10 Effective Ways of Overcoming Guilt and How to Forgive Yourself


The tragedy of Macbeth tells the story of a Scottish General. Thane of Glamis. After a prophecy by three witches that he will one day be King. Thanes Kills the King and takes over to be  King of Scotland. Events that follow throughout the plot of Shakespeare’s masterpiece document the role of guilt in Thane’s subsequent actions. His murderous act haunts him throughout the play. The remorse, paranoia and regret of his blood stained hands stand in his way of enjoying his ill-fated kingship. 


Guilt is neither simple nor nice. In fact, there is no easy way to escape the haunting of guilt. But like so many other emotional responses, guilt also possess healthy psychological developments. However, the overarching finality when it comes to remorse; is to take action or suffer in silence.

The best action to take in such occasions is accept the transgression and seek forgiveness. Until then will you have the ability to cleanse your wrongdoing and forgive yourself. Perhaps in his portrayal of guilt in Macbeth, Shakespeare attempts to suggest that no matter how hard we try to hide the remorse of our wrongdoings – the effects are only ill-fated.


Macbeth premiering  at the Edinburgh International Festival

Nevertheless, Lady Macbeth who is the major driving force behind Macbeth’s murderous plot tries to convince him that;- although the implications of their bloody action might not be hidden the blood can easily be washed away. The following lines reveal Macbeth’s desperate plea to escape his sense of guilt with a grand dramaturgy that implies his action will forever make him a changed man. 

‘Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood

Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather’

There are many reasons why we feel guilty. The fear that we are not living up to our standards and the expectations of society is also a possible cause of guilt. An instance of wrongdoing might not necessarily grant guilt and remorse. Additionally,  guilt might be psychological discomfort against actions we have no control of. Your daughter might feel guilty that she took music in college while you wanted her to become an aeronaut. My friend feels guilty because they broke up with his girlfriend. Sarah felt guilty because she had made no effort to tell her deceased granny how much she loved her.[Read the story of Sarah on what makes us feel guilty].


From my perspective, I find my friend’s sense of guilt to be rather than a failure to live up to his values but as a lack of connection; that had once been nurtured between him and his girlfriend. After the break-up, the effect of loss plus the regrets that had he treated her better; often than not remain to be the fuel of guilt.

The sudden loss of a loved one might  not necessarily create remorse. In fact, according to a 2018 statistics about Post heartbreak pain, the feeling of unworthiness to connection creates shame – which eventually if not acted upon causes guilt.

To act upon such emotional responses demands of us to understand the related case of our guilt. The following are different cases of guilt. I compiled the entire list from Goodtherapy.org. 

Chronic Guilt

Occasionally, chronic guilt is attached to resentment and anger. It is the guilt we feel once we can’t reach to what is not available to us. For instance someone we love, or something we desperately want, maybe a job. The damned dream of a distraught child trying to reach out to their dream only to realize its futile.

Between ages 17-18 I myself suffered from the resentment of a strict upbringing. The conditions I had set myself for life didn’t seem to tick. While I chased my dreams, it felt painfully valueless to live in the face of disappointment after disappointment.   

Post Assault/abuse/trauma linked Guilt

A meta analysis by the BBC reveals that 60% of women or girls, aged 14 years and above; and who had obtained non consensual sex through threat, incapacitation or force, did not immediately acknowledge that they had been raped. Surprisingly, these numbers collected from upto 28 studies reveal a shocking reality of the major reason why most cases of sexual assault are not reported right away.

The varying debate in the subconscious part of the victim is whether they might have contributed to their victimization. Often, people with a post assault guilt will find it difficult to accept that their fate wasn’t their fault. You might deem it worth to fact check the essay on why most rape victims never acknowledge what happened.

Meanwhile, Trauma therapy could be important in assisting a post assault victim in re-framing the event; and help them understand that they were not worth of the action and did nothing wrong to contribute to the case of assault. 

Mistake/Choice Linked Guilt

This type of guilt is linked to empathy or admittance of a wrongdoing. It is the only type of guilt attached to some level of positive psychological development. Admittance of a wrong will probably prompt a person to be sensitive of their later choices. However, one’s morality and their sense of guilt are the only attribute that will balance the positivity of later choices.


Macbeth’s guilt is so strong that it engulfed his daily doings. Nevertheless, the guilt does not prevent him from carrying out another murderous act. The killing of Banquo. Macbeth murders Banquo so as to hide his secret- of killing King Duncan. Therefore, it seems the detachment of morality from guilt might be the root of more insensitive actions – hence resulting to more guilt-causing actions. 

Mental Health Linked Guilt

Implications of mental health complications may take the form of withdrawal, suicidal behavior, avoidance, attacking and violent mannerisms.  This usually affects how a person relates with other people, especially those close to them.

Helen couldn’t help feeling guilty after noticing how her state of depression was affecting those around her.

This will probably affect the love they have forged for themselves; and only counselling can easily get them back on fit.  

10 Ways to Overcome Guilt 


To prevent your productivity becoming completely thrown out of balance. I have dug the surface of guilt and depression linked remorse to provide you 10 tips on how to overcome guilt. 

  1. Understand the purpose and the cause of the guilt. Identify whether the kind of guilt your are experiencing is unproductive. Remind yourself that there’s no need of being overly critical. 
  2. Journal about your feelings. Courtney Ackerman in ‘Using Pen and Paper to enhance Personal Growth’ tells about the therapeutic nature of writing. The writer claims that expressive writing has significant healing benefits to trauma victims. Writing therapy is a form of expressive therapy that eases feelings of emotional trauma.
  3. If your guilt is a result of a wrongdoing, find it worth to apologise. Ensure that your apology is sincere and dont make sorry just a sorry word
  4. Reflect on the situation, investigate the root of the guilt and attempt to find a way of preventing a similar occurrence. 
  5. Learn to forgive yourself.
  6. Transform feelings of guilt into gratitude and as a way of changing things.
  7. Realize each day is a new beginning, move on from the guilt and be mindful of other things in your life.
  8. Do not withdraw from your social circle, meet new people, implement new spiritual practices, listen to religious teachings, commune with others to pray and discuss important matters, spend time in nature, hike, swim, go skateboarding and if possible get into meditation or yoga. 
  9. Embrace imperfection – Its not for humans to be perfect.
  10. If you are unable to move on past your guilt, seek help from a therapist. Feelings of guilt might be implications of mental health conditions and a therapist would provide significant assistance.


Thank You for Coming this Far. 

Are you struggling with mental health conditions? Find additional resources from https://13reasonswhy.info – The site provides a list  of mental health services and advocacy groups for all countries. 


Photo Credits: 


Versatile Blogger Awards |We’ve Been Nominated




To you my Lovely Reader

I love you. 

On exactly a gray August afternoon.Three years ago. Bored out of my mind and with an indictment to share my deepest journals. I first documented my  three posts on this blog and named her Kenyanrhetoric. Timeless, overly oriented and passionate just like any other beginning writer, I swung my ink with enthusiasm.Desperately waiting for my first reader. I was in high school back then, a lover of words and one title tucked behind my name – Chief Playwright and Editor of the School  Drama Club.

Overnight, despite running away from my babe (this blog) for a year and more; while navigating through the humongous halls of academics at college; and the school of life. I have seen Kenyanrhetoric grow. Precisely, not that big I would say. To the best of my knowledge; at a pace that I would have only dreamed of. 

I am rather amused by what I would call a third birthday; because with it comes the pleasure of a nomination. A nomination to an award that celebrates unique content from unique bloggers. Don’t you find that amazing, if at all you have been on this journey with Kenyanrhetoric? 

Versatile Blogger Awards. 

Heartfelt thanks to the Charming Writer Charlie Dee. You can read any of her posts on https://lifewithcharli.home.blog. There is a large community of bloggers around the world, yet you nicely picked up my chunks from the assortment of talent. I guess it’s giving me a kick out of the fact that it’s a gift to my three year blog; as well as a celebration of my reader’s effort to always show up , the moment I post a piece. 

When Charlie Writes, she is speaking to your soul. She Urges you that life is a valley yet manages to convince you it’s as smooth as the floor; and you are a pebble that has to survive. 

I am living every single word of her blog for so many times she’s encouraged me to live beyond the challenge. Her sentiments in this post, documenting the lives of people with disability -(Disability: Seeing the Unseen)- will persuade you one thing – that those limitations are not the limitations you think they are.

What is the Versatile Blogger Awards?

VBA (Or Versatile Blogger Awards celebrates brilliant bloggers with unique content, strong writing and appealing images. 



Once nominated for the awards, there are five courtesy rules to follow as a sign of accepting the nomination.


The Five Golden Rules for Versatile Blogger Awards Nominees


  • Share a post Thanking the person who nominated your blog
  • Include a link to their blog
  • Select and list 15 favorite bloggers that you would want to nominate for the award
  • Nominate those bloggers for the awards.
  • Finally list seven facts about yourself.



Seven Facts about Me


  •  I read J.K Rollins Harry Potter and Swore to myself (Since Eleven) I was gonna be a writer.
  • Water scares me. I DON’T SWIM.
  • I share a name with George R.R Martin. My favorite novelist- He’s among the Richards.
  • When sad I listen to music
  • I smile when idle. smilies-bank-sit-rest-160739
  • Who else gets uncomfortable around tall people – those extremely tall people who dialogue with you as if you were a kid.I also get weary with strangers.
  • If I  have a daughter, I’m gonna name her Charlotte.



And Finally our nomination goes to:

Kinasis Urban –  Kinasis


Imali Asena – Don’t Date a Writer

Zeinobia –  Egyptian Chronicles

Kent Wayne  – Dirty Science Fiction 

Rehema Zuberi – Resh Online Blog

Melena   – Melena’s Review

Nkunda  – Cry For Freedom in Rwanda

Jo Caddy  – mum life stories

Art of Blogging  – The art of blogging

Lilian  – Poems By Lilie

Kathryn Rossiter – Becoming You

Muriuki Kagiri  – The Dapper Brother

Mahmoud Salem – Sad Monkey

Soraya Moref – Suzie in the City

Devesh Sharma – Wpkube.com

You Can follow me on Twitter  (@Kenyanrhetoric)  to Learn more about the Versatile Blogger Awards.


Beauty in a Place of Darkness


“We were already living in some kind of Hell in this strange place of broken beauty.”  

Kassie West.

‘I suppose I’m one of those lucky few  to have survived the Massacre,’

It was terrible and almost disheartening to listen to all their stories without bursting into tears. The most prominent memory she had was that of her mother giving up everything for them. Since her mother’s death, Todima had become invincible in this paradise of shattered dreams. 

‘For so long I have hated this place, until recently when I realized it wasn’t a place to hate but a place to mend broken hearts.’ Getting lost into her mellow voice and the sweetness of this eleven year old girl. I sunk deep into her mind; and somewhere beneath the melody of her words, I found myself trying her shoes.


The cold inside her made me tremble and envious of my own position. Despite hailing from what I had considered a worse background, a while before relating to the stories of these children;  I realized that we held so much luck in ourselves for having a home. Yet, Todima and millions of others like her spread in refugee camps across East Africa; were learning to find a home in a place of devastation. 

In her eyes, I observed every child’s undying wish. The heart-wrenching need to not only be seen but to be heard. One of the shy  boys in the group handed me a drawing. It was a beautiful painting reflecting a woman drawing water from a well. Pulling him closer to hug him ‘thanks’, he whispered close to my ears: ‘I hope it makes sense to you.’


He still looked unsure whether it was good enough but I was completely taken aback by the piece. Taken aback by a piece of art, given to me by a refugee kid, that reminded me even in the face of adversity; one could easily find peace and yearning in art. His name was Brahman.


Brahman, just like his friends had experienced unbelievable hardship.  Brahman’s family spiraled into homelessness after the 2014 Bentiu Massacre. His mother, a victim of soldier gang rape succumbed to depression. Brahan hasn’t seen her for two years now. Among his personal collections are hundreds of tiny pieces of art, some mud sculpting, other drawings and a few of them poems. His worst memory is that of his father’s suffering from a mental illness.

‘ In a universe of electrons and selfish genes, blind physical forces and genetic replication, some people are going to get hurt, other people are going to get lucky, and you won’t find any rhyme or reason in it, nor any justice. The universe that we observe has precisely the properties we should expect if there is, at bottom, no design, no purpose, no evil, no good, nothing but pitiless indifference.” 

Richard Dawkins, River Out of Eden: A Darwinian View of Life


The harsh realities pieced behind the camps are those of desperate families finding peace and meaning.


In the heart of Ifo Refugee Camp; are millions of families united by the common spirit to one day mend  their shattered lives; thousands of them are striving to rise above the fray of physical abuse, psychological torture, drug addiction, poverty, child apprehension and life’s uncertainties.

My wish is they find meaningful lives. 

Ifo is among the three refugee camps set up under the flagship of the Dadaab Refugee Complex to increase humanitarian efforts for families facing continued displacement, drought, conflict and instability in Somalia. Mid-May, the Supreme Council Of Kenya Muslims (SUPKEM) launched a support campaign in a bid to alleviate the suffering of millions of refugee families. You can reach out to their website and see how you can help a child secure their future.

My Kenyan Obsessions


Part I

Hand making the V sign, Kenya flag painted

Matters of a Contemporary Kenya

All is well, usually before weaving into the Kenyan contemporary narrative; until my peers and I are nudged to commit to an identity tag. The working tag on such occasions is the ever tempting subjugation of my very own self. A self that I have wanted to belong and in doing so, submit to the meaning of life. The dilemma in this case, and which forms the better part of this essay, is somewhat an ideal to conform. To fit in, and easily-comfortably retreat into the Kenyan rhetoric as a whole and without pretending. In any case, fitting in might entail initiation into certain non-conducive aspects of society – that should apparently appear as insensitive and with the most possible light ever.

Yet, to sink in back to who I really am and out of the self-creation that I have identified as for years. It is a tempting pressure to shed off the observe of my society, everything that society has cultivated in me and I deem wrong. Wrong not in my eyes but in the eyes of Ngũgĩ wa Thiongo’s seminal text ‘Decolonizing the Mind: the Politics of Language in African Literature.’ In which Ngũgĩ claims ‘I shall look at the African realities as they are affected by the great struggle between the two mutually opposed forces in Africa today: an imperialist tradition on one hand, and a resistance tradition on the other.’


What remains today of the Kenyan Identity are an insipid redemption from imperialism, the crux of foreign assimilation and the cleansing of our African soul. The concept of slavery and colonialism might be an entirely odd topic to convey in these times; but inwardly to state that despite 1964, despite independence – we are still battling a persistent disease to remain afloat. The standard expectation, even as malignant as it would be, imposes upon you to be shameful of your roots, your language and in conforming to this choking alienation of what rightfully belongs to us – language ; we somewhat have drunk away our intellectual thoughts and dug away the soul of our African spirit; to the extent of raising a bushy tailed strain of African so –called – intellects who cannot speak a word from their ethnic language.

Ngũgĩ decries this cultural isolation of our own language, as ‘linguicide’, a form of atrocity that destroys memories and kills culture. In writing, I usually fall into a dilemma. One that I have to contend with in order to create an image of art that represents my true identity. Whilst in this contention, I try to envision a subject matter with which I think from my roots (My mother tongue) and outline it in English. Even as I have done this for years, I haven’t recognized the sensitivity of this lone activity, as it often undermines my Kenyan individuality. If I can think in my mother tongue, then what actually holds me back from writing in my mother tongue? Today’s western ideologies challenge my African particularity; whether, at the least expectations, can we even exist outside the box of western integrities?  Whether we Kenyans can exist in the skins of our own personality? It is in the context of this subject that I grant myself the artistic license to challenge whatever that is not African, which is not Kenyan, and which is not conservatist. Education, fashion, religion, entertainment and the political idiocy included that we are forced into every single day in our lives.


In the opening paragraph of Decolonizing the Mind, Ngũgĩ draws the image of an African in a continued ceaseless struggle to free him/herself, from the pitiless imperialism of Euro-American based politics, economics and culture. It is in fact a struggle, a rebellious war of liberation from the shackles of neo-colonialism but one that Africans, Kenyans have given up on. And like post trauma stressed victims of a lost walk, they resort to foreign culture, as if it’s the drug that heals their pain of loss.

The exclusive use of foreign language in schools and the extent of lashing a few scholars in elementary that do not comfort to this linguifuckery; has projected what Ngũgĩ describes as a language famine in the continent. In today’s Kenya, would parents only hope of having an enlightened kid is a suppression to only speak in English and not their mother tongue? And if you haven’t noticed the voluble clarity of your peers refer to another as mzungu (White Man) when they spoke with a foreign twang in their voices.


Award Winning Literature Guru: Ngũgĩ wa Thiongo

As if this blatant idiocy is not enough, we have seen such mzungus become the object of attention and praise because they appear more civilized and learned than their counterparts. I see you counteract to this, free yourself from the guilt and besides smack the hell bitter aggravation to my face. Now you want to argue and claim that it’s a matter of society and society prides in what is good. So what is good, and If any, and in what context and in comparison to what? The conservatist meru in me that hasn’t left out the ‘M’ in M-bush for you to know am talking about a bush?

I wouldn’t write that way, no way and I’m not encouraging affection towards highly accented articulation; and even if I would, there is no way I would acknowledge, a social transformation of wordings and spellings in the   Oxford dictionary to fit my Kenyannesse. Nevertheless, this would give writers like me more head ache when getting published in the New Yorker. What I’m trying to say, is could we at least appreciate our roots and love our languages. For what’s the need for your son dear parent to learn English, French, German and Mandarin when your Luo ascent has a more dramatic cadence at the Kenya National Theater?


Photo Credits:

Roxanne Shewchuk

Jimmy Jimmy

Daniel A Anderson


Mending My Walls




Over the years, I have stretched some loosely hanging dimensions way too far and overwhelmed myself with a feeling of impossibility. A feeling that doesn’t escape me for one second. Sometimes when I’m not busy I try to check on it.

The ego. The heart. The soul.

Whether it  hurts and for quite an iniquitous moment of time, I hold on to my chest and  feel if it’s there.

It’s there. 

The pain hasn’t gone away. It has eaten into the cribs of my emotions and dragged with it my hopes and possibilities. Pushed me into a corner.

A corner  I hardly can push back because what lies in the dark is scary and cold. 

Cold in every dimension. 


A few minutes before hitting to class. She hits back. Your brain tunes back to life and your heart jingles. You are moved and in all honestly – you think your love story is punctuating it’s flow. You hang both hands around your face, sliding an old school Infinix  across your nose. A mumble forms on your lips and your heaving breaths life into your longing. The long ubiquitous mumble forms into a prayer. The prayer you whisper to your God brings with it tears you can’t hold back. 

While you rush to press the read button. Sorry. You stop there. The earth trembles, your eyes close and the truth smacks your face.pexels-photo-2345374


For days you waited for her damn reply. Patiently and –  slowly glorifying that ‘kafeeling’ that perhaps this chick you are so crazy about is busy doing something constructive. And that tiny optimistic voice at the back of your mind cries out that you are being an ugly impatient jerk. Is it just you or everyone is endowed with the art of waiting. That feeling convinces you that the voices you hear are only doubts. You have got esteem, right? Then why the doubts. It’s worth. You tell yourself. 

The hurt, the pain and the doubts.  For they are all a means to a happy end. In fact, that’s what it takes to not die a painfully lonely life. The sacrifices, right?  Its fucking you up and you feel it inside your soul in trembles. Your blood rushes. Your heart beats. 


Whenever you text her a slew of conversations. She falls back into a corner. Your minds rushes again. You wait that the tick will turn blue long before you lose your patient. But it’s a lie. You’ve never lost your cool.

It’s been this way for 6 months. 

How in the world would you lose your patience today? Maybe she will change and the magic will spark once more. After days of waiting. The tick turns blue and she comforts you with a twist of niceties. Monster-ed toxicity lotioned in nice love till you forget; 


Forget what you’ve been through while you waited for her response.

The lover will say  was busy and you will find your validation. This message will kiss your emptiness and your skin will melt away into comfort. But deep down you realize she will go again. She will disappear into her slumber and you will remain to dance the jingle. The jingle of despair and unrequited love.  

The jingle of her toxicity. 

Toxicity that makes you feel unwanted. 

The mother of all paranoia.

Finding my Heartbeat


Before everything happened. 

We used to talk and people would listen. Am not talking about any people. The top cream. The  top one percent ruling caste. They are lost in disillusion. Colonialist fantasies that woefully make them appear as ghosts. 


The last time I saw blood on my pavement was 11 years ago. The lingering faith of such peace is not existent everywhere as you would want me to conservatively profess. Freedom, democracy, unity are all  themes that explore the complex journey of healing a dying nation. Even darker is the subject of economic empowerment for the typical Kenyan. 

In considering the contemporary political scene, dispossession occurs to be a rather retrogressive debate. Sadly, a debate  clothed in sweetness and denied its sarcastic freedom. It is not that authorities have curtailed the freedom of expression in Kenya.  In fact, it is the safest point of any era so as to say- when you can speak anything , anywhere, however you want. Unless for hate speech which seemingly would spur tribal malfire or violence. 


Will you even forget those times before I was born? When to pass across a point you had to gather a community of people; organize them on a public space and speak. Contemporary Kenya  and the world at large is a digital space. Facebook, Twitter, Whatsapp groups and so forth.  Gone is the frustration of community gatherings and civic talks. The blogosphere also paints itself on the front end of communication. It is where artists of all kinds conjure varying tastes of  magic. 

But were community gathering a frustration really ?


Perhaps just like me, your day began on a lighter note. Without reluctance, you warmly woke up from your bed and teamed with millions of others into the dreaded rat race. Unlike me, you neither complained the water tasted pints of salt. You alighted from the matatu and surprisingly had the audacity to  smilingly great the traffic officer. Damn , that should have been a frown.

The newspaper salesmen threw the Daily Nation and without freaking at the headline ; you gladly and disappointingly grabbed a hundred shillings and gave it to him. Trust me , I would have freaked at the headline of a Kenyan Newspaper. But you see, I can’t just come and shout at you that politicians are ghostly tenderpreneurs out there to auction the divided souls of its people. 


Doesn’t it perplex you my dear, 

That you are sitting pretty  tuning from one station to another while a tint; in a long line of Jubilee scandals is worth $600 Million (Approximately Ksh 60 Billion) – Kimwarer Dam Scandal. Does it not frighten the hell out of you, your son someday is still going to attend those USELESS SHAMS of halls adorned as universities. 

[ Challenge: its fun haha  – read the above bolded capitalized words quickly , two times repeatedly — I can see how you desperately attempted to wear a foreign twang into the words, come on, Wee ni Mkenya; Mwafrika]

Well let’s go on. 


Like me, you will  probably shout your way through the crowd, desperate that someone will hear; but unlike the 90s where the freedom of speech was curtailed – People would speak at the slightest opportunity and the public would lend its ear – this time you got full rights to the podium and no one listens. 

Find your Freedom 

Find your Heartbeat

What was, 

Is no more.

The Face on the Front Page


Every day she hopes things will work out.

Last when I saw her, she was bleeding pain. A pain that she refused to say what it was. Whatever it was; it had eaten away the front of her smile and was busy devouring her inside. You could see it in her gait and the way she talked, even her eyes shone with some dimming light. Frantically as she forceful and coldly denied it, her breath much in anticipation of pressing on – but her radiance melting down like that of an abandoned whisky – stole her charm and left a stoic frame grasping for some energy.

Energy she couldn’t find.


Photo Credits: Marjorie Mwendwa – Self Inspired Model with 254flo Kenya

I could see what she was carrying. And there was this conviction in her words – that it was nothing. That everything was okay and things were going cool. She was carrying a desperate heaviness, one that you don’t describe in words but in melodramatic facials- an emptiness that could easily ghost her from reality – yet this is what you saw from a distance.


Not me, not her, but you. This is what you saw in her – another name for charm. A burger in a five star restaurant – a woman worth the cover page of a high end beauty magazine; an extremely beautiful woman, one you had probably seen on a billboard. One of those billboards that hang tightly to the walls of upper hill sky crappers; on stickers loosely clinging on a lavish matatu –  perhaps one you had seen on a Geisha advert; in between the time you catch up with your favorite show on Maisha Magic. Girls like those don’t advertise Sportpesa, or infinix or Indomie –Such looks are only for some fetish Kenya Airways Ad, Vogue clothes line, and the weekly red carpet. Blah Blah Blah- anyways that’s not the point.


The thing about beauty is it makes you vulnerable, scared and misplaced. She was vulnerable – she was scared and I could feel it in my bones when she hugged me. The world expects you to be beautiful but not too beautiful. So it’s a dilemma sufficiently in itself- that wreaks vainfulness and mispriority. Yet a superficial bar imposed on most Kenyan Women, which sometimes is unattainable – and other times a goal for many.

Yet the most beautiful girl in the room has always been the show stopper. She cannot speak to someone’s boyfriend a sentence or two without sparking envy. It’s very much easy to calibrate her image in colors, fretting wonder and niceties- but so difficult to see her inside. So she coils unspeaking because you can’t always have it all. She tirelessly spends time examining the mirror looking back at her – because the world has made her think it’s the only thing she can offer.


Sadly, the very world takes upon its hand to judge her, to turn her around and weigh her by the tones of skin color, eyes, the line her mouth scants upon her lips, the size of her legs and whether her dimples are worth a kiss.   The anecdotes revolving around her life scantily, if not deeply – affect how she relates with people. Whenever someone tells her ‘she’s beautiful’; she doesn’t let that get into her so much. Because for years; her beauty has been sort of a weapon to catalyze un-requested favors from people. Getting things she never deserved just because she had a killer smile.


No one loves this kind of hype and especially when it revolves around beauty and popularity. Friends have stuck by her; but she can’t undress them beyond the superficial giggles and read their intentions. Maybe some are just there for the hype- just to be called her friend. But deep inside they want to strip her, to have her smile and keep it for themselves.

To destroy her.


Mathew Wakhungu, better known as Tao Tripper of the now separated Camp Mulla;  Tells Grace Msalame in the Unscripted Show – that Hype doesn’t change you, it changes those around you.

For years, you have dripped in the charm of people smiling at you and showing you  lots of love. You are armed with confidence and humility is an understatement, you’ve become a man of the people. The name on the headline; the face of the caption. This only changes them, your closest friends, who in turn change you slowly, intentionally or unintentionally – I won’t get into the detail, It’s quite philosophical.


The next time we met was after two weeks; the duration of time she wanted me to wait so that she could gently tell me what was wrong. I had waited impatiently – and as gentle as she was – quite easily delivered to her promise. It was a night – down one of those middle end joints along Muindi Bingu Street; her favorite spot for Japanese Sushi. Myself I had never eaten Sushi and when the table was spread with a tray, quite a fragrance was the welcome that I got lost in the eating rather than the talking.

The led lights inside the café had this calming effect – and would change color from time to time. The seduction was quite attractive – as they transformed her eyes from blue, to red then blue again. She asked me what it meant to lose someone I love – and I told her to me it meant never loving again.


But amidst the background of slow jazz music blended with chunks of karaoke Zilizopendwa – I digged dip into the pieces on my tray – shoving each into my throat; while she sat there- plucking every piece of her pain, and shoving each of those pieces into my soul.

Not as clumsily as I shoved the sushi into my mouth. But calmly and slowly, bittersweet grief narrated with some glow – Her face was shimmering and with the music; I felt the taste of the evening – today without Smirnoff, or Tusker or anything.

Just me and a teacher – she was teaching me how to reach out into the lumps in my soul; how to say no to pain; how to be weary and say no to show stoppers. It was her own story; told one after the other; about words she’d been told in judgment of her intelligence; Intelligence brought against her looks; about grief, about worry and about people; and men she had lost because she’d thought she had it all. Deep down I SECRETLY thought ‘you cannot always have it all’ yet that night I walked  away knowing what it means to just mean beautiful to people.