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I catch glimpses of faded random things in this lucklustre town An Omani door A rickety balcony drooping courteously as I pass A dimmed sun eclipsed by clouds pegged against a warped woolen sky Warped as the extents to what I thought I knew. A piece of me stumbles into a pond in time The ripples spread all through the town. This town It's not just snaking roads And melting pots Melting contradictions of what it's told it cannot This town—Is not the lies Of its demise Sped way past time or otherwise A lack of history makes you an infant. To see this town anything but Is no different From being born yesterday. As the light show concludes and fireworks light the sky I see cacophanies, only shades of red; I see the Fort Jesus cannons fire into the town Unbent, to earn it its name— Mvita I see ships docked at the Old Port Matching centipedes of shirtless men in iron collars Awaiting the moonsoons Gliding waves unto new unknowns I see Mandhry mosque, more fascinating than is The heart of the richest centre that was A track rolling to Forodhani right outside it. I cannot walk through this town, Unaware of its foundations Walking through its peeling layers, Spotting a fondness for the remnants, relish in what was The police-station that was Ali's Curio before it was a haunted house Pandya hospital before Pandya was I see white missionary women in head scarves Sneaking into the white house and a church now in its place, a library. New names in the same old places I see history Stories Of fallen kings and their slaves who now sit in their midst I see turning tides And changing winds And obscure references wanting to jump from its footnotes I see a town disappear Disappearing tales Deafly drowned against the persistence of modernity A cycle ends Only for another to begin again. (at Royal Reserve Safari & Beach Club) https://www.instagram.com/p/CfES9LLs8AN/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

"This place, Mombasa, is overrated" I found myself saying to an out-of-towner friend I was touring my hometown When a whiff of wind, their body slicing through it Held the edges of her lips Bedraggled—and contortioned it into a smile. And as she stared listlessly ahead to a hot sun cooling, Recoiling into the edged-depth of the Indian ocean and agreed, I surprisingly found myself defensive over what I myself initiated "I know," she had said, "Mombasa used to be the say all and be all, but what I see is just...this." And as she motioned her hand alluding to the scabbishness of my little town I got off the rails and gave the view my back And we walked away from Mama Ngina drive. "But it's only overrated if you're poor," I found myself saying And we laughed, as we walked back home Through the dimlit cobbled streets Reminisce of a pre-Islamic Andalusian town. If I'm honest, I could see people romanticise it. Like Italy, or Croatia, or a white and blue suburb of Santorini I could see people gushing at the old architecture in Old Town, that unfolded meticulously with the malnourished snaking roads marvelling, lost, transported to a simpler time I could see them wanting to carry a piece of home with them Take a picture for a postcard and show it to their friends I could picture people welling with pride boasting about having set foot here, Stepped in history I could see them immersed in the culture Non-tokenous And call it everything but the derogatory 'cute' I could see that but I guess I don't look at it for what is In search of skylines, and bungalows, and Chinese food In a place that must be left anything but I'm in want of rewriting a narrative that isn't ours That I resort to telling people to lower their expectations here Of my home Before they form opinions I have to tell them, there isn't much to look at. (at Xanadu Beach Villa) https://www.instagram.com/p/CfEQ9H9s1QZ/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

Nobody likes a narcissist. That's the basic thinking that has kept me on-again off-again social media—these look-at-me-apps. Look at me grinding | look at me helping this poor orphan | Look at me smiling through depression. If we were to draw the perfect parallel, I'd equate social media to this incessant search for validation not deserved —wanting applause for doing what you're basically supposed to (Kinda like feminists wanting recognition for just being women and existing). You come here with your pure intentions only to realise you're not immune to vanity. The likes give you a buzz and that is so much power in terms of personal worth to place in someone else. You can't carve your own quiet place in this self-centered space without the warranted creeping internal urgency for the public to take notice. It's a flaw—a hermatia if I may, in the human design, and even more a downside, a great leverage to the people designing these platforms. We all want to be seen even at the risk of exposing ourselves and our core vulnerabilities. This pandemic of over-communication with a complete lacking in intimacy. Which is not all bad if I may but... But then you're away and you realise nothing has changed; social media is still anti-social; this raging furnace that will use whoever permits it as fuel—it cannot be ignored. It doesn't stop. More people take a dip in it daily, heads rewired at the cost of their health, mentally. And it hits me, maybe it is more selfish to walk away, maybe that IS the self-centred holier than thou'nes you're hoping to escape, differently manifested. And maybe refuge can only be sought in conciously engaging and somehow modelling something inside it; something different, like a fungus growing exponentially from the in. And what else than starting with the core of that which makes us human— Sharing great stories into this abysmal void—a defiant self-expression that is a protest unto itself. And maybe one day while still knee-deep, raking through this murk, we'll pull out something. Maybe. ⬇️ (at Iten view point) https://www.instagram.com/p/COnMceQhtgP/?igshid=v8vxb5i4ky8

How To Start a Successful Youth Initiative in Mombasa in 10 Easy Steps It happens that I was minding my business when a friend who had been recently transferred to Mombasa, and we share a similar first name didn’t stop to exclaim that it seems everyone here runs their own mentorship scheme.

Our stories are important. That's the first thing @strokes.of.my.pen tells you in her @creative_writers_league masterclass and arguably the most important one. Since taking that class back in 2018, I kind of always knew what I wanted to write about; and that is stories from home (Mombasa). The kind we don't hear or talk about. But I stopped myself for fear that I didn't have the capacity to portray people's stories with the decency they ultimately deserve. So I took the time, to learn, (I still am tbh) and stretch myself in terms of writing(which is what I've been doing on my blog). Till late last year when I reached out to @mizz_tilyan @lifeindifferentcolours who was onboard before I even told her what the stories would be like. (Yaa salaam, the people in our lives bana)But then, I had some obligations here and there, then corona happened and I've been postponing ever since. It's time though and I'd like to extend my hand to all of you. Everyone has a story. Everyone is a story and we can tell all of them, together. Real stories. Raw stories about real people. Stories of perseverance and sacrifices and loss and lessons and regrets. I'm not exactly looking for inspiration, but that too. Stories of this larger human experience. They can be gut-wrenching and brutal and the sort that leave people empty. Or sweet even, like how you came to be married, notes perhaps on an arranged marriage. It can be anything TBH; about your cat, or this weird disease you have& somehow grateful for. When we think of the stories to tell, I think we somehow assume that one need to be a public figure or doing something extremely large. If anything the fact that you're alive right now is an immaculate tale of survival. And also, your story doesn't have to have any universality to it. If you're worried people won't relate, that's them. As long as it's honest. I kind of like want to make this database of stories from Mombasa. With pictures. Like a people of New York thing of sorts. Buuuut, you have the option to remain anonymous of course if that's what you want...cause I understand, some of these things will perhaps be heavy and information sensitive. So, yeah. ⬇️⬇️⬇️ (at Mombasa, Kenya) https://www.instagram.com/p/CACeV6Phwfu/?igshid=1dhlgqpd8ss2i

😅Found this re-reading some old blogposts. You could check out some more of these from the link in my bio👆🏾👆🏾👆🏾 https://www.instagram.com/p/CAAFm65hZ2Q/?igshid=1wnj3ieu4jfar

#onwriting #writerscommunity #writersofinstagram #neilgaiman #quoteoftheday #quotestoliveby #poetrycommunity #poetsofinstagram #writing https://www.instagram.com/p/CAAARLXhfVx/?igshid=l893ig94f7ym

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐥𝐚𝐚 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐡 . . She was as loud as her insecurities she thought silenced but would leap out between her sentences. That’s the much I could read her the first time we met. Pain recognizes broken. She reminded me of the parts I tucked away every morning before I resumed this performance of a lifetime. Everyone’s playing a part. She played a wildfire, roaring of change and empowerment, and many caught on. With a smile, powered by her fiery eyes, she waged war on grounds set against her; the society that raised her. But oh! the mighty have lungs. The bullets in her mouthpiece fired against the patriarchy, the misogyny and anything that looked like a target. She’d decided; there will be blood. And when the dust died down and her world moved to diplomacy, the soldier who only knew the war couldn’t stand peace. If only I’d told her the day we met, the walls she stood tall didn’t have to be coloured red. But I knew since then, she who stood on a pedestal with her head in the clouds could never see the humanity down here. . . The last time I saw her, she was seated in rendezvous with the feminists; her face was still her face, just tired from taking arms in a fictional war. I waved. She only smiled back. https://www.instagram.com/p/B_LFuB2hgQP/?igshid=1pzja49gd61cw

Parts of me never took abandonment lightly. They now prostitute themselves underneath forests of buildings in the tangled web of twisting streets of Nairobi. Parts of me sacred, long forgotten, seem to have found a home, scattered in the museum of a town I don’t like. When they saw me, they called to point fingers and lecture me on betrayal. And I took it all in with my head bowed, shoulders caving in, hanging from a rope of my own guilt. Then I reached out in hope of making peace, left arm clipped on my lower back, right, my long delicate fingers spread out, almost touching the glass case, as I looked expectantly for some kind of sign, only for it to stare coldly, judgingly, leaving me drenched in the stench of my betrayal. I’d always been on the move but this my first encounter with overwhelming homesickness. (at National Museums of Kenya Nairobi Museum Hill) https://www.instagram.com/p/B_IO6wqBMRQ/?igshid=b90xvn87qqap

She's her own kind of beautiful The kind you wouldn't notice at first glance, or second, or at all It takes a special talent to She's a piece of work A work of art She's a portrait unfinished Layers upon years of brushstrokes Theres actually not much to see When you look at her like another damn selfie On your feed She's a masterpiece of an open book Lying in wait To be servoured cover to cover Known page by page Word for word She doesn't scream "pick me" But if you took your time immersed yourself In the pursuit of 'amazing' you'd find her On the borderline of perfect The crinkle when she smiles The depth in her words Oh! Aren't they blind Those who see with only their eyes. . . ~To the girl basking in insecurities who cried in our session today because of men like me, beautiful doesn't even begin to describe you, I swear. https://www.instagram.com/p/B-wkdD1hs17/?igshid=19q302tzucngl

HONEY . . I wish that words Poured out of me The way     her neck Pours Into her shoulders . . Talk smooth Like     her skin Convincing   like every muscle of her smile. . . I wish my words Were welcomed Like A strand   she Tucks     gently Behind her ear . . Then I’d tell her . . -Put a price On her priceless They’re robbing her blind If wishes Were pennies Then perhaps She’d be mine. https://www.instagram.com/p/B7K5G5ahU7Y/?igshid=svu50mxldi8w

#NewBlogpost I hate social events. Not for the basic reason that I hate people. I happen to love people. But I come to hate people because of these events. You only have to attend one to mirror my endearing sense of dread, if not exhume some kind of indifference. For events planned with people as the focus, the people factor seems to be absent in most of them. Networking is this buffet of different talents and expertise that is actually meant to foster collaboration and genuine relationships for the benefit of both parties. We meet an array of people throughout our personal and professional lives. And since we have different resources, it makes sense to tap into each other’s invaluable access to knowledge, expertise and influence, and turn to them to exchange help, advice and introductions. But most of us look at these events as ladders; advancements to where we want to reach, not for a second considering who you can lift up in the process. It’s never about what can we do for each other but what can this person do for me. Always the wallflower, I’m often a fly on the wall in most of these conversations, taking note of the fakery of enthusiasm. That’s a writer’s job after all, to notice. And I can’t help but wonder: Whatever happened to genuineness. Proceed... Link in Bio https://www.instagram.com/p/B5-jcdVBXZn/?igshid=oqj4sdyrhjh

Let me tell you a thing I know. Of blood; and the bonds that bind us. Of time; and what it ultimately undoes. Let me tell you. Of family; of people we don’t choose. But with days, come to pray that we never get to lose. How are we anchored?  Is there more to connection than a double-helix strand. In the liquid pulsing through the veins in my hand. Apples from the same… But what is a family tree without its stem; without the bark that carried it when it finally branches out? Into fruits bearing nothing but the same name? If not a solid foundation, what cements us? What holds up our entangled roots. . . Read On... #NewBlogpost Link in Bio https://www.instagram.com/p/B55ZTYFBn5W/?igshid=p4owrer14bo1

#NewBlogpost Link in my Bio . . The African identity means preparing your kids for disappointments. They’re your kids after all; they don’t have that virtue of birth. You pass onto them your realistic dreams as they will do the same for their kids after that. A vicious circle of people living their parent’s dreams, dressed politely as expectations because that’s how it always is. Your dreams are a danger unto yourself and you must be protected from them by whatever means necessary. . . Read On... https://www.instagram.com/p/B5ztHoEB6l-/?igshid=1f8138palwa88

#NewBlogpost . . To understand what happened, it pays to look past the price of the stock to the value of the story. This compelling tale of divining hundreds of diseases from a drop of blood was a testament to the imagination of the inventor. In the deserted property she designed you can almost hear echoes of her ambition and see how glass walls promising transparency could become a labyrinth of mirrors. Was Elizabeth lost in a landscape between what she could make real and the world of make-belief? . . Link In Bio https://www.instagram.com/p/B5Ahd8dhsnF/?igshid=vy4bw7klqc69

#NewBlogpost . . To understand what happened, it pays to look past the price of the stock to the value of the story. This compelling tale of divining hundreds of diseases from a drop of blood was a testament to the imagination of the inventor. In the deserted property she designed you can almost hear echoes of her ambition and see how glass walls promising transparency could become a labyrinth of mirrors. Was Elizabeth lost in a landscape between what she could make real and the world of make-belief? . Link in Bio https://www.instagram.com/p/B5AhGlohTfE/?igshid=17l9elnjjlah9

Tale as old as time . A kid believes so much in what he's doing, and the splash it's going to create in the world, that he proceeds to drop out of college and founds what arguably is the biggest tech company of our generation; Gates. . Another kid comes along later, believes in what he's creating, ardently, that he also drops out to focus on that, and the rest is history; Zuckerberg. . But yeah, you might say, "they dropped out of Harvard." and they represent not the norm but the exception. Vitu kwa ground ni different. . Well, I've never seen this as a story about dropping out. It's a story about belief, and the great things that stem out of risking it all for a dream that no one can see but you. . Of the gary Vs, the Oprah Winfreys and the thousand we know on this list. . It's however a story that perhaps won't be your story because you brand yourself as the norm before setting out to achieve the exceptional. . What even makes you think that you're the norm? Well, you could be...if you believed so. Oooor, you could choose to gamble, and believe in yourself. . Cause maybe, just maybe, yours might not be "just another story." . But is that a leap you're willing to make? https://www.instagram.com/p/B47PNO8hDTU/?igshid=1n6qlzovpk775