility of another condition. I had no idea what was happening; it felt like I was being slapped with labels left and right. What was this? A mission to discover how many diagnoses I could be labelled with in a sitting?

The outcome of the second test wasn’t conclusive, and I wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD.

I was understandably taken aback by how a diagnosis was reached. Then I did my research, ChatGPT, and I confirmed that this was the standard. Still, I see a lot of flaws in the evaluation. Take the ADHD questions, for instance. All the questions were about my childhood behaviour, like, “Were you a difficult child?”

“Were you difficult to deal with?”

I found the questions vague. Also, how would I remember that a decade and a half later? And isn’t difficulty a perception? How could one even quantify that?

There has to be a better way to evaluate, but as this is the status quo, I think this is fine. For me, this makes the diagnosis less severe; bipolar disorder is just a label for something that deviates, however much from the norm. It is not a terrible thing; just that you react differently to specific situations, or you have different thinking and behavioural patterns—neurodiversity.

In part two, I’ll tell you about the psychosis that led to the diagnosis.

[1] https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/bipolar-disorder/symptoms-causes/syc-20355955

Edited by Faith Cheruto

Cover art by the interviewee [J.H]

20 June, 2025

Oh, sadness,

You’ve been a friend

But also, truly a foe

It is high time we part.

I’ve clung onto you time immemorial.

You are a guest; one must host ever so often

Since we were acquainted, I developed a high affinity for you

I let you overstay in my house.

I am afraid it is time for you to leave.

Thank you for pushing me, for being a companion

If you must visit again,

I will welcome you, albeit for a short stay

You shall not overstay.

13 June, 2025

Am I an independent woman?

I often think so,

I live alone in Munich, pay my bills – independence

 How did I get here?

 a sum of sacrifice, hard work and a healthy dose of luck

Much as I want to take credit for the hard work,

It starts generations before,

From my grandparents pinching cents for my parents to go to school

And my parents for daring to dream,

Punching above their weight, most times

The sacrifices presented opportunities

A dare to dream mentality,

Free thinking, world is your oyster

Chance to sip overpriced coffee, write, travel

Yes, I am an independent woman

And my independence is my inheritance

I take pride in this

4 June, 2025

“We worshipped Asis, the sun, we tilled our land, we built houses from the earth. We used calabashes to store our milk, pots to cook and to store water, we slept on hides, and our clothes were made of hides and sisal.”

Edited by: Faith Cheruto

Walking through Rome, I was in awe of the place’s history and architecture. I read through the history of the Colosseum and was generally amazed. This was my first rodeo in Europe—a dream come true. I wanted to see what the world out there held, and I was pleasantly surprised.

Germany was amazing. Things worked. The transport system, for example, seemed smooth and well thought out. It was like stepping into another reality.

But as I soaked it all in, a quiet discomfort crept in. I began to wonder: Why wasn’t it like this back home? Why didn’t we have genius ideas to build significant historical buildings like the white people? How come their systems work while ours don’t? Of course, corruption plays a role in how Kenya is set up, but what about before that, before colonisation? What did our ancestors do then? Why did they not make such sophisticated architecture?

I did not get the answers to these questions first because I had little to no idea what was happening in Kenya during that period.

A church was built in Prague for 600 years. I wondered what was happening in Kenya during this time.

Then I had my second rodeo in Europe, and somehow, these things became normal. However, I had a shift in perception. I remembered growing up in the village in a grass-thatched house and a semi-permanent house, never thinking I was poor.

I questioned what poverty really meant, because you see, by European standards, growing up in a grass-thatched house is poverty.

How could I explain the joy and peace of playing in my grandfather’s vast land while looking after the cows?

That we fetched water from down the land where there was clean water from the ground? That we got clay from the ground, with which we smeared the hut, and this made it smoother and beautiful? How could I explain that all the food we needed was outside our house, with a garden with fruits and vegetables? We only ate organic food from the farm, so we didn’t need a fridge?

These memories made me question the very meaning of poverty. I come from a community of pastoralist-nomads, who moved from place to place in search of greener pastures. Wealth meant, and still means, cattle, how many you have, and most importantly, that you can find a good grazing field for them.

Before the colonialists came, there was a communal system; there was communal land for grazing, and my people lived in harmony with nature. We worshipped Asis, the sun, we tilled our land, we built houses from the earth. We used calabashes to store our milk, pots to cook and to store water, we slept on hides, and our clothes were made of hides and sisal. Everything was one with nature, and in a world where we make forever materials like plastics and polyester, which are making us sick, I believe that being one with nature is true wealth, since this is what nature intends for us.

I ask myself why my people in the village, who are hardworking and live in oneness with nature, are termed poor. It is mainly because they live on less than a dollar a day. Why would they need a dollar if they have everything they need to survive around them?

Is it because they need to buy clothes or pay school fees? These are aspects that the colonialists brought with them.

School in the traditional African society was free and communal, and you’d learn the trades through apprenticeship. You learnt a trade that was helpful for the community; from medicine to pottery to making beer, musical instruments, etc., everything was passed down from generation to generation, for free, no need for dollars.

I no longer see my people as poor. I see them as disconnected by systems that don’t serve them. True wealth is being in sync with nature, being self-sufficient, having food, clean water, and peace. That’s what we had. That’s what we need to remember.

I want to read more about traditional African Society, books written by Africans from a perspective that will tell us who we were before the missionaries and colonialists and how we can make our current society work for us, because whatever we inherited from the white men is clearly not working.

Send book recommendations about this, I would love to read more and rewrite this article.

25 May, 2025

‘You commission your brother, a techie with credentials from Moringa, to make a blog site for you for some coins. And you know how it goes; it is like the fundis—haha, the site is always almost done.’

You have always had many opinions, and some call you opinionated. Somehow, you do not know how to express them since most are hot takes. So, you do the natural thing to do, write. You write to air your opinions, to show your frustrations with the world. Writing becomes a thing, and although you never got good composition (creative writing) scores in school, you still think you are pretty good at this.

So, you start a childish blog, which is still up, and you painfully expose all your opinions about everything. And as it goes, you become self-conscious; what right do you have to give your opinion loudly?

Then life gets in the way, and the blog gets forgotten. It hasn’t seen an article since 2022.

As life lifes, you try returning to yourself in your ‘glory’ days because life breaks you. It breaks you when you are out in the world, meant to be thriving—I mean, you moved abroad to work for a big company.

You get your friends along on a 12-week project, The Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron.

You have a great time with said friends, a weekly call to discuss what you’ve been working on during the week and the fun little projects Julia sends your way.

This project forces you to write every day. For 12 weeks, you write; you write mundane things, thoughts, goals, and ambitions, and you like it. You are back to writing!

You quit your job, move back home for a while, sign up for a writing masterclass by two of your favourite Kenyan writers, Biko and Bett, and buy the recommended writing books, Strunk and White, among others. You have the tools; all that is left is to write.

You do a bit of writing here and there, even interview a friend, but you never really publish the work.

You embark on a publishing journey, a one-odd-year one. You commission your brother, a techie with credentials from Moringa, to make a blog site for you for a few coins. But you know how it goes—it is like the fundis—haha, the site is always almost done.

Finally, you get a site to a good working state for a start. Like the fundi who needs his creative time, your brother outdoes himself; you couldn’t be prouder.

And so, begins the work. You welcome readers to your corner of the internet with a warning— the work will be raw, sometimes with hot takes, but most often with banter.

You welcome your readers to read with an open mind, share their thoughts and opinions, critiques, agree to disagree, all the works.

You tell them you are excited for them to experience the world through your lens.

You also extend the invite to anyone who wants to feature in your blog; it is an open space you’ve created and could also be a platform for them.

You also tell them to expect funny articles from your good friend Liz, your sister Fay, and any other person or friend who wants to write on your platform.

Most importantly, you ask them to share their stories with you, and you will do your best to do them justice.

An interview with them would mean the world to you!

You will ensure that they can tell whichever story they want to share, and you’ll provide coffee and judgment-free space.

You leave them with the crucial contacts.

They can contact you to share their story, critiques and opinions at: byjelimo@gmail.com

If they would like to get a website done, you know a great Full Stack Developer who can be reached at: kipkiruijustin10@gmail.com

So, welcome to the blog!