LATELY

This are fragments of what life has felt like recently- unfiltered, shifting, and quietly honest

Lately, I am walking at night. I feel a presence behind me. I’m skeptical, unsure if I should hurry up or slow down to let him pass. It’s a him. I know it by the bare heaviness of his footsteps. I sense he’s going to talk to me. I pray he doesn’t. Hi,” he calls out as he steps beside me. “Why the long face? Isn’t rain a blessing?” He must have noticed me skipping from one dry patch to another. “It’s not so much about the rain,” I say, “but these damn roads. They have potholes everywhere.” We laugh and end up talking about politics.

Coming off that odd encounter, lately, I’ve had this itch I can’t seem to scratch. At first, it felt like nothing, just a background discomfort. Now, I realize I know exactly what it is and what I need to do for it to end. But there’s this fear that follows. If the itch goes away, will I feel relief, or will I be left with emptiness? What will I look forward to?

Lately, I’ve felt this gloominess that comes in waves. I can’t point to anything specific, but I feel it deep in my core. “What’s wrong with me?” I ask myself. How do I get rid of this sadness, this quiet despair? Where does my life end, or where does it actually begin? Sometimes it feels like it has never begun at all, like someone else is living it for me. I put on some clothes, then changed them to match my foul mood.

Lately, I’ve noticed how bright I become when I am relaxed, when peace grows quietly within me. You might tell people you’re feeling good, and they might not believe you, since you’re not laughing or performing happiness; it’s something deeper, something someone has to look close to see. Then, when I go out and the sun matches my vibe-bright, beautiful, a little warm but not hot—and a cloud softens its light, that’s a good day for a walk.

Still, quiet moments leave room for reflection. Lately, I realize I might not have friends. This thought unsettles me, but then questions swirl: Or maybe I do. Maybe the definition is lost somewhere. I can’t say I’m lonely. Maybe I’m consoling myself. Anxiety seeps in—should I go out more, talk to strangers? The way I stiffen my face in public doesn’t invite company. Then calm returns; maybe I'm alright being alone. Maybe it’s comfortable here. Maybe I hate discomfort. I wonder: why ruin this for someone who might disrupt my life? That’s the problem with having family as friends. Not quite a problem, but maybe it’s time to add a few more. Still, I love deep connections—it’s easier with family. I speak from the privilege of having them as friends.

From family and self to longing. Lately, I’ve craved a relationship. Excitement flares at the thought of saying hi to her—the girl at the office. But hesitation hardens into fear: I hate rejection, so I don’t try. My ego can’t stand it. Hope flickers, then fades—maybe next time. Maybe I’m too late. Maybe next week. Or maybe… never.

Lately, I’ve found life frustrating, and it shows in the faces of everyone I meet. Killings are happening, and police are out of control. Meanwhile, politicians walk with no sense of what is actually happening, blind to the woes of the people who elected them. Maybe they are not even blind; some are benefiting from those trials, and some are ignorant of the suffering, when the tables set before them are a luxury. Who would say no to that? The economy is collapsing. What future will our children have? Yet, even as we face these issues and fight for our country, life serves as a reminder that hope can rise, even when times feel desperate.

Sometimes, however, connection comes unexpectedly. Lately, I crossed paths with a stranger and his son. As I near, he looks at me, then his boy. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” he says, thinking I can’t hear. I smile. My day is made. I hope the happiness he gave me follows him home, to his wife and son. I whisper a prayer for my future husband.

Lately, I’ve been in a room full of men, testosterone-heavy, voices louder than reason, as they discuss football. One man is loud, needing to be heard; another stays silent, nodding along, riding on the loud one’s points. A third is visibly nervous—no one notices unless you’re standing outside the circle. He makes half-hearted comments here and there. Then there’s the fourth: calm, confident, letting everyone speak. When he talks, they all listen. He carries an aura; it isn’t an illusion.

Lately, people reference a vibrant generation. “Usicheze na hawa magenz,” they say, meaning me. I smile. If only they knew—I’m as millennial as they come. Maybe it’s how I carry myself or look younger than my years—or the way I dress. I have Gen Z’s exterior, a millennial’s interior—thanks to exercise and my mother’s genes. Once, I didn’t want to look young; I wanted to be taken seriously. Now I care less. In rooms where I must prove myself, I do; in rooms where I want to laugh, I do. Life is one hell of a ride.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of my son: first, about the small moments I don’t want to miss—hugging him longer than necessary, making him a food lover by trying new, healthy flavors, and taking him to my gym sessions. Then I shift to our adventures—camping, hiking up mountains, and doing adrenaline-junkie stuff together. Ultimately, I want him to say one day, “I had a happy childhood.” I hope he grows to love the little joys of life, like a picnic on a Saturday afternoon, on our own land.

Lately, I think people should just keep their opinions to themselves. But they won’t. Somehow, my life is their business—not because it affects them, but because envy eats at them. Sometimes I think, what if I just smacked them? Maybe then they’d learn. Yet I’ve seen people mind their business when they shouldn’t. When a woman is harassed in the street, suddenly everyone remembers to mind their business. When it’s gossip, they’re in. When it’s justice, they disappear. This reminds me of politicians: when they want votes, they crawl to our doorsteps like their lives depend on it, but when we need them to speak up, they cower like rumor mongers—loud tongues, no action. God help our country.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of bosses as lovers. First, the narcissist: buys you breakfast, lunch, and even covers transport, but demands worship. Disagree, and all hell breaks loose: “Wewe hata hukuwa na kazi, nimekulisha, unaanza kujiona sasa.” Then there’s the bare-minimum one: pays crumbs and wonders why you’re not shining—the man who leaves two hundred shillings and expects a five-course meal. Next, the sweet-talker promises heaven. “In three months, I’ll increase your salary.” Three years later, nothing. There’s also the unconcerned one: couldn’t care less if you stay or go. Finally, the standout: strict but fair, pays on time, discusses business or life without crossing lines.

Throughout all of this, I’ve lately realized how life keeps shifting between intense loneliness that can feel heavy and isolating, and moments of bright laughter that lift my spirit. The despair sometimes settles in, making things seem bleak, but hope always finds its way back in, bringing light to the darkness. And maybe that’s the point—to feel every part of it, to fully live each shift, and to keep moving forward, rain or not.

"Maybe nothing here is fully resolved. Maybe it's just life, as it is- happening in pieces, and asking to be felt.

If something here felt familiar, you can stay a little longer- there's more to read."