Do you ever wonder how different life would be if you hadn’t met someone? Or if Chemistry didn’t exist and you had to settle for a History major? Or society didn’t have this ingrained notion of who we are born to be? Or what success looks like?
From all my interactions in the past 3 months, it’s clear that the ecosystem around the pursuit of happiness is progressively changing. Social norms are quickly being eroded and that for many is liberation in itself. There’s a whole new crop of dreamers challenging archaic frameworks especially around career paths and what’s considered ‘acceptable’. Now, on the right side of history scribbling across my canvas, the youth remains the most monumental asset in orchestrating the future of our country and the stories we want to tell. Blind to the system, fresh eyes and fearless minds are championing change in style, art, film and music and that’s just a few of my favorite things. Needless to say, this year’s African Nouveau Festival was a must attend. The risk of FOMO was just too high.
It’s been four months since I visited Lamu. Of course I need not add the prolix revelation that it’s equally been four months of procrastinating this post. Granted, there’s some things more important (less exciting) like adulting, thesis writing and finding my voice at my new job that’s had my attention, but it’s 2019. I need to style up! Phew – (If you’ve met my mum you can detect the sarcasm).
Fashion Week has since passed and like that Migos anthem ‘Bad and Boujee’ that has continued to make up about a third of my random car karaoke sessions through traffic, David Koma’s Fall/Winter ready to wear collection that recently descended the runway has seemingly threatened (and easily succeeded) to be the latest earworm in my life.
If this last week has taught me anything it’s that a)Kenya’s nightlife (predominantly made up of Uber drivers and guys too old to “shoki and dab”) is way too lit b)short A-line dresses aren’t necessarily the OOTD of choice on 28º days experiencing monsoon winds and c)weaves, I repeat, WEAVES are in no way considered a standard protective hairstyle for anyone other than commercial models paid to smile for 60 minutes and get it over with…Believe me!
It’s exactly a month since my whole world rotated into a completely parallel reality. Barrack is out and somewhere along the white sandy beaches unconcerned with his fan mail or Trump’s conga of controversies lined up in no chronological order behind him waking up the masses from a bad dream to an even worse reality.
And after taking a break from any form of interaction on here, I can with much conviction say that I’m in a much better head space than I was a month ago, a couple of pounds heavier than I’d like to be and officially a degree holder – I’d say we need to celebrate but I’m afraid I’m back on the battlefield with these evil creatures called calories…can someone point me to where I can download a flat stomach? *YIKES*
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The thought of me growing old is coupled with strong emotional breakdowns and episodes of acute dramatization from the mere thought that one day I could wake up and find a strand of gray hair wiggling its way into the world and that scares every icy nerve on my body!
And like every other stereotypical new year new me chant, I happen to have fallen victim to what’s considered the most distasteful slogan of our time. Perhaps on the basis of a much unrelated context but then again I’m pretty certain the majority would argue that the odds are quite similar.
Last week I finally got the chance to visit the sitting room…you know the kind of places where only the potbellied, gray haired, musky individuals with really flashy cars like my dad and yours like to hang out chugging down bottles of tusker and nyama choma?