Braces 101.

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Growing up in a world where stereotypes and chestnut phrases define us, I always felt vulnerable and self conscious about my appearance and which category I fell into. Mostly because at the back of my mind I knew that one day my reality would revolve around metal bars gripping tightly to my cheeks and the smile on my face wasn’t necessarily by choice.

Happy 2016!

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Ushering in the new year meant fancy parties, overpriced sparkly dresses, overindulgence and numerous DUIs seeing as no one wanted to feel left out of the ‘fun’. That was far from my reality or at least I thought; A nice dinner with my girls, a couple more glasses of wine and off to bed I was…3 days later and here we are. Unlike most functional bloggers who had their new year posts ready and up come dawn of 1st, I was somewhere exhausted, sweaty but mostly sleepy and any effort to sleep while on the road only made me more tired than rested.

Food for thought.

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This past year has seen me pad your Snapchat feed with numerous kitchen and apron combinations with the occasional short videos of my favourite Masterchef Australia episodes that swing somewhere between gruesome rants by Pierre (and not size10) but acclaimed culinary master Marco Pierre White and yum yum desserts that would actually have you gaining a couple of pounds just by feasting over the screen; believe me I know!

The Olivier Rousteing.

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Because nothing screams demigod status than casually throwing in ‘the’ before uttering names worth remembering. Best known for his recent collaboration with retail powerhouse H&M that flocked streets with ranks and file of the #BalmainArmy, it’s no surprise that Olivier Rousteing was at the top of my list of favorites for 2015. In an industry that ironically requires validation, this millennial designer leaves his soul on each runway showcasing mind blowing ensembles curved to perfection as if to replicate his signature duckface selfies (possibly more famous than those of Mrs.West) that if you ask me are all sorts of legendary!

In transition.

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Two is invariably my number of preference. Two puppies to chase after at two P.M on a cloudless Sunday afternoon, coffee and cream, pen and paper, the perfect pair of fitted jeans and 2 more papers to go until I bid university goodbye…Whoop ūüėĬ†Regrettably,¬†yesterday took a melodramatic turn of events when Wambui and I spent 2 hours trying to comb out my hair.

Silver Lining.

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Arctic, clammed up, ivory, uninspired spaces have consequently become the highlight of my every waking moment. As if the occasional drenched bucket of icy water to give my feet a pulse of their own is not enough, I seem to be getting quickly acquitted to yucky flus and that classic Harry Styles hair do. Nothing as cute as you’d want to imagine seeing as mine makes me look like a hot mess¬†with no common understanding of simple grooming basics. A sight I dread but one that I am keen to¬†embrace!

Like Scarlett Johansson.

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Not to sound shallow, but the occasional flare of sculptured gowns, perfectly winged eyeliner, overly flat ironed tresses and mastered airbrush techniques have me bouncing lightly on this vanity cloud; I’m beginning to understand the fuss around fancy Hollywood events and why 10 hours is bare minimum when it comes to slaying the night!

Rooted.

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A descendant. A daughter. A queen. Titles handed to you and I simply because we hail from the land of milk and honey. Of fufu and chapati. Of countryside winds and city lights. Where our melanin radiates all the light we absorb. Where passion drives ambition and opportunities are self-perpetuating. Where sparkles fly over adroit hearts and stars illuminate from typical eyes. Where craftsmen engrave legendary masterpieces to the continent’s axis and melodic beats have the rest of the world feeling extra groovy.