Hear me; I believe our nation's problem is mainly rooted in the fact that the majority of the population does not read. We don't read about our own history- economic, civilizational, and political history. We just don't read.
Most Kenyans don’t know their own history.
The British ran a referendum in that region and they voted to join Somalia. The British however did not approve the results, then Shifta war, wagalla massacre etc.
I don’t support the secession. I’m just giving context to that map. Kenya can’t afford to have a weak president.
I highly recommend you find the nearest possible time and place where there is going to be torrential rain, I mean the type of rain so heavy you are bathing in God's mourning, and when the streets empty because they all go inside to dry off, you go outside to get drenched, alone, at nighttime and in nature, and like a mad (wo)man you jump around in it. Let your face drench so much you have to wipe the rain away just to see through your eyes, let your hair get soaked, and feel the water droplets trickle over your supple skin, gliding through your indents as they land on your forehead to journey down your nose and nestle on your top lip.
Feel your wet cheeks grow colder, and your clothes begin to stick to your arms and legs as they drench. Let the rain soak through your clothes so utterly they gain a few pounds of weight, and laugh hysterically as your phone gets so wet you cannot even answer the calls of burden from those trying to intrude upon your joyous and most liberating madness, because the touchscreen is so wet it doesn't even detect your finger presses anymore. You are in your own cleansing ritual - this is for you and only.
If the rain is not warm, then be willing to shiver through it. Be willing to get a cold - the purifying embrace is worth it, I promise you. Dance in the rain, by yourself, in the darkness and surrounded by trees. Commune with the heavens and let God himself bathe you, and in your moment of solitude, freedom and strange joy, feel cleansed, come alive, more alive than you've felt for a long time - because you let yourself be mad, because you let yourself... be beautiful.
Welcome home.
I know this little girl her name is Maxine
Her beauty is like a bunch of rose (betta know)
If I ever tell you 'bout Maxine
You woulda say I don't know what I know, but
Murder she wrote (for real, for real)