Femmolution

1st Edition Published by Creatives Garage, Nairobi, 2016 Printed by ISBN 978-9966-099-18-1 Copyright (C) Creatives Garage 2016 Art Direction: Liz Kilili Copy Editors: Oluwademilade Adeniyi, Mwihaki Mundia Book Design: Liz Kilili Logo Design: Scadden Orina All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.

The stories and music herein were written and recorded by the various women for the Femmolution Series.

The publication of this book and album was made possible with the support of HIVOS, CG Studios and CG Agency. www.creativesgarage.org awesome@creativesgarage.org

Freedom is for the dead.

We are all imprisoned by our struggles.

Serene Resignation by Fayth W.

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The idea for Femmolution came about after a call for artist participation in the Sondeka Festival revealed more male participants than females. The question then became: where are the female creatives?

Femmolution is coined from a combination of the French word “femme” meaning “woman” and evolution. This is a call for woman evolution.

Other than supporting female entrepreneurs in the arts, Femmolution works towards empowering women into free self-expression and self-love.

It begun as a search for stories and music by women for women around the world and Africa to understand that their struggles, their pain and their triumphs are not their own but are shared by many out there.

In this, our first collection we cover a varied range of topics; living with a terminal disease, sexual orientation, physical abuse, sexual abuse and mental health are just a few among the myriad of information that this group of amazing women we reached out to have deemed fit to share with the world. Femmolution is not only revolutionary for the publishing industry in Kenya but will be part of a revolution, a release for all the brave women around the world, together we shall evolve.

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Preface Femmolution, or Femme Evolution provides us with a peek into the lives of Kenyan women and weaves narratives of what it means to be female and Kenyan. It is an exquisitely curated set of stories that tells of the experiences that women have lived through, young and old, in Kenya. It is still relatively rare to come across a collection of words from, by and through women living in Sub-Saharan Africa which makes Femmolution an important addition to the literary and feminist landscape. Working with a range of stories, Femmolution probes both narrated truth and personal history and through prose and poetry tells tales of women masterfully, joyfully, and often times painfully. The writer navigating spaces that are sometimes, but not always welcoming to her.

The central thread that unites these stories is that of journeys of evolution and discovery. They tell of (re)discovering green spaces in Nairobi ; Of rediscovered sexuality; Of (re)claimed hair. These stories are both remarkable, quotidian, are a microcosm of what the African woman often struggles with, and are representative of the uneasy lessons learned about what it means to be female in Africa. The stories also remind us too of what it means to capture one beautiful moment as felt through the purr of a happy pet.

They tell stories of regret created by an ailing healthcare system that anyone who has ever had to bury a loved one has probably been wracked by. They probe at existential questions- on what it means to be a woman in our African countries. The stories invite you to understand, and listen to what living in a world circumscribed by patriarchy, misogynoir and of rejecting the roles assigned to women. Of living Femmolution v

life with love, as a ‘side-chick’ and everything in between. They combine rage, sorrow, laughter, regret in a body of work that reminds us that post CEDAW; post prowomen and Pro-’Wanjiku Constitution’, it is still not yet uhuru. They bring home the fact that issues of bodily integrity, of violence against women, adequate mental and bodily health care are still out of reach for women. They remind me why (paraphrasing Baldwin), to be a woman in this country and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time.

The entries in Femmolution should certainly evoke the anger that is a prerequisite for consciousness and change to happen. The stories are told from a place where every third African woman will probably experience an assault in her lifetime.

Where eleven percent of women in Kenya will undergo FGM. Where despite the Abuja Declaration and right to health care being enshrined in the Kenyan Constitution, adequate and affordable health care is still a dream. Where mental illness is still stigmatised.

And while the stories are often times heart-rending, they are ultimately after all our stories, and I commend the publishers for ensuring that these stories can be heard.

Mendi Njonjo Director Hivos East Africa.

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Editor’s Note The problem I find with collective bodies of work is that too often the editors own style creeps into the writing. With femmolution I tried as hard as possible to avoid that. I strove to edit this work of women from all over our continent, some from here and others such as myself may as well be, as loosely as possible. A la the new wave of writing, laissez faire with style, flair and diction coming from the women who wrote the pieces. I may have more or less just run a spell check and pushed words around to allow for clarity. Each piece is an adventure, be it one of tragic loss or one of true love, each concludes in triumph.

I wanted that feeling to be out there in the world as strongly as I felt it while editing. Minimal interference with editing means minimal coherent flow within the stories. Yes, we have grouped them together as we see fit but as you read along you’ll realize that you could open any one piece and start from there. You’re free to explore the book, in fact you should. Chronology is for suckers anyway. Why follow the simple straight road when the one that curves through the trees is so much more scenic. After all, we’re women, we need to carve our own paths in this world that patriarchy insists we live in.

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[ Woman is strength by Liz Kilili ]

Table of Contents Serene Resignation i Introduction to Femmolution iii Preface by Mendi Njonjo v Editors Note by copy editors ix Woman is strength xi Femmolution Album credits xii

Anxiety/Fear/Doubt

Sucked into the blackhole Liz Kilili 2 My perfect imperfections Moraa Gitaa 3 Castles and battlefields Kins of Spade 11 Too many women are editors Geraldine Hepp 12 Flames Kins of Spade 13 Will she love me in the morning Kins of Spade 14

Violence What’s love got to do with it Rayhab Gachango 18 My beginning Kins of Spade 24 Don’t bite the apple Eve Bochere Kambuni 25 Mother Damaris Muga 29

Loss/Death/Separation Another chance Janet Ligare 36

In Faith, In Hope and In Love Sandra Chege 37 Today a girl died Liz Kilili 40 Next Liz Kilili 43 Mersed Liz Kilili 43 To lose yourself Maureen Odera 44 It’s quieter now Liz Amakove 46 Tick…Click… Liz Kilili 49 Last Night’s Trash Liz Kilili 50 Reflections Stella Nsubaga 52 Down under Irimu’s step Ray Mwihaki 54 Her eyes Liz Kilili 55 The house called ‘me’ Kingwa 56 Red suede mules Sitawa Namwalie 57 Her Waringa Wagema 60 Your wrinkles have no meaning Ray Mwihaki 62 Life lessons Cathy Gitts 65

Resilience Twist and shout Kingwa 70 Love and Light, The resilience of a woman Reshma Aziz Khan 71 Take a Chill Pill Kingwa 75 Mirror Liz Kilili 75 I die every night Liz Kilili 76 Polygamous relationship Ngwa 78 Tap Maia Von Lekow 80 Whispers Liz Kilili 82 Circumcision Kingwa 83

Save the nation Wandia Njoya 84 Abortions Kingwa 86 Today Geraldine Hepp 88 And then Liz Kilili 88 Perfect Liz Kilili 89 Sometimes Waringa Wagema 90

Common Thread

We Fayth W. 96 Acceptance Fayth W. 97 Freedom Fayth W. 98 Fear Fayth W. 99 Rejection Fayth W. 100 Anger Fayth W. 101 Self destruction Fayth W. 102 Control Fayth W. 103 Acceptance 2 Fayth W. 104

Self Love and other stories

Discovered treasures A litany for the man Who cherished my vagina Hers to love Confessions of a High Class Call Girl I fuck the hell I want

Kins of Spade

108

Aleya Kasam Kins of Spade

109 110

Rayhab Gachango Kins of Spade

112 120

Midnight Musings Valentine Ziki 123 Bend over Kins of Spade 125 Spells Kins of Spade 127 I’m here because of you Liz Kilili 128 She wants me Kins of Spade 130

Life Choices/Self realization/Acceptance Sandals In the Sand Janet Ligare 134 Demons Drown Ray Mwihaki 136 Dark Matter Ray Mwihaki 137 A Reason Mwihaki Mundia 138 Things that I do, Ways that I am Kingwa 142 Vanity Kaki Mundia 144 God’s children Liz Kilili 145 Validation and ideologies Liz Kilili 146 Grounded Liz Kilili 146 The Africa in my Hair Bochere Kambuni 148 Burden of Ethnicity Rose Odengo 152 Not Today Lord Wambui Lamu 155 Two realities Kins of Spade 159 I am she Liz Kilili 159 Letter from Misra’a Saida Ali 160 Engage Muthoni Gathecha 162

Contributors

You can’t live your life asleep.

[ Scatter Brain by Fayth W. ]

Sucked into the blackhole

by Liz Kilili

Sitting at the blackhole About to blackout Shisha in tow Wine from a box Puns about Job’s job Each trying to run From the hell that is And yet in our loneliness We find friendship.

For a minute it goes quiet Music plays at a distance All soaked in thoughts Of what lies to give Each wonders if The others situation Is harder to bear Minute ends, minds Come out of the inner hole.

“Do you remember Nancy?”

The stories start, the fears Forgotten but just for a moment Until the phone rings again And now we have to go Back to the plethora of Emotions, fears and doubts

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My Perfect Imperfections

By Moraa Gitaa

They told me I was dying on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Imagine on a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon. I laughed out aloud. Hysterically. What else was I supposed to do? I mean who would have thought of this? Cancer of the cervix. Just like so many women in Kenya, I had apparently been misdiagnosed several times over a period of two years. I had to await further results. Then my results were out. Then came that sunny Saturday afternoon. The enormity of the news didn’t sink in fully. Not even after my doctor uttered the words: “ I’m sorry Imani. Its cancer. Incurable. We can only try to control it.’’

I snatched the results from my doctor’s hands and glanced severely at the name on the sheet of paper. Thrice. It was mine. In clear black and white. Imani Baraka. Imani. Faith. Is this irony 101 or what? Should I now question my faith? Well, I’m now serving the fourth month of my death sentence. Literally speaking. All of a sudden I became very philosophical about death. My husband reacted in the opposite manner – he broke down. He was thinking of our two daughters. Was he going to continue raising them alone? Our two beautiful angels Neema and Pendo. Grace and love. Only 9 and 7 years old. Mere babies.

I would had to undergo a massive and radical hysterectomy during which my whole reproductive system was removed. After my surgeries I had to immediately start chemotherapy and radiation treatment. I had to undergo both treatments simultaneously in the doctor’s efforts to save me. The treatments felt like Femmolution 3

a death sentence. The daily treatments became routine. The hospital corridors, doctors and nurses became my friends. So for the few months, I have been living with the knowledge that I’m going to die.

I’m perfect. I’ve always been perfect. I never procrastinate. I’m a stickler for my rules. I go for yearly medical check-ups, pap smears, mammograms, BMIs, bone density checks. I’m the type of person who scrutinises tins, cans and bottles in the supermarket for ingredients, sugar, calories and cholesterol quantities. I’m the one who will tell you that those potato crisps and noodles from such and such a brand contain a cancer-causing wax and that I can’t feed them to my children. I’m also a gym fanatic. I’ve lectured all my siblings and my friends on the importance of getting their yearly mammograms and colonoscopies done. Then came this massive thunderbolt. I had been misdiagnosed and unfortunately the cancer has spread throughout my body and I am dying.

As a partner at one of Nairobi’s most prestigious law firms, I barely manage to juggle my husband, career, and two young daughters. I felt I had been blessed with my life and happy marriage until this lightning bolt of a diagnosis. All of a sudden a mere routine medical check-up turned my world upside down when the tests revealed the shattering news. What now? What happens to perfect people when every aspect of their perfect lives and well-being is threatened?

What do I now do with my perfect imperfections?

Monday has become my worst day. Mondays are usually just a lame excuse for other people to be cranky, but I think I had a legitimate excuse to have a case of the Monday blues. I needed to go back to the office to work! I spend many days now in my bedroom, trying to work from home on my laptop. Which is not very easy.

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My three best friends. The four of us met on the first day of nursery school 30 years ago and we’ve been close ever since. Each of us were drawn together that magical spark of connection that happens only to kids. We became inseparable. We even have our own chama which has grown into a formidable investment group. How do I – the perfect one – break the news of this dark and gathering storm to them? Should I do a post on Facebook? A short tweet on Twitter or a miserable selfie on Instagram?

At least after several counselling sessions with a trauma expert and a clinical psychologist, we have started talking to our babies in parables to prepare them for the eventual big confession; that mama is dying. It’s every mother’s worst nightmare to prepare your children for a life without you too early, knowing you will never see them grow older, go to college, get married or have babies of their own. I feel like there’s a volcano inside me waiting to erupt. It doesn’t feel fair and I am so scared about leaving my beautiful babies. My partners at our law firm know. I couldn’t keep it from them because they had to take over my clients cases.

While I was on postoperative chemotherapy and faced with the reality that my cancer had spread I went into denial and then the inevitable shock, I thought that my medical team must be wrong. I bombarded them with questions. My family inundated them with suggestions of how my previous history of fibroids could be responsible for a misdiagnosis. Of course I realise now how futile that was. However, I needed counselling to help me come to that realisation. What this means is that I am still suffering from the devastating news delivered a month ago. This meant not being able to sleep, not being able to get it out of my mind. Being scared, bewildered, confused and angry.

I am only 35 and here I am, diagnosed with advanced cervical cancer. The doctors are trying to justify and convince themselves that despite my yearly pap smears, an irFemmolution 5

regular pap must have slipped past and gone undetected! To say that my diagnosis came as a complete surprise, would be an understatement. On that sunny Saturday afternoon my perfect life was disrupted and irrevocably changed.

At the same time, this prognosis comes with even more excess baggage. It probably took me three whole months to be at peace with my diagnosis. I am now a bit calm and serene. I simply want to navigate through this with minimum stress. Yet the people close to me, apart from my husband, who is very supportive, are putting a huge strain on me daily. Extended family included. They don’t want to accept that I’m going to die. More so my four brothers and sisters.

They want a miracle. They go through Google trying to find alternative treatments that will cure me. So I spend a huge amount of my limited time left dealing with their baggage. Now, you would have thought that, as the lead character in this tragedy, they would grant me some preferential status rather than expecting me to counsel them.

But you know what? They don’t.

I have been with my husband for 10 years. We are lucky that we are even more in love now than we’ve ever been. Unless you were a fly on our bedroom wall on the night of that fateful sunny Saturday afternoon, you have no possible idea what the emotional stress was like. My husband Amani Baraka has to tend to me daily even though, I’m not dying at the moment. Amani Baraka. Blessed peace. How ironical. My husband and I had only the faintest sense that evening that our lives had been hijacked forever.

But I am dying. And the chemotherapy is a big contributing factor at this stage. I can’t escape it. With my treatment there is always a physical or psychological aspect that aggravates my emotional state. I and my husband both cry in despair and we laugh in equal measure. My husband now tries to shield me from our constant barrage of Femmolution 6

well-wishers. When I’m overwhelmed I think of a line in PD James’s book Children of Men, ‘ The world of the terminally ill is the world of neither the living nor the dead. I have watched others since I watched my father, and always with a sense of their strangeness. They sit and speak, and are spoken to, and listen, and even smile, but in spirit they have already moved away from us and there is no way we can enter their shadowy noman’s-land’. But when it comes to my dad and mum, it’s a tough call. They are 75 and 70 years old respectively. They haven’t come to terms with the fact that they will bury their daughter. At the same time they see themselves as the victims in this tragedy and not me, because parents shouldn’t bury their children.

I now have an idea why I didn’t cry on that sunny Saturday afternoon. It’s because I’ve always been the perfect one so I can’t run out of options. Some people tell me that I should be celebrating still being alive by confronting what it’s really like to die. I tell them that if I’m going to die, I will die courageously, gracefully and with humour. I will not die painfully, pathetically and bitterly. There are times when the nausea and pain is unbearable. The alternative solution to bear is the sedation, dizziness and grogginess that accompanies the pain medication. At least I sometimes have my family here with me. The side effects are bad. I seem to suffer from all the imaginable side effects possible.

I’ve lost all body hair. A woman’s crowning glory and all that! I’m constantly very tired and suffer severe joint pain on top of the nausea. The list is endless. My worst experience ever.

My mind is rarely sad. I hardly remember ever being miserable in my entire life. How do I start being miserable? The questions of how and why keep running through my head.

I had no symptoms at all. No irregular bleeding. No pain. No nothing. This didn’t make sense. I’ve discovered in this short time of my being indisposed that cancer provokes diverse reactions from different people. When you mention death to someone, they might think of a relative passing away in a tragic car accident. But do they ever think of canFemmolution 7

cer? Do they even ever think about they themselves getting cancer? They know death will happen to them one day but they always think that will be in the distant future, when they are grey-haired with grandchildren! I on the other hand think about it every day. About my dying.

When people mention death to me even accidentally, they immediately become embarrassed and apologize because they know I will think of my death and they’re right. Nowadays, I’ve become suddenly aware of all the tinybeautiful details of life. Like how the sun announces itself to my world each day, throwing me a golden glance through our bedroom window.

In her essay ‘Illness as Metaphor,’ Susan Sontag wrote about “the night side of life,” I keep reliving that particular passage in my head over and over again, “ Illness is the night side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.” When Sontag was diagnosed with cancer she tried to channel her anxiety in facing the challenge into her art and wrote this timeless essay. She talks of a kind of parallel universe that opens up when someone moves from the kingdom of the healthy into that of the sick.

Immediately I recalled that passage, I migrated to that new place the moment I was diagnosed. I wonder what my literature teacher would say to this? To the fact that I’m finally able to understand Sontag. To some it might seem obscene or even ludicrous to use a metaphor at a time such as this. But I am not afraid to die. Time and time again I find myself pulled back to Sontag’s essay and scroll to the passage where she quotes W.H Auden’s poem, ‘ illness is like some hidden assassin, waiting to strike you. Childless women get it. And men when they retire. It’s as if there had to be some outlet, for their foiled creative fire.’

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Sometimes in life, you need to know when to leave well enough alone. When to move on and not to go back and poke the snake with a stick. I made the mistake of going back before reconciling myself to my diagnosis and poked the snake. I insisted on knowing from my doctor how long I had to live. I kept rattling the snake until my doctor told me I had only one year at the most. Some cancer survivors can be sad but at the same time feel relieved that they have escaped the dark fate of death. But for those of us with terminal cancer, it’s another brutal reminder that the same fate awaits us. One day, you just can’t run fast enough anymore and death catches up with you.

That is why I went back to poke the snake. To know how long I have.

People might often see a cause-and-effect relationship with someone like me, who has a terminal illness and who has either become more religious or abandoned their religion. Sometimes people don’t believe me when I tell them that there’s no correlation between my religion and my illness. I trusted God. My families names all have a relation to our faith. ButI’ve recently faltered because I’m questioning God. I’ve become ambivalent with my faith. I don’t pray as much as I used to and I hardly go to church. One member of our Bible study recently came to visit me and asked me, “ Imani, aren’t you afraid that your deteriorating condition is God’s punishment for turning your back on him?” Like seriously! But maybe religion does have something to do with it, after all.

I now have a support group with whom I meet once a week. I still have too much left todo. Don’t get me wrong. I still don’t want to die. I have a huge bucket list of things to do. There are so many places I’d still like to see, the Sahel, Israel, Paris, but at the same time I’m not afraid to die anymore. I’ve been in a coma twice since my diagnosis and I know it doesn’t hurt. You can’t tell that time is going by and you don’t know what’s going on around you. You just wake up days later, wondering why all of the sudden it’s Femmolution 9

not Sunday anymore because that’s the last day you recall. I guess dying will be like my comas only that I won’t wake up. Now I’ve learnt to say ‘’I’m living with cancer’’ and not ‘’I’m dying of cancer.’’ My perfect imperfectionsnotwithstanding. I refuse to give up this fight for my life.

But I still ask, isn’t failure to diagnose hard to forgive? The lawyer in me wants to sue but of what use will it be?

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Castles and battlefields

by Kins of Spade

What I’m I thinking about?

Oh, just building castles in my head of this woman.

Look at her, look at how she walks, how she moves and giggles, as she suggestively looks at me.

Look at how the waist sways, how words pour out of her heart. Words I’m not sure what they are but they feel like words bundled out of love from her heart as they gently pass through those lips …

Look at her, look at the beauty within her, the scars that speak of her strength look at her, how she commands the room, how she laughs and smiles and laughs and then some more.

Would she look at me with her intense eyes? Would she laugh and light up my being?

Would her lips move with such precision as they would for him?

I guess I’ll never know, cowards die last in the battlefield of whats, ifs and coulds.

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Too many women are editors

by Geraldine Hepp

‘Too many women are editors’. Simone Weil.

A quote taped to the left corner of my laptop, next to the touch pad.

Someone who knows me well thought it was funny I had it there. Why? Because I don’t strike you as the type of woman who needs feminism?

I edit a lot. I edit myself. I edit in my work. I am not yet the author I know I can be. The author of my life, of my work, of the things that I can create.

I hesitate jumping into jam sessions. Still. At 33.

I remember those half-lit nights at the abandoned freight train station in Switzerland. Pushing myself beyond my limits, I tried to jam with the guys and my second-hand Fender guitar. The barman said I needed to start smoking and drinking whiskey, it would help my voice.

Oh my God, all of it was so excruciating. Instead of asking for help I thought I had to know it all by myself. There was no culture of girls learning how to do this and encouraging each other. I saw this again, in Nairobi, almost 15 years later. Girls jamming and apologetically smiling when they hit a wrong note. Giggling nervously.

I wanted to scream.

It’s not cute to be insecure. It’s not cute to be apologetic. It’s not cute to not stand in the fire of your vulnerability and instead mask it with all that nonsense. It’s not cute to be perfect. It’s not cute to not care. It’s not cute and it’s not necessary. Let’s start shining through the cracks and become authors.

Too many women are editors. Still. And for me this is not even about equality this is about the painful loss of beauty in this world that could be.

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Flames

by Kins of Spade She deserved my love but she was scared of it. It was like a flame consuming her and she didn’t know what to do.

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Will she love me in the morning?

by Kins of Spade

Will she still love me in the morning when she wakes up next to me and finds me battling the inner demons within Will she still love me when she realizes that I could be what her mind paints not Will she still love me when we are all outta’ love and what’s left is memories and pity Will she still love me when the demons crawl out of the darkness of my being Will she still love me when my nuisance overshadows the sweet words that once was Will she still love me when when all is gone sapped and dried to its very core Will she still love me when she unhears what she has been told and now loves herself a little more

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He corked it like a gun threw me to the floor Pain intense.

Memories lost.

[ All in my head by Fayth W.]

What’s Love Got To Do With It?

by Rayhab Gachango

The first time I saw him was at the bar. He and his friends were perched on bar stoolsdrinking whiskey. I had gone to order something at the bar because the waitress was taking too long, you know how it goes sometimes in a club. The waitresses are busy chasing after the male customers but if you are a female client sitting on your own they ignore you. It’s not that they don’t ignore you when you are seated with a man or a bunch of chicks but they ignore you more. That really pisses me off, that they are nicer to men because they expect a better tip or get drinks bought for them. But that’s a story for another day.

I had just left the office after winning a pitch, and I needed a drink to celebrate. My plans were going well. I was 25, and my life was going just the way I had it planned. I had gotten a degree by the time I was 22, I was working at an advertising agency as a senior copywriter and all I needed right now was the man to complete my dream of a princess wedding, two kids and a house in the suburbs.

The first thing I noticed was his delicious smell. He had on one of those colognes that make women feel instantly weak in the knees. He had a chocolate complexion, broad shoulders, was athletic looking and he had long legs. He had on an Italian grey suit, with a dark shirt and a blue tie. He looked yummy. I have a weakness for men who work out so I was already in lust. Damn he was fine.

I had just gotten my cocktail when a waiter on my other side pushed me as he took his order. My drink splashed on the back of the mystery man’s suit. He cursed and turned towards me to say something. But I think when he saw it was a woman he held his tongue.

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“Excuse me what did I do to deserve that?” he asked.

“I am so sorry. The waiter pushed me and I kinda lost my balance. I am usually not so clumsy. I am so embarrassed…”

I offered to pay for his dry cleaning. He laughed it off and told me it was ok.

“Can I buy you a drink then?

That’s when he looked at me from head to toe. I knew I was looking good. I was wearing a red dress that clung to my curves, I was a size 14 but with big hips and a big butt. I am quite pretty and with makeup I was looking beautiful. I was wearing hazel contacts. I am 5.8 and with my 3 inch heels I was really looking tall.

He looked interested. “Can I buy you a drink? You can take it to make it up to me!

Are you alone or with your friends? I am Kevin by the way.”

“My name is Marie. I am alone, just catching a drink before heading home. I guess I could join you … for one drink. I have a long day tomorrow and I don’t want to be out late.”

10 months later Kevin had been good to me. He was so generous with his time and money and I fell deep in love with this prince among men. He was so caring, gentle and loving. I felt so loved and special, all my friends were envious. He was perfect. After 6 months I moved in with him. Things were going well on the work front as well. We had gotten a new international client and things were intense at the office. We were working long hours and I often got home at 10-11 pm. Kevin was understanding about it or so I thought. One night we had to stay over the whole night because a brief was needed at 8 am. I got home at 5 am. I was so tired but didn’t even have time to sleep because I had to get ready for the meeting with client so I was going to shower, get dressed and get some breakfast and head out.

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When I got out of the shower Kevin was awake.

“Where are you coming from at this time?” he looked furious “I was at the office … I had to finish some concepts for a client” I said. It wasn’t a big deal. Kevin got out of the bed and came towards me. He started shouting “Why are you lying to me? Are you cheating on me?”

I was so surprised I couldn’t react. What the Hell?

“Kevin calm down. What is wrong with you? I told you I was at the office. What’s with the accusations?’

I never saw the slap coming. One minute I was applying makeup and the next I had fallen to the ground. I was in so much shock I didn’t even cry or scream. Kevin didn’t even apologize. He said calmly “You will not cheat on me Marie. You belong to me!” He went downstairs like nothing had happened. I walked out of that house vowing never to come back. I couldn’t even go to work because I was still in pain. I called in sick and I went to my girlfriend’s house to plan my way forward.

Later in the day I went for some of my clothes. Kevin kept trying to call me on my mobile phone and I ignored the calls. He left messages saying how sorry he was.

He begged for forgiveness and told me he would make it up to me. After 2 days he found out where I was. He sent me flowers, tried to call the house. Then he sent me a card saying “I am sorry baby I didn’t mean to hurt you. I love you. Come let me make it up to you. I will never ever hit you again. Come home baby.”

I was torn. This was the man I loved. He had been so good to me. I couldn’t believe that he would hurt me again. I knew him; he was one of the good guys. I went back and he was myold love, my best love. And that’s how it all began. *** I know you think I am naive, going back to him after he slapped me. I guess you would have told me to run as fast as my legs would take me. If you did I wouldn’t Femmolution 20

have listened. My friends tried to tell me that it was just the beginning but I didn’t listen.Things were pretty calm again. He never hit me again. At least not until after we were married. He had gone out one night and came home drunk. I was 6 months pregnant, and didn’t want to go out so I went to bed early. He came home at 2 am. I guess he was expecting me to be up waiting for him so that I could open the door.

He knocked furiously on the door but I was deep asleep so I didn’t hear him.

He called me on my mobile. When I came to open the door he was spitting mad.

He slapped me, asked me what kind of a wife I was, sleeping when her husband is knocking on the door. I tried to tell him I was resting. That made him see red.

He punched me in the breasts and then kicked me. I fell to the ground and started screaming. I felt pain in my abdomen. God was I losing my baby! I started screaming at him that I was losing the baby.

As if in a trance he switched back to the old Kevin. He told me he was so sorry. He couldn’t believe that he had done such a thing. “Baby it was the alcohol,” he told me.

He wept as hedrove me to the hospital.

“Baby I am so sorry. The devil entered me. Forgive me baby I never meant to hurt you.” He chanted over and over. When I reached the hospital I was taken to the emergency ward. The doctor looked me over and asked me what had happened. I looked at my husband. He looked so helpless and sorry.

He could not have meant to hurt me or our baby. I lied that I had fallen down the stairs. I didn’t know that this would be the first lie in a series of lies to come. I didn’t know that this would my first visit to the hospital and not the last.

“You are lucky you almost had a miscarriage. Be very careful that you don’t trip again” The doctor told me that I needed to be on bed rest in hospital for a week so I was admitted for observation.

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My husband came to see me everyday asking for forgiveness. He promised that he would never hurt me again. I didn’t know whether I believed him. I was pregnant and had no job. I had quit my job after I got pregnant. Kevin told me I didn’t need to work anyway. He was rich so he would provide everything I needed. I was living in my dream house in Karen, I was driving a Mercedes and I had more money than I knew what to do with. I was living the dream life … which was now starting to turn into a nightmare. Where was I going to go?

I didn’t know what to do and I knew I couldn’t go back home to my parents who were not well off and could not afford to feed two extra mouths. They were so excited when I married a rich man who could provide for me and for them as well.

So I went back home after one week to my husband. I thought he had learnt his lesson when I almost lost the baby. He was so loving and so excited when we got our son, Steve. Steve was the light of my life. Spoiled but sweet. We had another child after that, a girl called Mercy.

Most of the time things were good but sometimes my husband would get into a rage especially after drinking, he would hit and punch me. Once he broke three of my ribs and another knocked out two of my front teeth. He always took me to hospital and paid the bills. I used to tell the doctor that I was a klutz; clumsy and accident prone. I tried to leave sometimes but he always came begging me or my family to give him another chance. I got to learn that Kevin’s father had also been an abuser, but nobody talked about such things in wealthy circles. Kevin had inherited his father’s temper and abusive ways.

Things came to a head when Steve was in primary school, around six years of age.

We were called to Steve’s school and told he had beaten up a girl who had taken his book. In the headmaster’s office my husband brushed it off as a minor incidence.

“That’s just how boys are. Sometimes they like to fight. It doesn’t mean he is a bad Femmolution 22

boy” I told Steve off for beating a girl. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Then if it’s bad to hit a girl why does dad beat you?” I was too embarrassed to reply.

But as I looked from father from son I had a premonition. I saw what my son would become one day to another woman if I didn’t do something.

My husband dropped us home after verbally abusing Steve for discussing home issues in public. He also told Steve to expect a beating when he got home. He wasn’t angry because Steve had beaten up the girl but because of saying in front of the headmaster and teacher that his father beat me. I knew I would also get a beating because my son had dared to discuss our domestic issues in public and embarrassing Kevin. I waited for my husband to leave. Then I went and packed my clothes and those of my children. I went into the wardrobe and removed a stash of cash I had hidden and a bank account card. I had been saving money for the day I needed to leave.

I told Kevin we were going visiting and we needed to get his sister from school.

Without looking back at the big house with it’s beautiful furniture and everything a woman could dream of, I closed the door to my nightmares and opened a gate to a new life. I wasn’t going back to my parents because my husband would find me there. I had made a friend who my husband didn’t know about. She had seen what my husband had done to me on numerous occasions and she had told me if I ever needed a place to stay I could go stay with her. She is the one who encouraged me to save money for a day when I would need it.

I know this will be hard. However in the end to save my children, whom I love more than myself, it’s time to get out. I am praying to God for strength to help me do what I have to do for my children.

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My beginning

by Kins of Spade

He thrust it in so far I thought he’d lose it, his heavy breathing burnt my insides as he thrust. In. then out.

He worked me like a toy, feelings he didn’t care and with each move in I felt my insides rip and self lost.

Happy thoughts. Think, Play dead.

Try to enjoy. be one with soul.

He didn’t mean to, he couldn’t stop, it was my fault, my scar to wear, crossed eyes.

Jerk off. Squirm, Toss. Sigh. Turn.

His end became my beginning

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Don’t bite the apple Eve

by Bochere Kambuni

Angela, only sixteen, Seated on a bench on the busy streets, Belly so large she can’t see her feet, Heart so heavy she can barely breathe, Baby mama with nowhere to sleep; Mama been dead six years, Daddy beat her so hard, nearly killed her So she had to flee, Baby daddy don’t wanna see her, Says the youngin’ ein’t his.

Feeling on the bane of her body and soul, This is it, the bitter end, Love is foolish.

Wait, please! Don’t bite the apple Eve! Njeri, young and independent, Met a man so fine and suave, five months ago, From a broken home to broken relationships, This one felt like good fortune; From quaint restaurants, And ruby red roses, To spontaneity and royal treatment.

Then Njeri gets late for their date, He gets really mad, almost has them thrown out, Apologizes later, and she thinks she’s in love.

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Gets mad again, sees her talking to another guy, Her cousin. Beats her up, But takes good care of her afterwards.

And she knows she’s in love.

Don’t think she can stand his beatings and gets out, But his cute puppy dog eyes pull her back, he looks so lonely.

Now she’s in hospital with cracked ribs and a broken leg, Court case next month, restraining order will do for now, Love is blind.

Listen, please! Don’t bite the apple, Eve! Lillian, sweet Lillian with a conscience, Oldest child in a family of eight.

Daddy died years ago So mama worked from early evening to early morning To make ends meet, But got sucked in so deep; she met a beast, Lost her soul, then eventually her body too, And now lies cold six feet under.

So Lillian, next of kin, Who had been defiled by the beast in plain sight of her mother, has nothing left to lose, and jumps right into the cycle, “to make ends meet.”

Now Lillian lies in a hospital bed, With a terribly diseased body and an already departed soul, and helplessly watches history repeat itself, as Faith, just two years younger than Lillian, and already with a daughter of her own, now dances to the same twisted tune, Femmolution 26

a Jezebel in her own right.

Life’s a brute.

Don’t bite the apple, Eve!

[ Hiding by Fayth W. ]

MOTHER

by Damaris Muga He walks from the bedroom of mother’s 2 and a half roomed semi permanent house.

He sits in the sitting room of mother’s 2 and a half roomed house.

He is dressed up, but doing final touches.

He is wearing his socks.

Mother walks in from the half room into the sitting room where he sits.

Wearing his socks.

Mother throws coins and an Aerogram on the table in front of him.

Where he sits wearing his socks.

Mother has short kinky hair Beautiful hair that glows in the sunlight.

Mother walks to the door and stands at the door.

Mother is wearing a beige dress with white stripes.

Mother stands at the door combing her beautiful hair.

Mother’s comb is a green plastic fist that holds metal.

Mother combs her hair at the door way.

He is rapid and fast for his size.

He moves fast He grabs mother from the back Mother is not expecting it because mother has been talking

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While she combs her beautiful Hair.

The struggle is silent and astonishing Mother does not wail or shout Maybe mother does I cannot hear voices I see pictures I am six Little brother is 4 I hold his hand the entire time Mother holds onto metal bed that lays in the half room There is a pot next to mother The pot does not break.

Mother is mute Mother holds on to the bed He pummels and kicks mother.

Teacher Mary has arrived Teacher Mary is holding me and little brother by the hand Teacher Mary is walking us away Mother is Walking away Mother is fading towards the gate I see mother I see mother disappear Mother is defiant and little Twenty three.

Mother?

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Mom? You not fight back?

Mother SPEAKS I was with child.

Mother is holding on to the metal bed in the half room Mother is hopeful.

Mother My Queen My Mother I am not Mother Mother says I cannot be Mother .

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[ Misfit by Fayth W. ]

When it’s time, I ask that he may hold my hand and lead me into the next.

Loss

[ Paranoia by Fayth W. ]

Another Chance

by Janet Ligare

Three years later and I still remember when you asked me to hand you the emergency call-button just incase you needed to call the nurse. I tugged at it but it was too short to reach your bed. “The nurse is right out here mum, just call her if you need anything.” You smiled and closed your eyes; we all walked away.

Three years I’ve spent, reliving that moment. Wondering if I should have tugged harder or found another ward with a working callbutton. Wondering if you tried to reach for it as you struggled to breathe. Wondering if the nurse heard you gasping for air as you tried desperately, to get her attention. Or if she found you already gone.

Give me another chance, I’ll do better by you mum. I’ll make sure your call-button works. I’ll stay by your bedside so that I can call the nurse when you struggle to breathe. Heck I’ll make sure you land in a hospital with better post-op care mum. I’ll give up some luxuries and get you proper insurance so you don’t have to worry about the bills.

Give me another chance mum. I’ll do what you would have done for me.

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In Faith, In Hope and In Love

by Sandra Chege

Afua ni mbili, kufa na kupona ( Deliverance is of two kinds, dying and getting better) Dear Nyokabi, This is not going to be good, but you need to hear it.

There is no version of your past, present and future that does not include Nyawira.

You will always love her.

You miss her every day and You forget her a little every day.

You grieve her often and when Beyoncé does anything of note you will reach out for her.

I think of all the things that I can tell you those will always be true.

I have started this letter at least 50 times. I don’t really mind because I suppose she has read all the versions over my shoulder. ….

I remember the day we heard that Rapho died. It was never clear whether he jumped or whether he was pushed. And because you don’t know, he dies twice. You are young, and you have never experienced this kind of loss. You will go through cycles of illogical blame, inconsolable sadness and shock. You will question your role, your relevance, and your friendship. You will not connect any of these dots until Nyawira passes. ...

Nothing can prepare you for the loss of great love. Living in a space of loss is a tireFemmolution 37

some existence. The sun gives no warmth, and sleep becomes exhausting. Nothing fits.

Your smile, your laugh, do nothing to bridge the vastness of this experience…Your existence for at least one year is a low hum, a lower and deeper hum than the one your laptop has now with a fan that struggles to circulate enough air to keep us going.

You are changed forever. You understand that. ….

Two years in we know how to angle the computer so the air flows better.

There are times that I mention Nyawira in conversation so casually and naturally that I radiate warmth. There are times I cannot say her name out loud without it choking me as tears roll down my cheeks.

Both are equally surprising. …..

Clichés are clichés because they are true. It really is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.

Loss is difficult. Love is complex. Both are somewhat inevitable.

Because you have basked in faith and love I know there is hope for us yet.

To yourself and others remember to be kind and generous of spirit. Be present and make time to share in the doubts, hopes, fears and dreams of others. Speak of your faith and give of your love.

Love because in the end that is all that matters.

Yours, Nyokabi First published on www.hadithi.co.ke Femmolution 38

[ Joy in all by Gloria Muthoka]

Today a girl died

by Liz Kilili Today a girl died…

I didn’t know her,I was just as shocked to hear she died.

I hear she slit her wrists. I guess she was just drained.

I wonder what went through her head as she did it.

I’m sure you’re thinking why the hell she would do it.

But if you ask me, I am kinda’ mesmerised almost star struck. I mean…Well sure, persecute me as I talk about what your private thoughts wander when you think God isn’t watching. Picture it for a moment.

Sits in comfort, knife in tow, clouded thoughts slowly pierces skin…thoughts rushing, memories flashing. the pain. INTENSE. blood oozes. Dizziness. Self doubt. Maybe a little premature.

Finally. Rest. Over to the next.

Maybe she had a good life, bratty behaviour that was.

Attention seeker. So fed up with how needy she is Get a life. Rolls eyes. She was such a good girl.

Top of class. Cute boyfriend. Gorgeous body What more could Vanity possibly want?

Maybe life just wasn’t. you know…maybe some are meant to live and others…

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just die. life handed her death. death gave her a way out of life. We could stand here throw stones but you’ll never know the real why of her current situation.

But really. Why did she have to slit her wrists Was the thrill the most pain it could be?

How many other ways would be less intrusive nothing like a little monoxide to give that punch maybe pills? a rope? jumping to oblivion?

Today a girl died…

I’m not sure why or what went through her head don’t know why she did it but as I sit here and listen to your high horse monologues I’d like to think that she finally found it in the next what she didn’t find on earth.

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[Artwork by Gloria] Femmolution 42

Next

by Liz Kilili Crying could not come close to healing the heartache in her soul.

Her virginity was no longer existent as he moved on to the next

Mersed

by Liz Kilili She sat there reading poetry Mersing’ herself into it like dear life. Love had left She had nothing else to Hold onto. Other than the words In her beat up book

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To lose yourself

by Maureen Odera

To lose yourself In the noise In the loud but silent noise To drown Sink so deep you don’t know how far you have fallen And the noise The noise from your boss, from your spouse, from your children From the silent screaming in your head You wonder, what happened to her?

The dreams she had Bungee jumping off a cliff, swimming with the sharks getting wasted in Amsterdam Dancing with a dark stranger in Jamaica, riding a bicycle in the narrow streets of Italy White wine and pasta for breakfast, cannelloni for lunch and Tiramisu for dinner She stands in front of her mirror and doesn’t recognize the person looking back at her She is lost Somewhere in all the noise

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[ Artwork by Chela. ]

It’s quieter now

by Liz Amakove 0303 hrs.

I wake up from my light sleep. I was dreaming I got a sponsorship to go to the US. The catch was I had only one day to get a VISA. Too much Obamania. He’s come andgone. Kenya put their best foot forward. I am proud to be a Kenyan.

The euphoria has affected me subconsciously. Then again, it could be that my mind is telling my body that it needs a break. The weekend coincides with a decision I made. To go public about my separation. What inspired me, you ask.

I don’t know. All I know is that I needed to do it.

I needed to silence the wags. The whispers. The knowing glances. I needed it to come from me. It’s interesting the feedback it elicited. Shock: I mean, after all the posts that I put up about having a successful career, wonderful kids, side hustles etc. How could I do this?

How does someone who has such a positive outlook on life undergo such turmoil beneath? I say, it is possible. Sometimes one escapes by focusing on other areas of life with a determination to make them work. They realise they can only change what is within their control. And they do.

Empathy: a few courageous ones sent me private messages. They’ve been through it.

They are going through it. Both male and female. While yet another asks if I Femmolution 46

could hold their hand as they go through the same? I hesitate. I am not a professional. This is my journey. My circumstances are very different from another.

I chose the unconventional path. It is not easy. I do not think any less of those who choose to stay. They too put up a courageous fight. All I know is that it has been a long time coming. When the last straw came, I knew I had to do it or lose myself completely. I am seeking professional help. It is not an easy journey but no one said life will be easy. And so to those who have gone ahead, I respect your resolve. To those still struggling, I pray that you find your path. That’s the hardest part. And to live with the consequences of your choice. Above all, I pray that you stay true to yourself. To those who are able to give it one more chance, I do pray that that chance will be the turning point into something beautiful.

Shame: they ask, how will it be now? Why don’t you just wear the rings? No one needs to know. Why did you go public? Why not work it out privately? What happens now? To your image? Your career? Your kids? What will the villagers say to your mother? Have you thought about others? Isn’t this a selfish move?

Life is not all about yourself? Indeed, it is not. But, I only have one life to live. I cannot live for others. Sometimes one has to be selfish to be true. Toxic relationships have a far worse impact on the kids than being apart. I choose to do it this way. I don’t know what the future holds but I know the present. And I am happy with the present.

The fighters: Have you prayed about it? I know about this 40 day fast. Have you read the book, ‘Fascinating Womanhood’? Have you talked to a relationship counselor? Have you talked to his family? His friends? Him? Have you exhausted all avenues? Have you tried to be submissive? Have you toned yourFemmolution 47

self down? Have you forgiven, 77 times 7 times? Can we have coffee? I know you. You are a strong woman. Men don’t like strong women. Have you... I read about... I know someone who... I think you should... Well meaning advice. It remains that. Advice. Been there, done that, bought the T Shirt. By the time a person arrives at a stage where they give up on something that’s meant to be beautiful, trust me, they’ve tried several options. Sometimes all that one needs to say is, I am here. I will be here. I respect your choice. I will support you. I may not understand or agree fully but I am here. Simple.

What next? To be honest, I don’t know. One day at a time. Healing is paramount. Professional help is a must. I get relief penning my thoughts. So this is a start to many more. While I will go out of my way to protect the privacy of all parties concerned, I do hope that my journey as I do with other spheres of my life, will serve to reach out to someone in need. It shouldn’t be an endorsement of separation or divorce. It is just but one of remaining true to oneself and knowing that in the end that’s all that matters.

People will talk either way. Stay in a toxic relationship, they’ll wonder why. Get out of it. They will ask why you didn’t try harder.

So for now, the silence is welcome. As I process through stuff, all I need now is to be able to listen to myself. Drown out the noise. Go back to where I started from. Build it again.

One brick at a time.

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Tick … click …

by Liz kilili

Tick, tock I’m eight I can’t wait I think I’ll do it No I can’t My mother will kill me.

Tick tock stupid! stupid! stupid!

Thump! Thump! Thump!

Why do I feel so stupid When will this feeling end I want to be 16 and dead Tick tock 16 and alive I hate that I’m still here; when will this end; gears shifting, clutch failing; end. when will this end click click I’m 25, still here take me. take me I don’t wanna be here why won’t you take me Click! Click! //.

Femmolution 49

Last night’s trash

by Liz Kilili

I’d like to think he fought as he breathed his last trying to hold on to anything as he fade to black.

Maybe he put on a good fight leaving the man with a few good bruises. Maybe he tried to hide his heart as he sliced it like a piece of Elliot’s bread Maybe he looked out to us to help him as he had all these years. Maybe his last call was my name and I didn’t hear but how could I, why didn’t I feel it daddy, why couldn’t I be there as you took that last final gasp of hope topped up with a sigh of past regrets did you lie there alone like a piece of last night’s trash waiting for a pick up into oblivion?

Femmolution 50

[ Solitude by Sylvia Gichia]

Reflections …

by Stella Nsubuga “ Hi. I hear you’re now motherless. Like me! ” The words hit me like a slap. I blinked hard, stunned at the cheeky, flippant trivialization of the indescribable ache in my heart. Was it because we were from different cultures? Was it the yawning age gap? I simply stood still, dumbfounded.

After twelve days in the ICU, Maama died from massive organ failure, triggered by rare flesheating bacteria. The pain of the loss is still raw, a heavy sadness lurking deep inside me, breaking through to the surface in a flood of tears at unguarded moments. I have now discovered how intensely personal grief is – an experience that defies definition and is almost impossible to share, even with the closest family members or friends.

My mother was a strong-willed woman. Whether I was just being truly my father’s daughter, or we were like magnetic poles repelling each other, Maama and I had a turbulent relationship during my troubled teenage years, characterized by seemingly endless arguments. My parents ’ marriage had collapsed, and her emotional energies were channeled into her own personal survival.

Inevitably, over time, we both allowed our relationship to deteriorate like an untended garden. She was outspoken, never mincing her words for whoever had earned her displeasure. Tact was not her forte.

I got saved in 1993, and immediately set out to try and seek reconciliation. Taking advantage of a family reunion to approach her tentatively and placate her, I was

Femmolution 52

unsurprisingly met with obstinate refusal. Her eyesight was failing, with glaucoma in one eye and a cataract ravaging the other. She scoffed, “ Hah! That daughter of mine would never come to visit me! ” I was undeterred by these remarks of apparent rejection for, several times, I caught her peering at me with undisguised, but cautious, curiosity. And love.

I persisted in prayer, asking God for just one uninterrupted weekend with my mother so that we could begin again. Our God, who does things “exceedingly abundantly, more than what we ask or imagine ” , gifted me with a two-week, all-expenses paid holiday to South Africa. It was two firm friends that boarded an SAA flight back home!

Lately, even as Alzheimer ’ s befuddled her memory, and her health steadily declined, she never doubted that she was loved by all her children.

I have no regrets.

Yes, I am motherless – as are my two brothers and two sisters. However, it remains, uniquely, our loss alone.

Femmolution 53

Down under Irimu’s step

by Ray Mwihaki

Your suicide is slit wrists Pokes and piercings Hunger pangs Yanking the one you Thought was yours Hanging under the mango tree Ever so green Yours is eighteen years alive Spewing the bowels from the crevice of the inner lining After the fourth bend.

Your suicide is diving headfirst Into the tar packed gravel In razor sharp water Free for all Freedom from the bounds Of earthly realms That irimÛ once stomped Down Down, yours is a little wet.

Femmolution 54

Her eyes

by Liz Kilili I try to see past the darkness in her eyes She is screaming for help deep within her soul She can’t reach it though. She doesn’t Understand it. It feels like a thing She felt once but she doesn’t quite Remember. Her soul is chocked in soot Her soul. where is it.

I try to see past the pain in her eyes She tries to smile with her eyes But all I can see is a child lost within Her dark soul. Her soul probably Doesn’t exist anymore, like the Inner child that got lost within her eyes I try to see past her flickering dim Lights. Lights slowly dying like a Candle in the presence of the moon She is lost. She probably can’t be found Within the debris of the hurricane of pain Her flickering soul tries to reach out Her flickering soul tries to call out Her flickering soul tries to scream Her flickering soul tries to cry Her flickering soul dies out and the life that once was disappears

Femmolution 55

The house called ‘me’

by Kingwa

I’m done with the foundation, it’s absolutely first class too dark for vermin, too deep for trash we’ve moved to the basement, for which toiling we did weep and informed the decision to have the stairs leading up steep.

Now we’re laying out the corridors, putting up the walls it’s still taking hard work, muscle, brawn and balls.

But the chunk of it’s behind us, we’re all good and through With the lower parts settled, the rest any fool can do.

I guess I should be happy, at this long happy-ever-after, but to think about it makes my eyes water with nostalgia I love to feel sheltered, secure and warm but oh what ecstasy, to be out in a storm!

Bright lightning sizzles, rolling thunder booms death at every corner, his outstretched hand enticingly looms.

Now i’ll sit in my new house, take a nice little rest, potter around the garden, tend to my nest As long as I have my basement, I guess I’ll be a happy girl, dark nights will find me inside it, manically screaming into the whirl.

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Red Suede Mules

by Sitawa Namwalie

Nachire musome, nanyola khakhanga, Khakhanga khafwa khale Namkhuju jusa engao khukupane ni wekhichu…

No! Wekhichu kuyuni kukali…

Kwakhupa kwa njoveresia, kwanjusa uwunyokosi …

No! Why can’t I remember!

Is this all I have left, legends and half remembered stories.

I am so surprised it has come to this.

My world is lost, misplaced without trace!

Legends and half remembered tales, Bare bones with no meaning attached to them.

My badly tied lesso falls off my hips threatening to expose my virtue.

I make ugali so full of uncooked lumps, my husband won’t eat it!

My hands are unskilled, my kiondo unravels, falls apart in a minute.

Home is alien, Or is it me an alien at home?

I lost my people as easily as that time in 1979 when I lost one of my new red mules.

A gift from my father, for me, the first born mwana mbere, the golden child.

I lost one of my new red mules, suede like Elvis Presley’s, Heels, four inches high, I walked with the coltish uncertainty of a new giraffe.

Red and soft, of no use at all, except to declare love.

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Red and soft, just to please the eye, my red suede mules.

I lost one shoe in a sudden rainstorm, Gushing water from the sky swept everything away, Tumbling water emptied into open ditches.

I slipped, one red mule flipped, and was swept away by the flooding water.

I abandoned all dignity, chased that shoe.

I got down on my hands and knees, Blinded by torrential rain, I fumbled, frantic!

I watched my shoe disappear into the mouth of a yawning culvert.

I never found it.

Like that red mule I tried hard to hang onto some of my culture.

In the end I just had to let it go.

I realized it was always a mirage anyway.

Looking back all the time filled me with nostalgia for a skin I had shed even before I really knew it.

Before I could own it as mine.

For those of you who have wondered how a culture, a language, a people are lost?

Forgotten without trace?

I am one of those answerable for the loss.

That’s what you’re thinking isn’t it?

You’re thinking yes, she is just the type, just the type to lose her red mules.

I thought so too, once.

I was dissatisfied, I was tormented by the desire to return to a place that does not exist for me.

It does not exist for me!

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Or so I once thought.

Once, I berated myself.

I gave in to a chorus of false accusations.

You are alien.

You are not a real African.

Are you enough?

I thought so too, once.

And then; I stopped beating my chest.

I stopped listening to my detractors.

I opened my eyes; I found myself right here; at home.

I had never left.

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Her...

Waringa Wagema I only realized I missed her... when I kissed her...

I only realized that I craved her when I caressed her...

I only realized that she’s worth it because I didn’t have it...

I only realized how letting go is fuckery because she makes me happy...

Femmolution 60

[ Slave Girl by Fayth W. ]

Your wrinkles have no meaning

by Ray Mwihaki

In the village where we grew Where toil was all we knew And the sorrows made our laughter It was want that made us new Each morning and ever after For you my toil was true That you’d never ever suffer But I seem to have been wrong by you No jiggers on your feet No nightly predators came after In the village where we grew To school we walk on soles bare On rocks and thorns and jiggers loved us so Our dreams with thorns drew The paths of our happy ever after Yet you with your clicks and taps Have no clue what pain could be Why can’t you be so strong as we Your paths so smooth and clean Movies on your screen day after another How could you be the mad one If it was to come to us It would come to me For suffering and torture and pain In my youth I did face In the village where I grew Femmolution 62

They walked without their clothes Wearing trash on their heads It was but witchcraft’s end That tore them from their minds How could you claim to be As they were in my youth And God has saved your hide From witches and their evil trys Girl, where is your pride You haven’t suffered yet I know I have not failed Take those claims to their death I wish I had your life I can’t see why you’d pain and ache In the village where I grew

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[ Fres Fis by Liz Kilili ]

Life Lessons

by Cathy Gitts

One morning as I was walking towards the office off Kindaruma Road, I saw a tiny kitten meowing as it walked towards me. My first instinct was to pick up the little fuzz ball and get it out of harm’s way because I was certain if I left it there it would be crushed by the cars using that road to escape the notorious Ngong Road traffic. As I approached the gate to the fence where it had crawled under, I asked the watchman if this kitten was theirs and if he could take it inside. To my surprise he voiced what had also astonished me, on observing how the kitten had clutched onto my sweater he told me in Swahili to keep it, “vile ime kukubali na mama yake ako na wengine wengi, enda nayo”. (“the way it’s accepted you and it’s Mother has more you can go with it.”)

As a cat lover I was delighted, but just a year before when I got married, my husband had declared a no pets policy for our new life together, and as I had not kept a pet in a few years, I figured I could live without them so I had agreed. But now here I was, holding this tiny kitten who had started making that motor sound they make when happy, purring?….how could I decline the guard’s offer?

I walked into our office to my colleagues amusement, called my husband and informed him that a tiny kitten had found his way into my arms and I would like to bring him home from work that evening. He surprised me when he said “Remember, there’ll be no taking him back! “ Needless to say, the rest of the day at work was hardly productive as my workmates and I attempted to keep the kitten off our computers and in a box we’d found and placed a saucer of milk from our mid-morning tea supply. But the curious little thing was irresistible.

Later that evening after work I sped home and jumped into the shower with a T-shirt on because I needed to wash the kitten which smelt like car oil from sleeping under cars Femmolution 65

parked in the office next to ours. That night we watched an old movie with the star named Judah Bel Har and that became the name of our new found pet. Judah spent the next year and a half with us and grew into a strong healthy cat, playing tag of war games with my hubby and cuddling with me when I was home alone.

Judah was quite distinguished and well behaved; loved by all the kids in our court , they even nicknamed us Mama and Baba Judah. His affection for my husband and I grew and caused him to be the joy of our lives, behaving more like a puppy than a cat, following us everywhere even on weekends away to my mums. One day Judah left in search of a feline in heat and never returned, he left a hole in our hearts no other cats can fill, and trust me many have tried sneaking into our house.

We miss him, often talk about him and sometimes I imagine he will return someday.

But the lessons Judah taught me will always stay with me.

Love today like there’s no tomorrow. (Show affection to those you love, snuggle, touch or sit by them) Eat your best part of the meal first.

Always find time in your day to play.

When the sun is out, bask in it for a few minutes.

Stretch when you get up from sleeping.

Express yourself until your needs are met. (Persistence wears out resistance) Pursue your goals with stealth and determination. (I wish you’d seen him hunt for birds) It’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.

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Love left. So I packed my bags and followed suit.

Strength

[ Beautiful Ruins by Sylvia Gichia ]

Twist and Shout

by Kingwa

Straight trees are found in thick forests where, because clustered together there’s no space to lean out, to bend, to reach out, in search of beingness.

Straight trees are also found in man made plantations well ordered, neat and aligned the skin of their barks almost uniform destined but for the saw mill and you get the sneaking suspicion that even fully grown they never really reached the true heights or widths of their true selves.

So fret not when you look upon yourself and find your own trunk partly twisted, bent out of shape.

It means you followed the wind as it called held the rain when it fell embraced the sun’s scorching glare.

The absence of cover has made you beautiful in your own unique way and whether by fate or by choice the shape of your form will always declare: I stood, alone.

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Love and Light, The resilience of a woman

by Reshma Aziz Khan

You are love and light, and this is strengthened when it encounters opposition. The adversary in your midst is the one who seeks to box you in a wrestling match, the source of your new power and giftedness. But to achieve this you need to walk into this as a warrior of love. You may be wounded, but more than this, you will swallow the bad energy and expand your power of good. I love you brave little sister. Your calling is greater than even you know’.

If anyone had told me these lines 6 years ago, I would probably have scoffed and claimed that this was ‘all too hippy’ for my liking. But just as the universe must change its cycle at some point, my life spun around on a 360 degree axis, and safe to say, things were never the same again. So a very very big THANK YOU to the woman power who said that – Yvonne Adhiambo, renowned author and Femme extraordinaire!

I call myself an ‘internationalist hippie’ and believe in the powers of the Universe to answer our every call! But getting here was the hard part. I lost my father when I was 14 years old, and as much as many Kenyans believe that the wahindi like me are rolling in money, that is not always true. My mother was left to take care of 2 young girls, her own family far away in Canada, and my father’s family not the most supportive. She struggled her entire life – sold our house, had to sell our safari company because we had large debts but also because tourism in Kenya had completely fallen, and we were at the tail end of that fight to keep going. She put us through school against all odds and tried to give us the best education she could. My sister and I studied very hard and when time came for university my mum did everything she could to beg people to sponsor us. My aunt – her sister sponsored me and I got to go to the University of Calgary in Canada, and my sister got a community-based scholarship to the University of Cape Town in South Africa.

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I studied really hard and finished my degree in three and a half years when it should have taken four. As soon as I was done, I came back to Kenya to look for a job in the non-profit field, which was not easy at all, despite what you may hear from many people. I was very lucky to meet my mentor then, who got me my first job with a non-profit, a 2 month consultancy. In the middle of this, with my meager earnings and those of my mum going to support my sister in South Africa, my mum called me in the middle of the night one night, when I was in Mandera (not my ideal place of work but I needed the money and the experience) to tell me my sister was depressed, had failed her university term and needed to be brought back to Kenya. So there went everything I earned and had in my bank account – which literally had to be shut down because there was no money!

On 28th June 2010, my mother was diagnosed with Ovarian cancer. I was the only one who knew at this point (not even my sister knew) that it was stage 4. The doctor told me privately that my mother only had 6 months to live. I was 24 years old and all of a sudden I had this burden to bear. You would think this would crush me, and more so, my vibrant mother. But women are resilient. She took it all in stride, of course after the first meltdown. My mother loved her hair, as many of you here probably do too! When we were younger, she would have a different hair color every two weeks – really! One time she was convinced our newly trained neighbor turned hairdresser could give her the perfect perm – the next day my mums hair fell out – oh she was not happy…the next few months she wore all sorts of exotic head dresses!

When chemo makes a woman lose her hair, it essentially takes a part of her feminine being away! So what did my mum do? Order a bunch of wigs from all over the world, blow dry them and wash them when she got bored, and dress her best!

Exactly 6 months later, on 28 th December 2010, my mother passed away after being in the ICU for three days. That was the moment my entire life changed. At 25 now, here Femmolution 72

I was an orphan, all alone with a younger sister to care for. But women are resilient. I am not sure what force has kept me going, but I am sure it’s the hand of the Universe.

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Just like my mother did all those years ago, I took a step and chose to be the equal of a man – whatever a man can do; I would do as well, and do it better. Most of those who know me, know that I am not very girly. I have adapted, and like every other resilient woman out there, I have chosen to be independent, and to be my best.

Part of my journey introduced me to some amazing thoughts – positive thinking, visualizing that which you truly want – as kooky as it sounds, it actually works! I have now been writing a gratitude journal for four years, and it has been magical! I believe that every illness has an emotional cause and an affirmation to help through it. And it all works.

I work with a non-profit organization called CARE International. Part of my job involves meeting the poorest in Kenya, those who need our help to ensure that they have a life to look forward to. And all the time, it always strikes me how resilient the women are. I have met a woman whose husband died, and she became a blacksmith – something no other woman would ever dare because it’s a ‘man’s job!’. Or the woman who sits all day at a quarry, breaking stones like the men do. Or the woman who was gang raped by 7 men in Somalia, and got pregnant, came to the Dadaab refugee camps in Kenya,but still finds hope in her life, and still calls herself a powerful woman! How about the girl who, after school hours, sells sweets to other children so that she can buy food for her and her mother?

I am sure each of you has a story to tell too, and I am sure each of you is a resilient, strong woman.

Don’t ever forget that. You have the power within you to make your own life play to Femmolution 73

the tune that you want. Never think that because you are woman, you are unable to do something. Eleanor Roosevelt said ‘A woman is like a tea bag. You never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water ’. Just like that tea bag, each of you will only get stronger and more resilient in the worst of situations. Accept that, appreciate that. It’s the power of being a woman. So today, make a promise to yourself, to harness the power within you, and to be your own biggest fan!

To womanhood! To resilience!

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Take a Chill Pill

by Kingwa

The bow was not made to be always kept stretched the well runs out, from which is constantly fetched It’s something of a disorder to have an eternal hard on so those times that you’re limp don’t be sad and forlorn Your soul needs rest, let it regain its ground I’ll be back out to play; well rested and sound.

Mirror

by Liz Kilili She looked at herself in the mirror and for once she could see her beauty past the heartaches and bruises.

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I die every night

by Liz Kilili

I die. My mind dies, my soul rises, I die. feelings and thoughts no longer imprison me in my body My soul awakens out of my body It runs into unconquered lands, with no inhibitions that life holds.

I die. I die. slowly as the pills rush through my throat. Sometimes faster than most if it’s met by gallons of kill me quickies but whatever the case the drugs are like a lethal injection waiting for my sinned soul I die. I die. I die and get lost lost in my dreams and fears in equal measure. I die.

But yet something holds me I rise. I rise. I rise.

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[ Artwork by Chela]

Polygamous relationship

by Ngwa

I was first clinically diagnosed with depression about 1 year ago, I was pregnant with my second child and I remember having to sign a non-suicide contract with the therapist, she said I had to call her if I was planning to kill myself. I wondered if it works, if patients actually call before they kill themselves. As we were doing the tests I remember thinking to myself, if this is depression that I have suffered for a while now, should I have gotten help sooner?

I lived out scenarios in my head, most days were not bad, but with the pregnancy of my second child, more days were worse than better. I had days when I would imagine packing my son into our car and driving down Mombasa road and meeting with a truck head on and we would be on the news, ‘Fatal Accident kills pregnant woman and child’. That freaked me out, what if I survived or he survived or we became paralyzed.

I thought maybe it should be me and my unborn baby dying, but what about my son? He would have to grow up without amother. Depression was eating me up, were it not for therapy, I would have probably killed myself.

I stood with my phone pressed to my ear as he said that we were done, that he was in another relationship, with contempt he asked what was so hard for me to understand that the day he walked out of my house I stopped being his wife. I asked for a divorce but he would not agree. Every word from his mouth reminded me of promises I had made to myself as a child,that I would never allow myself to be in the same position as my parents. But here I was, my two feet knee deep in a ‘polygamous’ relationship.

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All I knew was that I needed to be out and fast, to where? I had no idea. I had the two most beautiful and intelligent children any parent could ask for and I was determined that it would end with me.

I needed to teach my son that you should never treat a woman with contempt, especially the mother of your children. I was sure I needed to teach my daughter to stand for herself and not let any man treat her with contempt, no matter how in love she was with him.

I remember vividly, the day I made up my mind and decided I was done. My heart ached. I wept. I was done. I know it will take a while to wipe away the painful memory, but I am determined. I don’t know what the future looks like, I don’t know where I will be by the time this book is published, but what I know for sure is, this pain has left me stronger and it will be over soon.

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Tap

by Maia Von Lekow Tap on my mirror She is there again She is going somewhere Now I see Something that used to scare her is no enemy no more Something that used to scare her is no enemy Lipstick smear Cannot hide myself Realize the leaves on trees I didn’t see Something that used to scare me is no enemy no more Something that used to scare me is no enemy Come a little nearer Loosen the veneer It won’t cover you too long Light my fire, light my fire Let the heat carry me We have all lost and loved Lost and loved and endured We have all lost and loved Lost and loved and endured Mwanamke katika kioo Mwanamke katika kioo Mwanamke katika kioo Hold on there, fight your fight It’s only you to determine Femmolution 80

[ Gossip Girls by Sylvia Gichia ]

Whispers

by Liz Kilili

Whispers travelled like wild fire Her rise to power was a result of her lifting her legs, singing hallelujah they expressed.

It didn‘t matter that she played odds to become she. Working and moving pieces on a board like any man would She couldn’t blame them, how could she because woman and power had been reduced to a sex equation but it didn’t matter, she could sleep well at night for she knew she was the hope of the woman after her for she did it better than any man would

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Circumcision

by Kingwa

Legs spread Eyes shut Hands gripping earth Long labored breaths Body nerves steely and taut Some of my philosophies would say That I signed up for this That I knew what to expect all along.

And I guess that it’s not till I feel the cold knife’s cruel tongue that I can finally sing my song.

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Save the Nation

by Wandia Njoya

One Sunday, on my ride back to town from church, I sat with a friend. We talked about everything, from our (un)important dilemmas, the service, writing and literature, the stories of our lives and maybe how we could make a difference. When the matatu got to Nyayo Stadium, we found there was a detour through Lusaka road because there was a marathon.

So that lengthened the journey by another hour.

But it was Sunday, so I didn’t mind. Then we got to Kencom, he and I had to trek through the streets to where we pick our mathrees. It was a very laid back day. When I got home, I remembered the tail end of Jill Scott’s song: Let’s take a long walk around the park after dark Find a spot for us to spark Conversation, verbal elation, stimulation Share our situations, temptations, education, relaxations, elevations Maybe we can save the nation And that was the start to more walks. Later, when my friend had become my fiancé, we walked in the Arboretum together, sat on a bench, ate cheap supermarket snacks, and talked about how we were going to revolutionize what it means to be a man and a woman. A few months later, we walked down the aisle and promised to love each other forever. And later, we celebrated the end of the year as man and wife with a walk in Karura forest.

These milestones and moments with my beloved are made memorable by Mother Nature, because that’s what love does – it makes us one with the universe. That is why my deepest wish Femmolution 84

is for our towns to value public and green spaces.

Spaces where young people can keep fit without paying for a gym. Where older people can exercise , rather than pay for physiotherapy. Where lovers can date without going to Java.

Where kids can play. Where we can all drown our troubles in fresh air and cool breeze, not in drugs and alcohol.

Maybe that’s how love can save the nation.

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Abortions

by Kingwa

Some dreams are like unborn babies that you have to wrest away from you to survive in the here and now.

Some may question the ethics deem the two incomparable but if either manages to creep back on you in the distant future, maybe then you can say, ‘it was meant to be’.

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You are a powerful woman with so much to offer and with your gift and the talent you will achieve whatever you put your mind on.

Go forth and conquer the world my dear.

Love, Eva.

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Today

by Geraldine Hepp The integrity gap gaping like a wound foul flesh. You want to hide just - welcome sleep. Welcome night.

Before fall, mend your holes pour presence into the black matter give your words a chance to shine don’t believe the hyperventilating voice of resignation and confusion make today count.

And then

by Liz Kilili

And then … just like that she mustered her courage stood up. Dusted herself and flew Because she was woman

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Perfect

by Liz Kilili She could not see past her insecurities and the stupid lies he told her but yet here she stood. Perfect

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Sometimes

by Waringa Wagema Sometimes the mind struggles to wrap itself around reality, Sometimes to disappear feels like the only solution, Sometimes the future’s bleakness needs a shining light, Sometimes that light gets too bright, To crawl into bed and not move is a feeling that is so soothing, Sometimes apathy takes over, Sometimes death feels so warm so welcoming...so cuddly, Sometimes to flirt with the idea feels electrifying, Feels bona fide, Feels panacea That noose on your neck those pills in hand Sometimes expectation and reality don’t add up, Sometimes life as you know it takes fucked up turns, Sometimes it is ok to feel the fuck out of your feelings, Sometimes to let go

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and flow to unclench that fist of control is to acknowledge strength within, Sometimes to mess up, to fuck up and pray for death to come for us is to acknowledge our humanity...

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[ Many faces by Fayth W. ]

Life. So intertwined.

I forget what is life and what death is

1. We- Meant to represent the people connected through the common issues they can go through at a point in their lives.

2.

Acceptance – Acceptance of the life and lifestyle you want to lead.

3.

Freedom – Freedom to be who you want to be without restrictions and judgement.

4.

Fear – When you start leading the lifestyle you want, you realise how misunderstanding your community and family might be and it can be a risky take.

5.

Rejection – Those who don’t understand you and do not want change and shun you.

6.

Anger – Your situation angers you.

7.

Self destruction – You think and hope drugs, alcohol and other unhealthy ways can help bury your anger and misery.

8.

Control – You reach a point where you cannot take more of what you are going through and have to take back control of your life.

9. Acceptance II – You decide to live your life as you want.

Broken. Completely.

I couldn’t see it in me.

I’d lost love for me.

[ Beautiful shapes by Kins of Spade ]

Discovered treasures

by Kins of Spade

She touched herself Sss … she quivered as she couldn’t tell you where the pleasure was coming from. But she knew she had discovered the treasure within which no man had and in one sigh she let out a song of Hallelujah as she hit the crescendo

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A litany for the man who cherished my vagina.

by Aleya Kasam This is for you. The man who lathered and lavished such love and adoration on the part of my body I had tried to make disappear for too long. Under you, the lop-sided, not-quite-right-looking, sometimes-bleeding, hairy triangle of my distaste, become an unfurling, silky, pulsing, dewy, fragranced creature of such beauty. With you, my vagina was no longer merely a tolerable tool of necessity.

She became the star.

Under your spotlight she pranced, twirled, teased, winked. At the slightest touch of your finger tip or the tip of your tongue, she wept tears. Joy. Gratitude. Celebration. Sorrow.

For all those years and all those men who came before you that dismissed her in their pursuit of her. When you moved closer and inhaled deeply, sighing in pleasure at her heady scent, she boldly opened herself up to you in pride, all shyness and uncertainty washed away in the flood. You made her greedy. Now she demands. Refuses to be merely tolerated. Insists on her rightful place at the centre of my being. And here she sits forever, the source of my power.

To the man who cherished my vagina. Shukraan for teaching me how.

May your kind be multiplied tenfold in the world. May your genes be given the divine super power strength they require to pass on to future generations and obliterate any existence of men who use vaginas, without cherishing them.

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Hers to love

by Kins of Spade This was the third time this week she lay there and said ‘Fuck me’ Yet it felt that this was the cue for his to retreat. So, she decided her body was hers to love and woke up to the realization that she had to look for it elsewhere.

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[ Get out by Fayth W. ]

Confessions Of A High Class Call Girl

by Rayhab Gachango

I sip my expensive champagne while looking at the girls downstairs dancing and grinding, shaking their bodies trying to get noticed. They are all wearing short skirts that show off their thighs and asses, some so high up you can see their lace panties. Some are so daring they aren’t wearing any panties at all, commando is their style. The tops range from shirts to lingerie tops that show off their ample cleavage.

Some of them are watching me, they envy me and I know it. Any of those girls would kill to be in my position. I have a beautiful face, made more beautiful by expensive creams and makeup, red lipstick on full lips with dramatic eyeliner that highlights my eyes, which have blue contacts. I have long blond hair, all of it mine (I bought it all for a fortune this human hair.) I am wearing a fitting gold dress that matches my clutch bag and shoes.

Yes, they all envy me and want what I have. I can name my price for a night with a “John” at this gentleman’s club but they have to take what they can get. Whether it is a lap dance, sex in one of the cheaper rooms in the house or a blowjob which the “gentlemen” prefer be performed in front of a crowd. These men don’t care.

They have money, money to burn, money to buy sex or a warm mouth to take them to heaven, whatever their pleasure. I on the other hand choose who I want, I choose the men, not the men choosing me. They vie for my favours, I am very good at what I do, and I charge top dollar.

I have very few competitors. I am at the top of the food chain, I am always learning, always Studying;. I even went to India to learn a few things from a group of eunuchs near the Himalayas and a nother course at West Bengal State University.

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So you could say I am the Kenyan queen of the esoteric sex and tantra.

I see a competitor across the room. She is light-skinned and has great assets for a girl in this profession, she looks like Vera Sidika. She’s seated on a white low sofa chatting with a gentleman in a Nigerian Agbada. I raise my glass to her and then I walk out of the main room and go outside to the balcony to smoke.

I take out my cigarettes from my clutch bag.

“Can I light your cigarette?” I look up to see a good-looking guy with a bad case of acne. I haven’t seen him here before, must be a newbie. I nod. He lights my cigarette and asks if he can borrow one. I hand him my pack of cigarettes. The guy is nervous; I can tell that he has not done this before. Looking at his clothes, I can tell that he is one of those types that are common here. Grew up with no money and couldn’t get girls. So now that he has made a lot of money he wants to fuck the most beautiful girls in the club just to prove he can.

Mr. X leans against the balcony. Damn he should do something about that acne.

He looks uncomfortable. I bet he has never had to pay for a high-class escort and he is not sure if I am one or not. We are both looking at the stripper on the pole at the end of the VIP. She is grinding and winding as men throw money at her.

I decide to be naughty. I stretch over to the low table next to me to drop my cigarette in the ashtray so that my dress rides up. My big ass and glistened thighs are now in focus.

He coughs and says “Is it hot in here?”

“Really? Not as hot as it could be.” I say.

He looks at me “What do you mean?”

I go up to him and I kiss him deep and sensually; a kiss that is both a seduction and a promise. I let my hand drop down to his trousers. I massage him through Femmolution 113

his trousers as I kiss him. Then I whisper “Imagine what my tongue could do to you.” Then like nothing happened, I walk back to my seat. He looks stunned, like he doesn’t know what just happened. I smile, as I stretch on the red leather sofa.

He is watching me, so I take a strawberry covered in chocolate, lick it and then pop it in my mouth. I am maintaining eye contact, telling him to try tame me if he dares.

I know he will come to where I’m seated. This man I can tell wants to be desired and seduced. So easy, after all I am an actress on the stage called life. He is used to women not seeing past his face. I do, I see deep into his wallet.

Let me tell you more about this club. It’s a gentleman’s club but not the ordinary type. A lot goes on behind these closed doors. It is a place where a man can party with only beautiful women carefully chosen not just for their looks but their sexual skills. The club has an annual membership of 300,000 Ksh then if you want to be in the VIP you top that up with a million.

The guys in the VIP are allowed to bring one friend every month if he wants to introduce them into the VIP part of the club. The VIP section has everything a man could want. The women are the most beautiful and expensive escorts in Nairobi.

The most expensive Champagne, exotic foods, shisha, hashish and wines from all over the world can be found here. This man was a guest, and hopefully by the end of the night he would be my client.

I look at him straight in the eye, and then put my hands on my thighs, parting them slightly to show my sexy red lingerie. He swallows, and then moves towards me. He comes to where I’m seated and asks me “so how much do I have to pay for it to get hotter!” I smile and whisper in his ear.

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You are probably reading this and judging me. But you don’t know anything about me. I had a normal childhood like any other in a lower middle class family. Like all girls I wanted to get a good education, a good job, and a good man to have a family with. We all dream about this don’t we?

When I was in second year my father was retrenched. His company was relocating to another country and they didn’t want to take any of the staff with them. My father was a machine operator all his life and he didn’t know what else to do. There were no companies that were hiring at the moment; in fact, many of them were retrenching some of their staff. At least dad had worked for an international company so although it was a blue collar job the pay wasn’t bad. My dad had to tell me the bad news “Shi I cannot afford your fees. Even with HELB I will not be able to pay for your next semester.”

If I hadn’t been desperate to stay in school to achieve my dream of working for a blue chip company I wouldn’t have taken up swami’s offer. Maudi was a rich girl, wearing the latest fashion and driving a silver VW golf. She shopped in Dubai, and sold some of the things she bought to some other students with money. One day after class she invited me to party at her house. She had only invited a handful of girls, all beautiful like me. I felt flattered to be invited. We didn’t even run in the same circles.

On that Saturday I was dropped off by a matatu near her house in Lavington. The house was big, a beautiful red brick bungalow that had quite a huge compound.

Maudi opened the door for me. She led me into the sitting room. The walls were red which contrasted with the white leather seats there. There was also a huge TV in the middle of the sitting room with game consoles scattered around it. On the table in the dining room there were all kinds of liquor, wines, beers, and spirits.

Some of them I had only seen in the movies and music videos. She poured me Femmolution 115

some vodka and then showed me a room where I could change.

So this is how the rich lived. The whole room was done in lilac and white. There was a plush lilac carpet with a huge king sized bed with a lilac bedcover and pillows. On three sides of the room were floor to ceiling mirrors and even the ceiling was covered in mirrors. It never bothered me but in time I learned the real use of those mirrors. I undressed and changed into my sky blue costume.

When I went outside into the backyard there was grilled meat, and various hors d’oeuvres. There were several men around, some of whom looked to be my father’s age. I must have looked uncertain because Maudi came quickly to tell me to stop being shy. “Don’t worry about those guys. They are just some uncles of mine. Come over and have a drink!’ I tried to relax. There was something off but I couldn’t tell what. I decided to go easy on the booze. The party continued until late. The girls outnumbered the guys 3 to 1.

There were very few young guys, only around 2 guys around the same age as me. The other guys looked like they were in their late 30’s to early 50’s. I loved to dance. When I took alcohol I wanted to dance even more. I kept dancing changing dance partners often. At about 2 I wanted to leave. Jason, one of the 30 something guys offered to drop me. I wasn’t too sure about getting a ride. ”He is alright. He will drop you home. Jason make sure you take care of Shi!” Maudi said laughing. Jason was driving a red convertible Mercedes. He asked me where I wanted to be dropped off. I told him in the campus hostels. He drove me there and just when I was about to get out he tried to kiss me. I wasn’t feeling him so I tried pushing him away. He was insistent and put his hand on one of my breasts and started squeezing it.

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“Stop pretending. I know you want it. The way you were dancing with me! How much do you want? I am willing to pay!” he removed a black leather wallet which was full of thousand shilling notes. I managed to push him away. I wondered what kind of friends Maudi had and what he had meant when he said he was willing to pay? Did he think my body was for sale? What gave him that impression?

After a restless night I finally got to get some sleep. In the morning Maudi called me and I told her what happened.

“Jason is not a good guy. He flashed cash at me and told me he can buy me! WTF!” I thought Maudi would be infuriated and tell me that she would give him a talking to. Instead what she said surprised me. “Take it easy Shi. Jason is a good guy.

He can take care of you. You should have given him what he wanted. You could have gotten a lot of money out of him. He is a generous guy with his money unlike some of these men I know. How do you think I survive?”

Then the penny dropped, that’s where Maudi got her money! I decided I would have nothing to do with Maudi. I ignored her in class and wouldn’t answer her texts. The end of the semester arrived soon enough. This was one holiday I wasn’t looking forward to. There wouldn’t be any university to come back to. The first month wasn’t so bad; I wasn’t seriously looking for a job. The 2nd month I realized that things were dire in the house and so I went tarmacking. Let me tell you getting a job in this town is not as easy as it looks. I am beautiful and I know it. The men knew it too. They offered me a deal, I could sleep with them to get the job or become their mistress or I could go home with nothing in my pocket. Those men reminded me of some of our lecturers who would fail students and give them a bad grade for refusing to sleep with them.

After 4 months of looking for a job, eating nothing but sukuma wiki and ugali I decided enough was enough. I had seen how some of my friends who attended Femmolution 117

that party were being taken care of. They had money, and things. I with all my morals and principles had nothing. I was a good person, I still am. I don’t think the things I have done make me a bad person. If a man has a need that is not been met and he has to pay another woman to get it whose fault is it. Why do they always blame us instead of blaming those men who look for us? It is like in olden times when they stoned ‘adulterous’ women while the men walked away unscathed.

I called Maudi and told her I needed some money for school and the house. She set me up with a rich old MP who had a thing for young college girls. He paid my school fees and gave me money and I in turn provided a service. When he would go out he would take me with him to make his friends envious. Soon I was approached by a friend of his and another. I decided to take things into my own hands and use these men to finance my education.

I was introduced to the gentleman’s club by Maudi. I was making money so I wasn’t desperate but it helps to have an updated client list. With so many girls turning to this profession in order to live the good life you need a constant supply of new customers. I only go to the club once a week to find out what’s going on and maybe see if I can catch a new fish. On a normal day when I have clients I wake up at 7 am, have breakfast, have a personal instructor come over to train me for two hours. I do aerobics and yoga; I need to make sure I am flexible. At around 11 am I go to the salon I own in a high end mall.

I check the books, have my hair washed and conditioned, have my nails done if there is need. Twice a week I go for a massage and facial just to relax my body and to make sure I don’t start getting wrinkles. I am also taking classes in Italian, German and Chinese so that I can be able to better serve my international clientele.

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Did I mention that I finished my degree in Business so I am using what I learnt in school to make my business global? After all men have to have sex right and sex is the oldest profession in the book.

I am happy. I know you hoped that I’m miserable and I cry myself to sleep every night. I don’t. I am content. I take care of myself. I rarely take alcohol. I like to be sober so that I am in control of the situation. I smoke a pack of cigarettes a day. I always insist that my clients wear condoms. So I hope I am safe. With blow jobs you never know. I haven’t gotten tested but I think I am alright. This is the life I life, the life I have chosen and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My name is Shi and I am a high class call girl in Nairobi. Some of you call me a socialite but I am just another girl, looking to pay my bills the best way I know how.

Disclaimer This is a fictional tale but it’s a reality in Nairobi. There are high-priced call girls who live in big houses, drive expensive cars and they are living it up. Some of them are so called socialites, but they keep where they get their money a secret. The sad reality is many girls look up to them and want to be like them. These girls will do whatever it takes to get noticed, take naked or almost naked pictures, they will go hunting for men to keep them in the good life. Nowadays girls exchange their bodies for cash and it doesn’t bother them one bit. As long as they are living the good life they don’t care. Nowadays sex is the new currency on these streets and girls are living it up.

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I fuck the hell I want

by Kins of Spade

I fuck the hell I want Tall. Dark. Sultry voice Harmonising chords rising hallelujahs neighbours sneering jerking in motion white volcano erupts I fuck the hell I want skinny ass jeans booty for days shakes like ying and yang naughty this one is red heels on 50 shades in play teases. reels you in panties wet. fake guns in I fuck the hell I want light skinned, short and stout like my beer arrogance from timbuktu gadgets to Madagascar balls like avocados moves like furious grasps like a lion stops at O, my god Femmolution 120

I fuck the hell I want Boobs like mass with variations of song and repentance hard and sturdy like a school girl’s chest warm, homely lost in memories past safe in mamas arms that will cost you 100 transactions done numbers deleted I fuck the hell I want tattoos in tow piercings like polka hair like crazy other hair crazier friction burns freak like hell memories made I fuck the hell I want hell I want, fuck! fuck the hell, hell I fuck fuck fuck hell hell fuck I want_____

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[ There is a universe inside of me by Fayth W. ]

Midnight Musings

by Valentine Ziki

Bedtime story..

You’re lost and you’re alone Bedtime story How a raped woman became victorious...in the end.

Bedtime story Fuck you.

Bedtime story This part of my story sucks.

Bedtime story I love myself. That version they always said was weird.

Yes. That’s the best part.

Bedtime story I’m I in love with someone who looks like me? Fuck, shit, What’s wrong with me?

Bedtime story Who will love me?

Bedtime story I’m sorry I ever met you. Bitch.

Bedtime story I’m pregnant...sort of.

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Bedtime story Get a fucking job won’t you?

Bedtime story Suicide doesn’t always work Bedtime story Suicide is for the brave.

Bedtime story Who wouldn’t want to check out of this madness?

Bedtime story I’m lonely, touch me, in my heart. Be. Tender.

Bedtime story I’m a single mom Bedtime story I’m a fucking artist.

Bedtime story Haha! 40 winks, who says that?

Bedtime story Counting sheep. Sleep is for the weak.

Bedtime story.

The end.

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Bend over

by Kins of spade We met at a club.

There was something Different about him Maybe it’s the clean Cut suit he had on Maybe, his gentle like nature He walked up to me Asked me for a dance Fetty Wap playing Programmed,.

I turn my back at him.

Shake my ass to near fall Rubbing it on his crotch.

Him. Not moving.

I’m about to do the Bend over when he Finally pulls me up.

Turns me to him Stares into my eyes One hand to the waist The other high up.

Body. At a slight distance Not too near to look like We are about to shag Not too far to not Feel safe. In structured Femmolution 125

Steps we move. Eyes Intensely looking for The heart.

For the first time. I Feel like an equal And not some mechanical Bend over bitch looking To be loved by the wrong man

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Spells

by Kins of Spade Why won’t she believe me when I say that I really like her?

Why won’t she believe the Honest words that come from within?

The more she opens her heart the more I fall deep within.

The more I fall within the more Damn scared I am, the more Scared I am the more I try To protect my heart but This heart, this heart is Busting out of its seams Because the more she opens The more I fall deep deep within I don’t know what this is? All I know Is that this girl has me under her spell.

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I’m here because of you

by Liz Kilili

I look at you, my eyes tear up I am caught between the love I have for you and the self hate that overwhelms my heart There are days I’ve thought of dangling in the skies like a pendant on a King’s wall for all to see and shame.

Life has dealt me a bad card and yet here I sit. I fight not for my soul but for you to maybe have it better than I

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[ Pretty Thoughts by Fayth W. ]

She wants me

by Kins of Spade

She gives me looks like she wants me I know she does. I can see it Her body suggests it but...

I guess money comes first

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I wore them with pride they were ugly and beaten down but they were mine.

No one could take that away.

Artwork by Chela

Sandals In The Sand

by Janet Ligare

“Hello sweetheart”, the unmistakable deep baritone voice rang through the phone.

“Was just headed to bed and remembered I haven’t spoken to you today. I needed to hear your voice.” And just like I did all those years ago, I smile. Ear to ear. I close my eyes and try to bridge the distance between us. Amazed at how a feeling so long gone could be so easily reawakened. As if it had never been separated by time, by space, by events. A feeling so strong it appears to have never skipped a beat from that odd time many, many years ago. I cling to the phone, willing him to draw closer still.

I reminisce. I smile. I close my eyes. He is closer to me now than he ever was. I can feel him. My heart races. I am living out a romance novel word for word! I’m taken back to that first time I saw him. Young and impressionable. Far away from home. Life is just beginning to happen. He, standing at the port, hard at work, counting, interviewing, noting. I, sent to pen it all down. My first real assignment. Trailing my new boss up and down trying to get the story done. And then I saw him. He was literally tall, dark and handsome, in every sense of the words. I continued on, working... and staring. Amazed at how composed he was amidst the madness of the day. He’d done it before numerous times. I was only just getting one foot in to the system.

Was that a ring? I wondered how one person could be so well put together. I studied him. Something about him seemed different from all the guys I’d known. He had a sort of manliness, strength and confidence about him. Something about him spelt warmth, comfort, care. You knew just by looking at him, that you’d be lucky to have him on your team. Damn it! Was that a ring??? Did I spot a ring?!

He weaved his way through the crowd seamlessly. Hundreds of people stood there that Femmolution 134

day, but I saw only him. Your eyes truly do see just what they want to see. I would turn my back, talk to someone, write something, consult the boss. I would turn back and in an instant I’d have him locked in sight. Like a drone waiting to fire a shot, my target was locked. For a moment there, I imagined he saw me too. I imagined he noticed me.

I imagined he felt me there. For a moment there, I thought beyond the happenings of the time. I imagined him clasping my hand in his as we walked along the beach.

Feeling the coolness of the ocean water sweeping over my feet. Leaning in. Gazing up.

Soaking in. I imagined the perfect sunset and a gentle breeze crowning the beauty of the moment as I dug my sandals deeper into the sand. Not wanting that moment to pass. Never wanting to let go. I stood there dreaming. He worked.

Darn, that’s definitely a ring he’s rocking! It could be just one of those rings right? Guys do that as well right? Smack on the ring finger no less. Left hand? Is that his left hand?

He is wearing a ring on his left ring finger!!!

How did I get here? I sink deeper into my bed, pulling the covers over my shoulders as I try to mimic the warmth of his embrace. How did he do it? How, all these years later, are my feet solidly planted in the emotion I felt that day, years ago, when it all began?

Why am I staring at my phone, waiting for it to buzz; his name flashing at me in bright yellow? Why am I holding my breath, composing myself before I finally pick up? How did he get here? How did he get me here? The longing, the dreaming, the wishing... all so real once again. “Have a good night dear. Let’s talk tomorrow.” The conversation is coming to an end. Long before I’m ready to let him go. “I love you...”

And just like that, my sandals are stuck in the sand.

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Demons Drown

by Ray Mwihaki

The waves are calling the children of the evil seed to swim to their initiation the sacred path to their father the defining moment the seed shall not be planted lest evil looms in red and purple blooms the waves are crying For one more to feed the roar that one shall be me.

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Dark Matter

by Ray Mwihaki The black hole is beautiful Crafted inside the petals of geraniums, Coloured brighter than the shade that bleeds outside it’s embers Feeding the air with thirst for colour, For life Warming it up for the meeting The leaving.

Dark matter that matters

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A Reason

by Mwihaki Mundia It was a grey rainy day when he left her; told her to pack up everything she owned and leave before he got back home from work. She sat on their bed, what used to be their bed, suitcases open and burst into tears. What had changed, had she changed? What had she done to make him stop loving her? She hadn’t seen this coming, he had been a little moody lately, irritable and would snap at her for what felt like the pettiest things, but she had put that off as stress from work and tried to be better, to irritate him less, talk less, cook more and serve him better. She wanted to be the supportive woman she had heard men talk about.

They had been together 5 years and lived together for 4 and a half of those. She had listened to him when he told her to quit her high pressure job, he’d give her the equivalent of what she made monthly, he didn’t like her stressed, he said, didn’t want her coming home too late and working through the weekends and after 5 years of living with him, she was completely reliant on him. She had burnt through all her savings when he delayed depositing money in her account and after a while the amount dwindled to giving her money when she needed it. She made excuses for him when her friends questioned her financial independence. She loved him and so did he, and when took in the whole picture, he paid all the bills, took care of her car service and all her other basic needs. He was never home and she was lonely a lot but he was working hard for their future.

How could she know he was going to kick her out? He had promised to marry her and taken her to meet his parents, and met hers filled with declarations of interest.

She couldn’t bring herself to pack, where would she go? She had left her parents’ house years ago in blissful, youth-like arrogance after meeting the “right” man, despite their Femmolution 138

pleas for her to come back home and wait for the right process, the culturally respectful one. She was , however, adamant that she knew what she was doing, he knew what he was doing. He was charming, good looking and very generous with her. He was ambitious and had taken on several businesses that were doing exceptionally. She had prayed for all these qualities in her man and she was over the moon.

She could not believe she was 29, suddenly single and broke. She could not stop weeping, her whole body wracked the force and hopelessness of her sobs, making her physically weak. Her whole world was crashing around her. Her friends and family thought she had the perfect relationship and she was breaking into a million pieces.

She suddenly had to find the strength to walk out of the house she had called her home and try create a path from the mess she had created by giving all her power to another person. She hadn’t prayed in a long time but she got her knees weakly and whispered a prayer to God hoping He would listen, “Help me, please, I can’t do this on my own.” She opened her eyes and through a blur of tears called Tasha, her best friend. She needed somebody who would ask less questions and just help her get through this day, help her pack and drive to her parents’ house.

Tasha was a miracle worker who wisely came over with a bottle of wine and a mover’s number. She sat her down with a glass and let her cry on her shoulder till she couldn’t cry anymore, instructed the movers on what they were taking, which according to her was close to everything and sent them to her parent’s house and took her to lunch after dropping the keys in a nearby bush. That was all the courtesy she could master, she had half a mind to use them to scratch his spare car and the ‘true love of his life’ in the driveway but changed her mind. She’d never been the dramatic type, Tasha, on the other hand, literally had to be dragged away from the car. She made away with a few scratches on his precious pearl white Range Rover Sport. Then something snapped and she let Tasha Femmolution 139

go, watched her scratch out the Range Rover to her satisfaction, then fetched her keys from the bush and walked into the house, took one last look at what used to be their house, walked into the kitchen, plugged the sink and turned on the taps. She then walked through all the bathrooms and did the same before she calmly walked out and dragged Tasha who had graduated from keying the car to slashing the tires. She dropped the keys on the ground beside the car and got into her car and drove off after Tasha, smiling.

She was going to be ok.

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Things that I do, ways that I am

by Kingwa

The thing that I do the way that I am I will fight to protect it it does me no harm The length of my skirts the colour of my hair or even how tight the jeans that I wear Are things that I do ways that I am they make my soul sing and make my heart jam That I am woman and youthful of years are strong aspects of my power but yet you throw spears Not just things that I do or ways that I am; Are states of my being a part of my sum Wild and sensual erotic and fierce I’ll cry when moved will not hide my tears Coz they’re things that I do Femmolution 141

ways that I am I will not apologize for the tune that I strum One time loud and funky another soulful and deep the varied seasons of my mood doesn’t make the mountain less steep Just a thing that I do a way that I am with different tones of intensity do I play my drum A heart full of fire a soul brimming like a dove’s are what I bring to the world are the power I have This thing that I do this way that I am is the bullet of my being forms the contents of my inner gun.

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[ Artwork by Chela]

Vanity

by Kaki Mundia She looked like she had stepped out of the cover of Vanity Fair, Manolos on her well pedicured feet, a Chloe dress, a Fendi on her arm, Dior sunglasses, a Tiffany & Co. rock on her index finger, and a dash of Marc Jacobs Dot to taste. She’s a career woman living in the city, and she likes expensive things, some call that vain, she calls it class. She has worked hard for what she has, she deserves to look and feel good.

She won’t deny it, like a lot of women, and some men, she sometimes shops to hide her pain. On this particular day her shopping bags represent her pain. She’s laughing on the animated phone call she’s having with her friend but the laughter does not reach her eyes. Neither does her smile, deep down, she’s miserable. She was raised by a mother who didn’t speak nor understand vulnerability; a strong woman. So, until her feelings overflow into torrents of tears and a wine or cocktail binge, she’ll shop and go to parties and laugh louder than everyone else then stagger home to crash, without a thought of her breaking heart.

She’s a 21st century woman. Only her very close friends will know something’s not right, everyone else will laugh at her jokes, she’s funnier when she’s down in the dumps, more outspoken, up for impromptu hang outs and parties. Her acquaintances love her when she’s unhappy because she’s “happier” , “funner” , “cooler”.

Her boss loves her coz she churns out more work, she gets to work before dawn and leaves after dark, only because she’s meeting the girls for cocktails, or she has a work function she can’t miss. Then she ’ ll reach into her purse for her MAC lipstick, and offer her thousand dollar smile to everyone, but her eyes.

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God’s children

by Liz Kilili

She sat there sneering Judging like Judy Me. Smelling like Eternal damnation Her. Looking like She was made to play harp Me. Skidding down Into hell. My place Reserved next to Satan Her. The princess of a High god. Favoured.

Me. Fate sealed nail Hammered.

Her. Judges me like I’m Nothing.

Yet She forgets that we; Me and her are all GOD’s children

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Validation and ideologies

by Liz Kilili

He invalidated her femininity because of what she wore She validated herself because she could.

Grounded

by Liz Kilili

They laughed at her for going to church but what they did not know was the fact that she was grounded electricity while they were flames waiting to burst

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[ Artwork by Chela]

THE AFRICA IN MY HAIR

by Bochere Kambuni My hair has always been a large part of who I am. Way back when I was in nursery school with my God given Mohawk (I was blessed with hair only at the center of my head), our teachers used to read us fairytales every other afternoon, and Rapunzel was my all time favourite. Each time the teacher asked which story we would like to hear read out I would stand on my tippy toes and raise my hand as high as my little, fragile body would stretch and say “teacher me, teacher me!” till I’d have my way. I would listen with fascination as she would begin to narrate the story of the girl with the long hair, the enchantress and the charming prince and my little mind was awed. Not by the cruelty of the wicked witch but by the length of Rapunzel’s hair. The story never ceased to amaze me.

As a kid I went to a public primary school in Nairobi’s suburbs. This was at a time when public schools were still good and up to standard with their learning conditions, thus mine was littered with all sorts; Africans, Asians, Arabs, even a few white kids. Oh, how I envied them, especially the Indian girls with their long silky hair twisted into a long, single plait. I was envious because mine had upgraded from a Mohawk to a short, stubby, brownish patch on my head, which I now called my hair.

Nonetheless, being the proud Kenyan that I am, I never once showed my envy to those girls. I mastered the skill of indifference, acting like their hair was of no importance to me. But whenever I had time to myself I would doll up in front of my mother’s full length mirror, steal my big sister’s heels (she would always find out about and lose it) and place a black or brown tee shirt on my head, just at my hairline and let it fall all the way down to the small of my back and imagine that I was the modern day Rapunzel with long, thick, wavy hair. I would sit in front of the mirror for hours on end and let my childish fantasies run wild.

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As I grew older and fell in love with Sunset Beach and Days of Our Lives, and much later La mujer de mi vida (The Woman Of My Life) and the likes I began to realise the connection between long hair and handsome men. In my callow eyes, long hair was the key to any successful relationship. Therefore I begun to think that as an ordinary African girl with short, nappy hair, my future was bleak. I had always braided my hair, but I felt like that wasn’t enough.

So, I got the perm. And my hair felt so silky and smooth, only for about three weeks.

And then the weave fiesta began. It was like a craze! Every girl I knew was getting it done. My girls and I would talk about it constantly over lunch, shopping or while getting our nails done. We would stop other girl in malls, on the streets, anywhere and ask them what weave they had on, and where they got it done.

It was crazy. I’d get my weave done curly like Beyonce this month and straightened like Jessie J’s next month. I’d get a hair extension that made me whip my hair back and forth up in the club like willow smith. I even went beetroot red like Rihanna. However every time the weaves were taken off, the braids came undone, and the perm lost its luster I was back to facing the girl on the other side of the mirror, the one with the nappy hair.

I hated her. I wouldn’t let her walk on the street with her corny hair; I made her believe people would think she looked bad and laugh at her. So I would have another weave on in a few hours.

Then the day of the epiphany arrived. Lord only knows what came over me. I had just undone my braids one Sunday afternoon not too long ago and was rushing to an estate salon to get my hair fixed up before anyone saw and recognised me. Having just got out of the shower I was rubbing moisturizer into my hair when I looked into the mirror and saw the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on. She had flawless brown skin, large brown eyes and the kinkiest short hair with a brown tint. She was pretty with the weaves, the perm and the braids, but she was beautiful with her short African hair. She Femmolution 149

smiled at me, and just like that, I had a change of heart.

All my life I have been afraid of black dolls, because they weren’t as pretty as the white ones. Of Rapunzel, because if she were real, she would have stolen my man. Of the mirror because I wasn’t sure I’d like what I see. Of me, because of the Africa, evident in the melanin of my skin, the brown in my eyes and the kink in my hair. This fear kept me away from many things. I was always afraid of what people would think if they saw me with my nappy hair. I was constantly reminded by the socialites, Instagram models and the movie stars that I was not pretty enough by just being me. And the saddest part isn’t that I didn’t just listen to them, I believed them. And I was content with my long, fake hair.

But this is the year of the hair revolution, inspired only by matters of the heart. It doesn’t matter whether I look too African with my kinky hair. After all, I AM AFRICAN. I’ve decided not to let the bullshit of today convince me that I am not beautiful.

So I will put my African swagger on, put a smile on my face and live life large, caring not whether I am judged by the style of my hair, but by my character and thought.

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[ Artwork by Chela]

Burden of Ethnicity

by Rose Odengo

Two years ago at a literary Festival discussion, I began to question what ethnicity meant to me. My parents were born in the village, my father grew up in the city while on the other hand my mum would occasionally visit the city where my granddad worked over the school holidays. My parents grew up in an environment where friends and cousins were of the same ethnicity. My father, even though he grew up in a city, still found himself naturally drawn to people of his ethnicity, mostly because of language. This is the 1950’s and 60’s. Most Black Kenyans in the cities have moved in from their ethnic enclaves and still stick to their own, it is normal human behavior.

These migrant workers were mostly employed by the former East African Railways, the top employer of the time, trying to make a better life for their families. The migrant workers’ children interacted freely.

It is over 50 years after independence, political assassinations of the progressives have happened, and ethnic socialization in the home is the gospel of supremacy. It was only as a preteen that I knew that I was Luo. I was born and interacted in an environment that cared more about my race than my ethnicity or country of origin. I only have one memory of racism which my friends protected me from. Other than that everything was quite dandy. I will never forget the day that I found out I was Luo. I was playing with friends during recess, I was 9. And someone asked me what “tribe” I was. I was completely baffled. All I could think was, “Am I supposed to know that?” I went home and asked my mother, she was gracious about it and told me. All these years I had spoken a language not knowing it defined who I was. I knew not everyone spoke it. But it was a ‘none’ issue. I just knew it was my mother tongue and that is where the story ended. Now, in a playground I was being forced to define who I was.

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Years later, as a teenager, when my elder siblings were graduating from College the issue of marriage arose. And my parents begun the “Don’t marry a Kikuyu” rhetoric.

By this age I had known how to identify Kikuyu’s by their names. My environment compelled me to. It still didn’t matter to me for a while. Things began to change when in one class; there was a teacher who would refer to a boy from non circumcising communities such as the Luo, with derogatory slurs. She would always call him a Kihii.

This is a very demeaning and emasculating term for an uncircumcised man in Kikuyu.

It is the equivalent of telling a man that he is the equivalent of nothing.

Some classmates of mine who understood this would laugh, others would stare in shock. I wondered why the teacher would repeatedly call kids names? Why was this alright? She was demeaning and alienating a certain section of the class based on their ethnicity. I unconsciously began to feel a sense of shame being Luo. I thought she might also call me a name and embarrass me.

I began to hate this country, because it confused me. I felt attacked from both ends.

For my inability to speak Swahili (which was constantly mocked), by people who would place me in a stereotypical ethnic box because of my last name and for being dictated to who I could or could not marry.

In High School, I was just an angry and frustrated teen. C’mon who wasn’t? I would openly say that, “I am an unpatriotic Kenyan and unashamedly so”. I would constantly wait for the chance to go back to my country of birth. Dad said I could make that choice when I was 18. I couldn’t wait to leave. Needless to say, that never happened.

I am still in Kenya and proudly Kenyan. But up until a few years ago, I was ashamed of speaking Luo publicly even among relatives. I just didn’t want to be identified and associated with “those people”. I have made strides; I do speak Luo as long as it doesn’t exclude someone from the conversation. I however still introduce myself only as Rose.

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In certain spheres, I never divulge my last name. My official documents except for my passport bear only my two English names, a choice I made in my teens. I do dance in my head about using my ethnic name. As I write this I realize there still is a sense of discomfort in people fully knowing my ethnicity. There is no shame in who I am. I understand that. It is another part of who I am which doesn’t have to define me. But I now realize why the average Kenyan reacts the way they do to ethnic stereotyping socially.

Depending on which ethnic enclave you reside in, be it a residential area or a county, because of colonial conditioning, the dominant ethnicity in that locality pulls rank and demeans the others. That is so counterproductive. A few years ago, my brother and I asked my mother why Luos hate Kikuyus so much. It boiled down to the political feud of two people, Kenya’s first president and Vice President -President Kenyatta and Oginga Odinga respectively. My brother and I laughed.

What the hell? The feud and selfishness of two people polarizes and kills generations of Kenyans. Absolutely stupid! Needless to say, Mum now knows she’ll be having an ethnic smorgasbord of in-laws.

My mum may be bitter because of the injustices she and her friends and peers faced.

Being denied jobs and promotions based on ethnic discrimination by selfish ethnocentric Kenyans, something she is entitled to feel. The truth is when my mum meets my friends she is warm and endearing to them; heck she also has friends from other ethnicities as well. It really does boil down to getting to know people and judge them based on their character not their ethnicity.

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Not today Lord!

by Wambui Lamu

Adulting is hard. Today I broke down in the car, and not the misty eyed movie type of cry but a good full-blown one. You know the kind that blurs your vision till you have to stop by the side of the road to gather yourself or you’ll ram into the car ahead (not always a Toyota nowadays therefore a considered expense). I haven’t had one of those moments in a while, and come to think of it, I’ve not cried in a long time.

Don’t get it twisted, the no crying has only happened because of this year. I choose to call it “The Waiting to Exhale Year.” I won’t lie it’s been a hard year on so many fronts, from the changing family dynamic of my husband moving countries, to being pregnant with our third child and managing a household of two rambunctious growing boys and a housekeeper; ensuring we all managed to eat the required number of meals a day while staying within budget in this ever rising expensive city.

It’s not as if the first quarter of business helped at all! There was not one iota of business that came my way; which meant my creativity and bank balance suffered.

It also meant that I was forced to pivot my thinking in regards to where my company was going to go for the rest of the year. You have no idea how glad I was that I hadn’t hired talent as planned last year when business was booming! I would have been responsible for other people and that would have killed me even more.

So back to ‘The Year of Waiting to Exhale’, it’s been one thing after another, and only recently did someone put it so well – “Not Today Lord!” I have said that statement in my head more than I care to remember! It has come to me while in traffic and someone decides his or her hurry is more important than mine. While Femmolution 155

at home and one of the boys decides to approach me with either a philosophical question or a monumental tantrum. When the car window refused to roll down when it was hot or up when it was freezing cold. When an email came in laden with an invoice requesting for payment. When my phone rang and I wasn’t sure what the conversation would be about, so I just sat there staring at the screen in dread. I’ve been holding my breath asking God that it not be today when the ties that bind all come unraveled.

Recently, a dear friend applauded my friends and I for our seemingly effortless ways of juggling our lives as they are – running homes, being mothers, having demanding jobs or running a business. I was really happy when I read it as it felt like a strong pat on the back with someone saying, “You’re doing great girl!” I took it and ran with it to the bank. However, I was sad that I was here making it look effortless while in honesty it isn’t.

It got me thinking that as wives and mothers we rarely talk about the good things we’ve achieved that day, week or year. We instead speak about the hardships – the straying husband, the annoying child, the rough week and the daily harassment that we face on these streets. I don’t know if it’s a function of using that moment to exhale but it’s become such a necessary evil as it leaves one feeling better than when they woke up that morning. If you end up missing a few of those sessions, you realize just how helpful they are when you wake up, the world is crushing down on you and you can barely breath – refer to the crying in car incident above.

However, from an outside-looking-in perspective I can see how it all looks somewhat easy to do even though nothing in life is easy. However I’d just like to clarify that there is a depository for all our woes among our peers that frees us to take up more and handle more (sometimes without even thinking).

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Therefore, don’t take offence when a friend doesn’t share with you everything they are going through, as it’ll take a lot for someone to do so. Personally, I would end up feeling that I have burdened a friend unnecessarily and that I would have killed any hope of them wanting to be married and to have children of their own. I don’t want to take that responsibility so I’ll just smile and wave.

So don’t feel that you’re not a good friend because I can’t come to you with my woes, just look at it as me sparing you the behind the scenes drama going on in real time behind the curtains. Kindly watch the show and enjoy, and when it’s your turn I promise I will be there for you to deposit you woes with me. Until then a quote that’s been giving me life of late: “I sometimes I act like nothing is wrong. It’s called dealing with shit and staying strong.” Anonymous.

As for how I got over the streaming tears earlier on, apart from a soaked hankie and loads of pulling mucus back? I remembered a verse I had seen on Instagram the night before. Psalms 61:2 “From the ends of the earth I call to you, I call as my heart grows faint; lead me to the rock that is higher than I.” It is good to know that despite whatever the situation there is a rock higher than us, than our circumstance, than our situations and we just have to accept the shepherd’s guidance to it.

At the end of the day, we do our best and God does the rest.

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[ Artwork by Chela]

Two realities

by Kins of Spade I’m living in two realities.

One I can be the fuck I want jumping into skies and sailing in clouds the other, battling demons and monsters under my bed. but whichever reality that is, I am me.

I am she

by Liz Kilili Who the hell do you think you are?

I am woman, I am she who brings forth generations of Kings.

I am she whom he comes to every night lays on my naked thighs and cries as I stroke his ego.

I am she whom without you wouldn’t be

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Letter from Misra’a

by Saida Ali

They handcuffed me as they did you. Each time.

Could I have a moment before you go?

I remember the heat, the gust of wind blowing, I remember the smiles from others like me visiting their loved ones.

I wondered what the story for the other women next to me was.

I remember the body search as I entered the security cubicle, I remember the prison guards as they rampaged through the chocolates, I can still smell the dust and dryness of that place, The emptiness drifting and floating with my thoughts, I remember how alien it felt to sit in that weird truck, Transporting visitors back and forth the main gate and the entrance, All I wanted was a moment with you, All I got was a letter.

A letter sneaked outa prison. I laugh. And cry at the same time.

I remember my tears. I thought I would drown.

How I longed for you to call my name, In that way you did that made it sound so beautiful, That way, that instantly curved your lips into a smile, That way, that made my eyes dance with laughter.

My name didn’t sound the same anymore, I didn’t want it as beautiful on other lips.

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I wasn’t free.

I longed for it all to go away, My heart was thumping, my mind racing, All I could do was listen to Etta James and cry.

For all I got was a letter.

All I could do was cry.

When they set you free, I realized I was still locked up.

I didn’t want to be free.

I couldn’t find my way home, When I saw the empty house something told me it was over.

You had moved on but I had not.

I just never told you what it meant – the letter.

The letter forever part of my herstory.

I realize I loved you for too long, Cos’ All I could do was just cry.

Something deep down my soul said cry, Something deep down my soul cried break free, But All I could do was cry.

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Engage

by Muthoni Gathecha I did not perform as well as I thought I would when I sat for my Certificate of Primary Education (CPE) and I suppose I did not perform as well as my father expected either.

You see I am my mum’s last born and my dad’s third born. Yes.. You guessed right, I hail from a polygamous family and for those you who understand how the birth order affects or influences the personality traits of an individual may have guessed that I have personality traits of a last born child and a middle child.. Anyway I digress.

I vividly remember the drive from St. Georges primary school the morning after we received our results and the harsh words my father said to me “you know Muthoni with these kind of results there are only 2 professions that you could end up in - A maid or a prostitute!” You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that ensued, I’m pretty sure my father could hear the thumping of my heart.

I was 12 going on to 13, I did not want to end up a maid or a prostitute, I wasn’t even sure I knew what the latter meant. I cried for weeks after that. With an older brother and sister who had been admitted to some of the most prestigious schools in the country, my grades were despicable, they embarrassed my family and I wanted to hide every time the topic came up . I got admitted to a small rural school and made a promise to myself that those two professions would not be my portion. I made a conscious decision to work hard and I know I have never worked so hard in my life and my blood, sweat and tears paid off, I was admitted to a national school for my A levels and later went against the grain when I joined Kenyatta University to study for a degree in Education... Against the grain because my father’s choices for me were Medicine, Law or Accountancy.

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In 1982, we were purportedly involved in the coup de tat and were sent out of college for 14 months during which time I got pregnant and married, much to my family’s despair and indignation. Being the 1st one in our home to be admitted to Public University, my daddy thought I would get expelled. I vividly remember during my graduation dinner speech declaring that I graduated with a degree, a husband and a child.

Although my father has always been a great influence in my life, there was a lot of dysfunctionality in our relationship and I felt I needed to get as far away from my family as possible so I requested to be posted to the coastal region...I wanted, I needed to get as far from home as possible.

I needed to get away from the abuse, and even though my father never raised a hand to me, I was a victim of domestic violence. I cried whenever my father hit my mother and somehow my tears made him stop… another reason that pushed me away from home was escape the virulent relationship my mother and I shared.

I had become my father’s pride and joy after I prove him and all my naysayers wrong.

After my A levels I helped dad in his business and this close relationship with my father did not auger well with my mother. As I awaited to join college I remember with a lot of pain the words my mother threw at me in a fit of rage “What kind of relationship are you looking for with your father”... “Why do you spend so much time with him”.. “What do you want from him???” These words were spoken to me in my native tongue and they stung!!

Who uses such words on their own daughter How could my mother who gave me life, who was supposed to love me more than anyone in the world say this to me? It hurt more than I can put in words and at 19 my solution for this predicament was suicide Femmolution 163

which I attempted. Clearly I didn’t succeed!

I was broken, I had to get as far away from Nairobi as I possibly could.

I thrived in the teaching profession and was a principal by 30. It is my considered opinion that this was a pretty mean fete but I probably have my big boned size to thank for that because most of you probably remember your principals as being old and grey... So my plus size must have helped me nab this one. However this seemed to be the only area I was thriving in as at the time I was stuck in an abusive marriage which I held on to much longer than I should have, 13 years too long. I finally garnered the strength and left with my most precious commodities, my children, the only good that came out of our union. My children are now 33, 24 and 22 respectively.

I came back to Nairobi and joined the private education sector in the capacity of Principal for 10 years. I later joined the tertiary education and my last formal job was as Registrar academic and student affairs at one of our private Universities. I loved my job and I did it well. However, I did not feel like I had given all that I could and so I went back to school for my Masters degree, 24 years after I had been given “power to read”. Armed with my newly acquired skills I thought that I would now conquer the world overnight but this didn’t happen and the routine of work began to eat at me.

2012 was my 180 degree turning point.. I cut my then shoulder length hair, dyed it red and took early retirement. I was 50.

I wanted a bigger platform. I wanted to reach and touch more people’s lives.

I auditioned for a role in a 250 episode series for a renowned TV network and I got the role.

I moved from my swivel chair to become an actor. I took a risk? Yes! I wanted to reach more people and I did. God gave me Africa!

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What could you possibly tell me. A woman!

List of Contributors Writers Moraa Gitaa Damaris Muga Janet Ligare Sandra Chege Bochere Kambuni Muthoni Gathecha Geraldine Hepp Aleya Kassam Kins of Spade Rayhab Gachango Liz Kilili Maureen Odera Ray Mwihaki Sitawa Namwalie Waringa Wagema Faith W Mwihaki Mundia Valentine Ziki Sylvia Gichia Cathy Gitts Reshma Aziz Khan Ngwa Maia Von Lekow

Wandia Njoya Eva Rose Odengo Wambui Lamu Saida Ali

Illustrations/Photography Fayth W Chela Liz Kilili Gloria Muthoka Sylvia Gichia

Musicians Labdi Ommes Pilani Bubu Diana Bada Renee Jones Lake Montgomery Sitawa Namwalie Glady Mwende Namvula Beraccah Fena Gitu Kahvinya

Kins of Spade is recluse who only comes out to play with her words and only very rarely seen in public. Her very nature makes it difficult, she’s an introvert in every sense but she explores the world in her work, drawing readers into sensual, raw and witty poetry and prose. You might never meet her but you will always feel as if you know her intimately.

Moraa Gitaa lives and breathes writing because her voice in her writing is all that she has to express certain experiences. In 2014 Moraa was one of the winners of the Burt Award for African Literature (Kenya Chapter).

She is also a member of PEN International – the world association of writers, and also a 2015-2016 global volunteer for Empower Women which is facilitated by the UN. Reshma Khan is a true internationalist whose passion is finding ways in which cultures and arts come together to create a harmomious mélange.

With a background of professional diversities including event management, cultural communication training, and public relations added to her passion for expressive dance fusions, Reshma’s mind often wanders away to a place where arts come together in daily life to create the beautiful and colourful Eden of her dreams!.

Sitawa Namwalie is a Kenyan poet, playwright, writer and performer. She currently also works as an international consultant and is based in Nairobi, Kenya. She holds a Bachelor of Science degree in Botany and Zoology from the University of Nairobi and a Master of Arts degree in Environment, Society and Technology from Clark University in Massachusetts, USA. Sitawa has achieved excellence in many areas of life, including representing Kenya in tennis and hockey in her youth.

Wandia Njoya is a Senior Lecturer and Head of Department of Language and Performing Arts at Daystar University. She also blogs at wandianjoya. com.

Catheleen Muthoni Mjomba a.k.a CathGitts is every woman, just like Whitney used to sing...she’s not your superwoman, but she juggles several balls as an entrepreneur: film-maker, producer, project manager, wife, daughter and friend.

She never runs out of great ideas that can help transform today’s society and her dream is to always connect to networks that can creatively execute those ideas.

Rayhab Gachango is a Chartered Marketer, a Creative Consultant, and a Writer, her trade is in digital content, strategy and marketing.

Liz Amakove is a medical doctor with a passion for improving access to health care. A mother to four energetic kids (8 year old boy and 6 year old triplet girls). A blogger, wannabe cyclist, farmer, art lover, extreme extrovert. Currently discovering herself and enjoying it!

Faith Wanjala is a Kenyan, Nairobi based self taught visual artist. Her works have been influenced with emotive concepts, mental health, LGBTQ and gender issues. She explores this concepts abstractly through works which are a synthesis of traditional mediums and the aesthetics of the digital era. Her current artistic endeavors include both expressionism and abstract works. Her works have been exhibited in a couple of artist spaces and private collections.

Waringa Wagema is a lover of art, reggae music, good conversation & laughs, yoga and reading non fiction. She is also a lawyer and mental health activist. She is a witty non conformist with a healthy dose of cynicism and during her down time she loves to sleep, eat good food and socialise.

Gloria Muthoka is a visual artist (painter and graphic designer), mentor and leader who is passionate about young people. She loves art and to doodle, paint and design stuff. She seeks to tell stories using vibrant color and images.

Wambui Lamu is a passionate Leader, a Mentor, a Creative Ideator and Brand Lover who has worked as a Graphic Designer for 10 years in various Agencies and countries. Wambui has recently launched Hairpolitan Magazine, Kenya’s 1st Natural Hair and Living Magazine that aims to give Africans a platform to share authentic stories about themselves.

Damaris Muga was born and raised in Kenya and has done the obligatory bit of travelling. Damaris identifies as an activist, feminist, blogger and social engineer. Damaris knows almost everything about the art scene in Kenya and is an emerging non-white art collector.

Sandra Chege is a creator and curator of cool. Her life’s work is to increase our knowledge of self and of the other through art. Explore more letters in the Letters to Self series on the website http://hadithi.co.ke/

Maia Von Lekow is a traveller at heart, Maia has lived and performed in Berlin, Melbourne & Dublin. Since returning to Kenya in 2007, Maia has established her current live act, a high-energy 6-piece band that has been making waves throughout East Africa, gracing the stages of prominent festivals

Pilani Bubu is a Creative Lifestyle Activist and Singer-Songwriter is an independent artist, her First EP titled ‘Journey Of A Heart’ produced by RJ Benjamin, was released in 2012. The first single; ‘Miss Understood’ play-listed on 25 radio stations across South Africa and she’s performed her music both locally and globally.

Ray Mwihaki, also known as Rachel, is a creative humanoid creature who lives in the outskirts of Nairobi. She spends her time reading children’s books and other books, writing and making crafts, dreaming and cooking. Her work is driven by passion and the quest for a quiet, sane life. Her stories and poetry have been published in small publications, her plays have been staged and her films have been watched by few. She hopes that will change.

Rose Odengo seeks to find who she is from her writing; with every word, every storyline, every phrase, she explores new possibilities. Rose is not sure where she is going, but she intends to enjoy the ride, and share every moment of it with her reader. Every fall, every injury, every laugh, every fight, every Eureka! Moment; Rose’s life and tales are honest, true and spiced with her African flair.

Sylvia Gichia is the Director of Kuona Trust Art Centre, Nairobi’s leading art space, constituting 36 artists and art studios, an extensive programme of workshops, exhibitions, presentations and artist exchanges. Sylvia has a passion for the arts and spends most of her time running this successful art centre in Nairobi that is dedicated to advancing the skills and opportunities of contemporary visual artists in Kenya and the region.

Valentine Ziki is a Musician, songmaker, world citizen, peace lover, poet; Zikki is a songwriter with a guitar and a story. Current projects in the works include the release of her second EP ‘The Camouflage Sessions’ : an exciting project which leans on electronic and alternative influences & a subsequent tour in 2017.

Aleya Kassam is a Kenyan reader, writer and performer who moonlights as a copywriter in the advertising world. She has been published in Jalada, UP Magazine, The Rumpus, Mail and Guardian Africa, Brainstorm and The Sahan Journal. Her children’s story The Jacaranda Tree was longlisted for the Golden Baobab Prize for African Children’s Literature in 2014. She blogs her musings at www.chanyado.wordpress.com

Renne Jones a.k.a Rapper Rj, is a 22 year old rapper, songwriter, mcee and a public relations practitioner specializing on event organising. She is a contemporary musician, inspired by current affairs and experiences and very versatile to the extent of experimenting with any existing or new style.

Kahvinya is a 17 year old singer songwriter and artist. She does not like tying herself down to specific genres or labels but takes heart in jazz, all types of soul (neo, future etc.), funk, rap, reggae and anything different really. In a world driven by standards, She chooses to value authenticity and individuality

Kingwa Kamencu is a 33 year old writer and journalist based in Kenya.

She studied literature and history at the University of Nairobi and African Studies and Creative writing at Oxford University. She has had a successful career as an art journalist and book reviewer spanning seven years and has written and edited for Kenya’s top publications

Labdi is an artist, a powerful vocalist and instrumentalist and has a niche for her cultural ways. Her music can be described as jazzy fusions, neosoul, experimental and afro (house and pop) and explores love, deceit and pan – Africanism. She is a visual artist whose visual language is mostly political and gender based. Her first collection, Feminists will be exhibited in September 2016.

Geraldine ‘Gigi’ Hepp is a connector at heart, supporting professionals, organizations and communities to transform and create the world we want to live in. She is Communications and Community Director at Amani Institute where she also facilitates a leadership program for changemakers and designed and managed the Hatchery, an innovation management program.

Saida Ali is an International Policy Analyst and a seasoned advocacy strategist with expertise on matters of violence against women and girls (VAWG). She has more than 15 years’ experience of Africa regional and national level advocacy, and indelible results in UN level advocacy.

Bochere Kambuni is a young damsel in the big city (of Nairobi). Lover of life and all things bright and beautiful.Proud mummy. Imperfect, but that’s okay. Still on the journey to self discovery, and loving every minute of it.

Chela is an artist based in Nairobi whose main medium is acrylics and spray paints. She tackles various themes ranging from culture and identity issue, nature and humanity. She has exhibited some of her pics at the Dust depo Street Diaries festival earlier and at Alliance Francaise. For graffiti my art can be found on some of the streets;Jericho,Korogocho,Eastleigh,R ailways Museum and a high school based in Mombasa.

Liz Kilili is the Driven and slightly eccentric creative, mostly known as the Chief Mechanic and founder of Creatives Garage. Liz kilili’s end goal is for all creatives to network, share ideas, collaborate, learn, gain market accessibility and push boundaries in order to contrive a sustainable creative economy that feeds into the GDP of Africa rather than one that saps from it.

Lake Montgomery is a guitarist and singer songwriter from Paris, Texas.

Backed by a love for old blues, gospel and showtunes, she performs her own intimate stories with a hint of fury.

Stella Nsubuga is a retired teacher, proud mother and grandmother. Her favourite relaxation activities are writing, reading, singing and playing word games.

When Ngwa was young she dreamt of being a caterpillar, she would live short, but the thought of being eaten by a bird scared her shitless, so she dreamt of being the bird, fly without a care in the world, travel, be free, live a life of adventure... she hoped she would wake up a bird one day, now her dream is becoming a reality, freedom of mind, freedom of heart. Flying towards her dream of a full life...

Diana Bada’s exclusive sound is expressive in its form, being original compositions with deep lyrical content and melodies. She continues to spread love as well as inspire and motivate her listeners and audience. The multicultural singer likes to call her blend of music ‘Afro soul’. She has two albums, ‘Wardrobe Sessions’ (2011) and ‘Be’ (2014) under her belt and a third one on its way.

Kaki Mundia is a book lover and a food enthusiast who loves everything pink, cocktails and good music. She’s a girl from the country with big dreams and a day job, seeking to find a greater perhaps

Muthoni Gathecha is a seasoned trainer and administrator with over 10 years in directing and managing students at university level. She is a prolific motivational speaker who is invited to make presentations to employees and adults in social settings.She has recently been involved in several productions (TV shows) with renowned production houses in Kenya aired across Africa.

Fena is the multi-talented songwriter, composer and performer that has graced our airwaves and stages over the last couple of years. Her effortless fusion of genres and lyrical wit, as well as her unique sense of style sets her apart, creating her signature ‘Fenamenal’ style which she describes as Urban Soul.

Maureen Sitati is a Woman, Believer, Differently wired and loving it!!

Glady Mwende is a spoken word poet, theatre student and film maker.

She officially started performing Spoken Word poetry in 2014 at various festivals including The Storymoja Hay Festival and Sondeka Festival as well as other poetry events. Her art is a journey of self-discovery and is inspired by life, people, death and emotions. She is also a Christian and love is her religion.

Lover and Songbird Beraccah Kisia,is a Vocalist, Composer and Lyricist from Nairobi Kenya. She is a classically trained composer and performer, recording artist, producer, singer/songwriter.