It’s the week after Valentine’s Day. The streets are quiet, but the group chats are not. Expectations were either met, missed, or completely misunderstood. Some people are nursing heartbreak, others are back on dating apps with fresh bios and recycled photos. A good number are re-entering the market, so I figured I’d share a few stories from my heart’s archives—for your entertainment, of course. Something to keep you company as you scroll, swipe, or sit there wondering how you ended up here. Again.
I am back in this place again. Like clockwork, like a full moon that never misses its night, like a matatu conductor who never has change. There’s bubbles and warmth and mirth. Other things I struggle to find words for. Maybe a Hozier song can capture it better. It feels like walking through a large field of lilies in the morning as the gentle sun rays kiss the earth. Or poetry under the moonlight. I am watching the sun set from Tigoni, catching a sundowner while listening to Musa Juma’s Siaya Kababa with a stolen lover, holding hands like a stash of weed. The song captures the intoxication perfectly. Like all sad people, and those talking to the moon, I am a poet. I am a writer.
We are back in this place again. But it feels wholesome this time. There’s bubbles and warmth and mirth. And other things I struggle to find words for. It feels like walking through a large field of lilies in the morning as the gentle sun rays kiss the earth. Or poetry at dusk.
I am watching the sunset in Tigoni, catching a sundowner listening to Coaster Ojwang’s Oguyo Oguyo with a stolen lover, holding hands like a stash of weed. The song captures the intoxication perfectly. Like all sad people, and those talking to the moon, I am a poet. I am a writer.
Here, hold my sanity. And my morals. Hold my fear too, because liking him feels like holding a matchstick near petrol. Let me tell you about him.
Tall like the siala trees in my father’s compound. Sturdy legs and thick thighs. I could hold on to these. You know. Wink. Broad chest. Has a gut. I do not mind. Big head. Suffice to make him the head of the home. LOL. No hair on his head. Rather, a few hairs struggling to emerge from his scalp. Fighting. Refusing to show his age. There comes a time when you lose the battle with your hairline. He’s lost the fight. Large fingers like mangroves. Manly, as in he got hair growing on the back of his hands. Strong hands. Manly hands. Skin complexion like mangrove honey. Spicy, the way I like. Thick thunderous eyebrows and lips like pillows. I have thoughts about these lips. A lot of thoughts.
He looks like a troubled angel; an angel with struggling hair (read bald), mysterious eyes and a mouth made for sin. He emanates warning signs, this guy. Looks like a tall drink of trouble and I want to drink it all. A mysterious energy around him. A sensitive man; yet guarded. His guard is always up; doesn’t allow me to see him. I want to stare into his energy, but he remains elusive. On guard. Puts me in a trance. He does.
I see him when I close my eyes. At least, pictures of him. Vividly like someone drew his face on my eyelids. I smile every time. When my phone notifications pop up, I get excited. The sound of his voice feels like a song I never knew I loved until now. The way he says my name feels new every time, like it’s being spoken for the first time. Our conversations leave me full, my brain racing, my heart beating faster than it should. My soul yearns deeply. I imagine silly things, like how his laugh would sound in an empty room, or how he’d argue with me over which side of the bed is his. In my head, I have names for our pets and plants. I am not big on the children part, but the little, funny things about him make me wonder if love is in the details.
I have risqué ideas, spicy things, PG-rated that I cannot share here for the sanity of my readers. Like stolen whispers in dark rooms and the warmth of unsaid things. I have desires that call his name. My heart flutters when I think about him, about who we could become. Like how hearing his voice feels like a favorite song on repeat, the way he calls my name feels new every time, and even his random texts make me blush. I notice silly things, like how his laugh makes me giddy, or how I imagine him teasing me about my terrible cooking. About us. The energy is raw. And I would like to be soaked in it. That may be the secret. He may be the secret.
I remember our first connection—it felt electric, almost unreal. Something feral, magnetic, and dangerous sparked between us instantly. His voice, even through the phone, felt like a forgotten melody I longed to hear again. I was hooked from that moment. I told myself, ‘no strings attached,’ yet here I am tangled in knots. Waiting, hoping, doubting—this push and pull has left me overwhelmed, caught between joy and uncertainty. Slowly, I am accepting that while he makes my heart race, he might not be mine to keep. Dangerous, I said. A foolish pursuit, my friend warned me. ‘Don’t overextend yourself, don’t ignore your intuition. Love should not feel like an uphill battle,’ they said. Wise words I cling to.
It’s been so long since I felt this alive. Butterflies? They say it’s just adrenaline, a defense mechanism. My best friend jokes that I need supervision around him—and maybe they’re right.
There’s beauty in beginnings—fragile yet hopeful. Endings, too, have their bittersweet charm, leaving lingering echoes. Connections often bloom in whispered conversations and vulnerable confessions. Perhaps we are meant to exist in the margins, not as main characters, but as vivid footnotes that enrich the story. Even in uncertainty, our love matters. My heart, once weary, feels full again, held by friendships that are tiny miracles. I’m ready to risk love again. bell hooks taught me that love never guarantees safety, and Neil Gaiman reminds me that daring brings rewards. So each day, I send my heart out like a murima babe tending to her precious coins, knowing they may return whole, broken, or wiser—but never empty-handed.
I wish I could tell him how much I like him—maybe I’d whisper, ‘You feel like the perfect poem I never wrote,’ and imagine his smile. But love isn’t forced. You let it breathe, thank it for touching you, and set it free. For now, take me to the lakes where poets find peace; let me write my way through this longing. Niseme initoke.