My travel insurance had the word ‘mortal remains’ in it.

Mortal  remains. Such a curious phrase.

What it means is that if I collapse and die, my body would be guided and delivered to my folks, no worries! The logistics are well taken care of, your daughter’s body will come to you safely.

I have often avoided the subject of death, because it is such a sad subject. I do not have much experience, except that it is happening every day. Every minute, somewhere in the world, someone is breathing their last.

In my project, one of our key objectives is to reduce mortality rate. Now, from a philosophical point of view, we are standing in the way of nature. We are putting a stop sign to what is bound to happen any way, and delaying the inevitable.

The human race grapples with many doubts, of itself and its abilities. Yet one of the biggest mysteries that it is yet to find a wholesome solution to, is immortality.

When we were honking through the streets the other day, a car full of what I take was drunk guys in the higher 20s vroomed by. The guys were sitted on the windows, and one on the rooftop I think, in the most dangerous position that you can imagine.

There are chances that they will live to tell their grandsons of the historic win, but I wonder whether they will tell them the risky position they put themselves in while celebrating it.

The moon is out, and I’m out of clever things to say.







My window opens up to the dimly lit rooms across the street and the midnight sky adorned with a clarity of darkness.

At this time and moment, I am alive.

It’s quite something, isn’t it, that we get to breathe in and out and rush through the moments, or is it the moments that rush through us?

I have not always been an explorer, searching for meaning, and I wouldn’t stay I have found it. Because I don’t know what meaning looks like. I don’t know what cologne it wears or the team it was supporting in the just concluded World Cup.

But I have found meaning in split seconds, in a brush of the hand with a stranger, in an endless extended laugh over the phone with a loved one. I have found meaning in just being, more than in the process of trying to ‘become’. I have found it in poetry and the aftermath of love gone sour…or just…gone.

It’s almost tragic, isn’t it, that others, society, parents, expectations…should define the meaning of life. What are the chances that not all of us were meant to have titles. That fame is for a few and riches for less. What is wrong with being average? Why is it that success is measured by achievements according to societal standards rather than a personal sense of accomplishment? Who cares about the content levels in the heart of a mtu wa mjengo after a long day of building? What does ballast mean to you?

I was in a cruise where no one knew me except myself. I didn’t make sense to these people. They didn’t know where I was coming from nor where I was going. There were only passengers on a cruise, just like I was a passenger on a cruise. We had different stories. We were going in the same direction, however.

We are covering ground on water. My head is throbbing with a terrible headache- migraine of sorts. I badly want to lie down. I want to do so just for a minute or five. There are rows of empty seats all around me. But I don’t. I am afraid that these bunch of strangers would think “ What an odd thing for this girl to do”

I met a man in the morning, on a free highway. Later that evening, we honked through the city and I screamed through the window. The speakers blasted incoherence. His cigarette smoke filled the air and I took it in. My head was still throbbing. But I was free. I was FREE!

Burger King. Whoppers and Steakhouse. Fries and Fanta. Strangers with hearts and life flowing through their veins. None spoke the other’s language, but there was a connection not defined by time of ‘knowing each other’ or norm.  We parted ways, and I’ll not see the man I met on a free highway again. I know it because I am not here for a long time, nor a good time-I’m here for THIS time!

Tell me then, if that is not the art of being human.

Tell me then, that I was not swimming in the ‘meaning’…for as long as our rendezvous lasted.

My experience is that you may find meaning in the things you do every day, but sometimes, for some people, they find it outside. I don’t have a circle. I do not have a rectangle either, or any other shape really. I choose to be free in mind and spirit to my whims. Even the sense of being lost is a sense of being.





Now that our generation has been written off heaven’s list,I am thinking maybe my parents should have met earlier. Some of us,and I am being a Miguna here by being a voice crying out in the desert (of morality),are quite innocent and are being mass-misjudged . If you were born in a strict Adventist home like some lady I happen to know,you can relate to the fact that a  major chunk of this generation was brought up on nothing but the blue slipper, sour milk and memory verses. The closest we came to a photo-shoot was Christmas or the occasional wedding of a choir member. Those were the days when the photographer  whose jurisdiction transcended west and east of Manga Hills was more famous than Public Likes…

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Between hell and high waters, I am probably on the thing that comes after those two. I mean, if I could, I would trade my life with a fish right now. If you’re a fish all you do is swim all day. Who wouldn’t want that? Especially an aquarium fish. Those ones that are fed and I hear, help depressed people calm down or something of that sort. On second thought, maybe I need an aquarium in my room. Two goldfish. I want to stare at them for two long minutes and feel all the parts of my dismembered life fall nicely into place. See? Now I’m even using words like ‘dismembered’. Something is wrong.

Honestly, I just had that paragraph to wing today. But since I am here, can we just take a moment to appreciate great YouTube videos and the geniuses behind them. Continue reading


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It has since dawned upon me, since my maturity into being an ‘adult’, that the toughest part of it all may not be being left to do your own shopping for back-to-school. Not even when the government has abandoned the unga subsidy like a one-night stand and the price has since plummeted to a wallet-shattering three-digit figure (does it sound as HUMOUNGOUS as I intended it to? Haha ).

The toughest part of ‘adulting’ so far, because I have not started paying bills thanks to living in the school hostel, is actually to make decisions on your own. I mean, unga going up to 135/= or so is pretty bad especially if you come from the Western region of this our beloved country(did I hear someone say stereotype?) …but wait until you have to pick between Dola and Jogoo. Okay this one is not so difficult for me since I’d pick Jogoo anytime, even if I was NOT having chicken for dinner. Jogoo sounds manly and self-assured and you’re almost certain you gon get some tonned muscles from ugali wa unga wa Jogoo (or curves for the non alpha-females). Continue reading



Ever passed along your former high school a year or two after leaving? There is a feeling that seeps through the bones (and the brain real quick). It is not commonplace nostalgia, but it is nostalgic. You want to tell everyone who cares to listen that you went there, you were part of that, in fact you still remember the school anthem and the name of the best cook. But part of you doesn’t want to go back there. Part of you remembers the early, cold morning preps and the pressure and the performance board….you are glad you are done with it.

2018 just hit me on my face. I was hearing that it was coming but I thought it was headed to the neighbor’s. Continue reading



This is it.

This is the person I’ve become.


Serve me my sentence. Tell me already. I’m running out of patience. I’ve never really been a patient fellow. See,I have things up my sleeve,’ve got responsibilities. Tell me already, would you?

The end is deliberately soon. I can smell it. I can feel it. I can see myself in an empty room, my luggage strewn all over the floor and light beaming in through my window onto my scared little adult face. I hope I’ll be alive, first and second, I’ll be ready.I can’t afford not to be ready.


Aah, History has this clever sly thing it does called repetition. It just finds a way. It might take a while but actions re-occur. Footsteps are retraced. Memories reincarnate from the dead. Suddenly the vice is the virtue; the past is the present. The future can only be betted upon. And you know bets, sometimes they ‘ingia’ sometimes they just do not.

I’m sinking slowly. Losing my grip and giving in. It’s reckless yet so refreshing. It’s dangerous yet so safe. My heart is a river of peace and the waters are clean. Falling down under and floating at the same time. Sweet, sweet Jerusalem!


Haha. I love this part. Totally melodramatic. Can we not talk about it?

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