The Reckoning *cue dramatic music*


*Ding dong *
“Oh! Hi September!! How are you? Wow, I love that dress on you! Come on in. I’m sorry about the mess, I’ve been doing some cleaning. ”
” Some tea? Oh! You don’t take tea? How about some fresh squeezed lemonade? Ok, I’ll just be a second.”
“Here you go.”
” I don’t know why it feels like just yesterday that I saw you instead of a year ago. Anyway, I hope you’ve been well? ”
“That’s wonderful.”
“How’ve I been doing? Well, I guess its been a good year.”
” I haven’t changed too much, if that’s what you’re afraid of. In fact, I feel a little more…me. When we last met, I had all these expectations with starting a whole new chapter in my life.”
“No, most of them weren’t met. But I wasn’t as disappointed as you would think I would be.”
“It was ..nothing like I expected it to be. Life became a whole new game with different rules and a complete change in cast. But I loved it. Not all the time, of course, but I loved it.”
“What did I love most,you ask? Well, I got to move in with my sister in Nairobi, which was a study in patience and maturity. Neither of us are dead yet so you could say we aced that test.”
” I started law school, which I was sure would be a drag but turned out to be not so bad. If I would have done what I thought was the perfect course, I may not have been challenged as I’ve been this last year, in a good way. ”
“What else? Let’s see … uhm, I got to make the most amazing friends. The first weeks in school are kinda rough because everyone doesn’t really know each other, except for that 1 or 2 people. So, people start conversations over the darnedest of things like cutting in line during registration ( I met so many people that day) or missing what the lecturer just said and whispering ‘ati amesema?’ to anyone within earshot or that girl who always comes late in her high-heeled glory and insists on taking the long, long walk to a seat at the front of the class or simply keeping in step with people who seem to be going in the same direction as you are. In the end, I couldn’t have asked for better folks”
” Sorry, September, no raving for me. I know that’s what everyone who’s my age seems to be doing but that’s not how this cookie crumbles. I did get to taste wine, though. It was hideous! Apparently, I’m allergic to red ” 

“What? Love? Well… September, I cannot say there has been any development in that front although… let’s just say that everything comes at its time.”
“I’m not hiding anything, I promise.”
“Seriously! ”
“If there is, you’ll be the first to know .. maybe second … probably third. But in the end, you’ll know!! I’m 19, I still have a way to go before I should start getting worried”
“20!! 19’s over, isn’t it? I can’t believe it. ”
How times flies by…


Hospital Blues

I’m sitting in a hospital waiting room waiting for my blood test results. They have the AC cranked up so high, I’m wondering why I didn’t carry a sweater. Oh yeah! Maybe its that tiny fact that this is Mombasa, known for its sweltering temperatures.
I’m not big on hospitals. Never have been. I’ve been here now and again for the occasional flu and then there was the time I landed on a glass. No, not glass as you have thought to be grammatically correct. A Glass. In a sentence, ‘a glass of water’.
Long story short, I jumped from the second bunk and crushed a glass under my foot.

I remember sobbing in the waiting room and having folks hold me down as the pieces of glass were being removed. To date, I get a sick feeling in my stomach every time I enter that wing.

I can literally count the number of times I have gone to see a doctor alone ( this clocks 2). My mum actually asked my dad if I’m still young enough to see a paediatrician….. no Mum, I’m not. I suppose I should feel all grown up now with neither of my parents flanking my side, but I don’t. I just feel cold and hungry.

This post gives you the option of naming it ( scroll down for more information )

I don’t travel during the day. I  wait for the sun to complete it’s Safari to the other side of the world before I board a bus. When it’s up to me, anyway. Today, it wasn’t. (Apparently, traveling boosts my blogging juices).

I cannot remember the last time I traveled with either of my parents, leave alone both of them. So, today’s been weird. I tend to get nauseous so food has been a complete no-no. The last time I travelled, I didn’t buy water, assuming that they would supply some in the bus as they usually do. They didn’t. I suffered. So today I bought water and they gave me more. I’m stuck sharing a seat with 3 bottles. (By the by, is it me or does Afia lemon taste like 7up? It doesn’t even taste like lemon!!!! And the way I had psyched up for it ….sigh).

Anywhoo, now I’m awake. I dosed of earlier while Dad taught Mum Greek (…… literally). It wasn’t even dosing, more like closed-eyes, semi-sleeping, semi-thinking state.

The thing about traveling alone is that you get stuck with some really interesting seatmates. I sat next to an advocate I had seen in Court while I was interning and we had an awesome conversation about faith and I got to share about Christ, which was awesome. There’s a time I sat next to a guy who had been in diaspora for more than 20 years and he’d come with his family for the first time since then. I’ve sat next to someone who chewed miraa and wore those hideous Jean suits and kept asking me if I was ok. I could go on and on…. bottom line, today I struck out.
Instead of staring into the growing dark or disturbing the peace of anyone who haplessly responds to the “Hi! Kunitupa nayo?!” text, I thought I would come by and clear some of the cobwebs on the blog.

I’ve been home for about a month now after my first year at University. Well, Uni is not high school, that’s for sure. When I’m in school, I’m at a new level of independence from that when I’m at home. I’m not the kid in the house anymore and I actually feel like an adult. And then I go home….

ION, I’m two readers away from achieving 5,000 views. WOO HOO!!!  Thank you for reading, especially you repeat offenders 😉


It feels impossible to get a title to this blog!! And my options are getting ridiculous ;
Bus-inga! (Think Sheldon Cooper)
I’m on the Highway (to hell??)
Greek, buses and all things unrelated
All things Bussy ( I’m killing myself, here! )
This post gives you the option of naming it ( scroll down for more information )




Has it truly been a year since I started blogging?! When I started, I was sure I wouldn’t last more than 3 months, having run out of things to write about. It felt like I would enter a dark room and pour my heart out, not knowing that figures lurked in the shadows.

As the days have gone by, these ‘figures’ are the ones that have kept me going. With their kind words and keen eye in identifying typos, they have become my support system.

Writing, one may say, is simply an expression, but the last year has shown me the joy of being heard. My words are not hidden in a hardcover diary, for a select few but are before you, naked. Showing you, telling you…

There are those who’ve seen me since 12, clutching at my dreams of becoming a writer. Folks like AgwataKwamby, Vee, Olive, Mueni , Kenty, Sima2 and many others who knew the girl before the writer and who I plagued to read my warped handwriting.(Thank God for technology ).

Then there are those who have come to know the girl behind the words. These are the faithful readers who care to live a comment know and again. I appreciate you all. El316, Smartie , I appreciate you both for the retweets and support.

I have to say that my best moment this year is when my dad read my blog for the first time and realized I could actually write. This barely tops the feeling of seeing my Mom comment on a post. (I must say, God gave me the awesome parents).     

And of course, God, the giver of the gift that is life. There’s a beautiful song by needtobreathe called Garden which puts what I want to say perfectly:

“Let the songs I sing bring joy to you,
let the words I say confess my love,
let the notes I chose be Your favorite tune,
And Father, let my heart be after You.”

I am nothing without God.

Here’s to the year ahead.


Of beauty famed, of beauty sought. Of beauty that is.


What a word! I smile a little just saying it.
My chin lifts slightly in homage. That’s a word to be respected. But, what, pray tell, is beauty?
All these images come to mind of things that have been said to embody the word.

I have a thing about hand written letters, which I’m sure I’ve mentioned some time on the blog. When I was about 16, I started writing a string of letters to … well, I don’t have a name yet so let’s call him F.S.O (future significant other). I poured my teenage heart into these letters and those days when I feel a little lost, I tear one open and read it. Today, I read #5.

I’m all about moments and high school was all about going through one particular moment, where I’d feel everything kind of slow down. It would feel like the voices all around would get drowned, submerged under water. I can feel my heart beat. I can feel myself breathing in and out. And then …I feel everything; an explosion of emotion. It takes over completely until its all I am aware of. Until I’m lost.
That’s when I would write. Sometimes I feel myself slipping back into it … but I’m not that girl anymore.

I have Chubby Girl Syndrome. This is an ugly story for me to tell because I have a number of scars from it.  CGS reduces a person to a shell that is inadequate. Its a vulnerable state that allows other people but mostly, it allows a person to tear themselves down.
I allowed CGS to give me the meaning of beauty.

It told me beauty was skinny. It said that beauty is being light- skinned.
CGS said that beauty was a flawless skin, a perfect figure, a tiny waist, flabless arms, beauty was height, it’s legs that go on for miles..
CGS told me that beauty was not me. The sad thing is, I believed it.

We seek beauty everyday, so when I couldn’t find it in myself, I became half the person I could have been.

Reading the letter, I realize how far I have come and how much distance I have put between me and the girl in the letter. Recovering from CGS is something I do everyday. I do it each time I stand in the mirror and smile.

The meaning of beauty? Acceptance.       

A Perfect Pair

I have small feet, size 4, according to the Kenyan accreditation. They stopped growing when I was around 12. Someone once asked me if I had a problem with balance *cue tumbleweed* They aren’t that small.

My toe nails are painted coral which has a tint of gold captured perfectly by the

light.The big toe on my left foot is scraped at the tip because when I’m home, I tend to watch TV belly to floor and it gets worn by constant contact.

I have a prominent arc, which I used to think would lead me toward the life of a ballerina. Sometimes, I arc my feet in the air and pretend to do some elaborate move.

I favour open shoes but my heel bares the dark scar of my attempt to venture into closed shoes.

If I look closely enough, I will see the faint scar on my left foot,  the only reminder of the time I was 3 and accidentally overturned a pot of boiling dog food on myself.

On the heel of my right foot is a memoir for the one and only time I visited the emergency room after landing on a whole glass after jumping off the double decker.

My feet have a story.My story. I alone know how it is to have my feet. I know the pain of constantly hitting my toes on uneven sidewalks. Or the pinch of heels that are beautiful but cut off proper circulation ( death by beauty). I love my feet. But there are those moments when I find what I think is the perfect pair of shoes and I’m already pairing it up with the dress hanging in my closet before I even fit them for size. Then it turns out that they don’t fit and in my head, I start hatching a plot to make them fit. But at the end of the day, I have to let them go and go look for my own perfect pair.

Is it just me?

Everyone has a different standing when it comes to this particular subject, and mine may well be one that is quite contrary to the norm. The truth is, it has literally been conditioned into it for the last 7 years! So, don’t blame me ; blame the system!

In primary school, even the hint of a lingering handshake would be treated as an abomination that could only be rectified by the swing of a cane! It was kind of a ritual that at the beginning of the term, all those suspected of ‘coupling’ (in our defense, we were kids so ‘coupling’ was our language …I don’t know what the teachers’ excuse was). Anyway hugging was completely out of the question. In fact, I remember the one and only time I hugged a boy *gasp* in primary school was 5 minutes before my first KCPE paper and I was too freaked out to give it a second thought.

Then came high school. An all-girls school, where hugging was actually punishable. Not forgetting that during those four years, **boys were stupid ** until I met those who were the right type of stupid and we really hit it off. I was in one of those schools where we had to uphold the name of the school and before I knew it, I was one of the people handing out punishments. I must say that carrying stripes was an interesting experience!

Anyway, back to the subject at hand ; the art of hugging. You had to have been there to fully understand the concept of the ‘all-girls’ school’. So began the ‘Sweetie’ era. Everyone ( and I do mean everyone ) was sweetie! And the hugging… it was incessant, but it grew on you and you became one of the clones. Smiley, Sweeti-calling, hugging clones.

Then all of a sudden, high school is over. (Dorothy, we are not in Kansas anymore )
You move from an existence of following rules to making your own.

The number of awkward/ embarrassing moments that I have had because of hugging are not few, but they are distinct enough for me to remember each and everyone of them.
There was the time;
1. I was so stunned, I literally froze on the spot!
2. My face dove into someone’s shirt.
3. I went all matrix ( remember Keannu Reeves & the bullet?)
4. I had that awkward conversation with someone I barely know, who insists I should hug them. ( this has happened more often than you would expect).
Those are the ones that stand out right now.

Anyway, I have come to be open to the idea. There are those pals I’ve known for a long time and now they’re like my brothers. Why shouldn’t I hug my brother?
Not that I’ll go all crazy and hug every Juma,  Njoroge and Otieno. Instead, I consider the hug to be somewhat special.  ( and I’m kind of sensitive about b.o so…).

In my hug-scapades, I realised that a hug ( as would a handshake ) says a lot about a person. Plus, I’m in search of the perfect hug (NOTE: this is not an invitation to treat nor is it an offer).
( p.s isn’t it irritating when someone insists on lingering on your hand in a handshake ? * shudder* )
*sigh* we grow up so fast …