Category: Kenyan Mind
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In Search Of Womanhood (I)
Ariel was my role model, If she could become human, Then I could be a little mermaid. And true loves kiss could save me from anything!
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Breast
So, while the NAN can tells me, that mothers milk is best. It’s not accepted, in public, For me to pull out my breast…
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This Big
We had to make sure you were ok. We had to cut open to save You from my uteruses efforts to give you life.
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To Our Own Beat
These potholes, catch my heels’ heels in ways that make my knees fold, and all this, chanting, jumping up and down, is making me feel old. There was a time, when moving, grooving felt like fairy dusted gold, but tarmacing and hussling is making wrinkles start to show. There must be more, to these […]
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Actions Speak Louder Than Words
This is a dedication to Binyavanga Wainaina. To understand why I decided to review One Day I Will Write About This Place, we have to go back in time. I am fifteen. I am holding a thick, boldly titled book in my shaking hands. I am overwhelmed by exhilarating disbelief. This is a Kenyan book. […]
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Growing Up. Part 3. Poetry
This is a topic, I suppose I cover quite frequently. If you would like to know a little more about the beginning of my performance journey, click here. I wont go into those details today. There are many ways, that I have grown as a poet, in this journal entry, I’m going to talk about […]
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Growing Up. Part 2. Hair and Love
Acceptance, and especially self acceptance can be hard to come by. More often than not, people will point out things that differentiate you from them. As you get older, it becomes easier to stand by your own principles and decisions. The full list of ways that I feel blessed to have grown up is: 1. […]
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Growing Up. Part 1. Conversation and Patience
I am forced to admit, that I am quite a sporadic writer. I woke up the other morning, at three thirty, jumped out of bed and scrambled for a pen and lots of paper. I had to write about growing up, something I am suddenly very happy I’ve managed to do. Perhaps, one day, when […]
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Sunlight
The windows of this jav are clean. That makes me comfortable, it shows care. Care isn’t love though. If this was a loved car, It would be all clean. Not just wiped down, So obvious bits gleam. Why can’t I stop myself from seeing, the familiar, cloudy brown, bottoms and sides? The pane still […]
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Njora’s Diani Beach
Bicycles creaked past them, sometimes spraying tiny specks of chocolate mud on their clothes as they solemnly walked home. No one said a word, and every ten steps Njora would have to slow his pace to let Kavi catch up.
Raya Wambui 