It’s been one year since I launched my blog.

No matter how little I have achieved, it’s worth a celebration. And the only way I get to throw myself this self-rewarding party is by having every one of you—my excellent and dependable readers!

I started writing without a big plan, only to test my courage of doing this complex thing called creating. That is the only reason I write today, and I will continue doing it for as long as possible. But like we say in Africa, you can only walk for longer if you have good company. It is only by having people read what you write, when you can know that regularly clanking a keyboard is not a delusion.

It has been a year of all sorts. I had planned to launch this discourse mid last year, and four months before the set date, the pandemic checked in. It somehow worked for me, and I managed to do the launch amidst all the confusion.

Three months into the journey, I lost my mother. For the first time in my life, I found myself grieving. I did not know what grief was until then. I came to learn that grief is a form of extreme mental stress. And that, oh boy, numbs your creative nerves.  For two good months after the funeral, I could hardly write a paragraph. But somehow, I managed to wrestle back my mojo, and here I am today.

I can only say that this is the first step of a long journey, whose destination I do not know. All I do every day is try to make another step and believe that I will arrive somewhere one day. That place will be built with the inspiration I receive from your readership.

And I hope and pray that you will remain my reader, for I promise to continue writing some village and elderly wisdom.

Have a wonderful May Day weekend.

I am looking for advice here.

I am not sure whether to call myself a writer. I have never been to a writing class apart from studying literature in high school. And as far I can remember, it is the only class I slept through without turning. My former literature teacher would laugh herself to death if she landed on my blog. “What a masquerader?”. I imagine that would be the first thought in her head. But here I am writing this amateurish stuff, and you reading it. Why are we doing this to ourselves? Is it worth your time and mine?

The sun is out early and bright. What a special day!

It’s a Friday to others in the world, but in Nairobi, it is Furahi Day, which means a day of furaha, or joy in Swahili. It is the day we adorn unique, stylish clothes to the office, when we all dress down.

Our bosses do not mind us wearing traditional shirts and collared tees. They do not rebuke us for our floral and skimpy dresses. Neither do husbands mind their wive’s little exposure of cleavage and legs. It is a day of conscious compromise in many households.

We unconsciously breathe about 23,000 times a day.

Breath is a fundamental part of our existence because life begins and ends with a breath. But why am I writing about an obvious, autonomic process?

I have taken an interest in breathwork over the last few years and found the science fascinating. I have learnt that breathing is the gateway to many emotional and physiological controls that deliver immense benefits to the human body.

Do you know your life story?

Most of you will answer yes. But let me reframe it for you.

Have you ever narrated or written your story from birth to date? The most likely answer is a no.

Yesterday I woke up with a badly aching body.

Owing to my new year goal of a leaner, younger self. Having gained several kilos last year, I began this one with more credible intention. I have shed weight many times before, so I assumed that my body and mind understand the sacrifice we have to make.

I was cultured to dislike Mondays.

For years, I perceived the day as an interruption to a fun and restful weekend. Sunday evening brought a sombre mood, mourning the end of a joyful break. There were thoughts of how another day of no work could add excitement to my youthful life. I felt the sadness of a stressful and tedious week ahead. The hatred of the job and the boss was real.