Dear Single Ladies…

Hello blogsphere! For the few of you that follow me, you know that I kind of took a break from writing. The transition from my twenties to my thirtY was seriously chaotic and because of that, writing pieces which weren’t just rambles of negativity or reiterations of my near downward spiral was practically impossible. And I refused to blog about negative shit because Abraham Hicks says that that is exactly what fans the flames of the thing you are complaining about. And I really didn’t want to make the mound of shit that was headed toward the spinning fan that I called my life any bigger. Plus I really fucks with Abraham Hicks.

That said, this is a positive post, yay, meaning I am in a positive space double yay. Finally. Please keep in mind that negative events and emotions are inevitable in everyday life therefore I speak of my finally found positivity in a more general sense.  Also, that infamous fire at the pit of one’s stomach that pushes one to inspired action, ever heard of it? This topic, combined with a general sense of “Nigga We Gon Be Alright (Hi Kendrick Lamar)” have pushed me to my keyboard.

I dedicate this post to each and every girl who has DM’d me on Twitter, Instagram or Emailed me on the brink of tears desperately asking for guidance. I asked you to give me some time, to be patient for my response, so thanks for waiting. I needed some time to figure out how to say all this. Much Love my Sweets!

To My Single Ladies…

I was single for a very long time. LOL, I am still single. (My initial feeling was that I should address this damn single-hood thing once I was in a dope ass relationship with a dope ass man living that dope ass hashtag relationship-goals  life but, that feeling’s changed. So as I was saying…) Been single for almost all of my twenties and for 90% of this time I hated being single. A few people who know me might say, “No no noo Julia, you were not single for all that time. How about ‘Geoffrey’ and ‘Anthony’?” Those my good people were not relationships.

The last real relationship I was in was just after my undergrad and on my 23rd birthday as I cut that gorgeous white forest cake that my girls got me, at that party I went to with some nigga to make my last nigga jealous and basically letting the some-nigga plan my entire birthday, I remember feeling like a complete emotional wreck on the inside.

That feeling stayed with me for a long time. I was dealing with a tragic heartbreak, learning how to exist in rigid corporate Kenya as a creative soul, trying to lose weight and accepting the fact that having a car without air conditioner in hot nairobbery is a fucking pain in the ass. For three or so years that feeling stayed with me. It wasn’t until I left for England that the fog started to clear. A quarter life depression. I always say London saved my life. And so I came back home a couple of years after that, still single, happier, but still single and fucked up by a buildup of loss sourced from my failed attempts at relationships both in Kenya and the UK. At this time, I would try to not care about love or finding a good man but I would never truly tire. I wanted to be over it, done with men, but I always had hope and it annoyed me that I got excited and hopeful about the men that I got excited and hopeful for because looking back, dear God.

 

Fast forward to a more recent time, and I met someone. I didn’t “finally” meet someone, I just met someone. In all truth I would never have dated this guy but I convinced myself that I needed to be open to love and expand my preferences. There was a lot about him I felt was not in alignment with me but fuck it, he was feeling me and at the time, the guy I actually “finally” met had kind of broken my heart two months prior, so I gave this guy a chance. Then…he ghosted me. We never got intimate or even that close but he was my “settling choice” and when you settle for someone, they are usually more into you than you are into them so you never expect them to leave you. But he ghosted me. The little shit ghosted me and it was finally after this experience that I was over it. I was done. Done.

I wrote a note to myself on my laptop that for the next three months I would take a break from dating. “No flirting, no (flirty) texting or sexting, no going on dates, nothing,” I wrote. I needed a goddamn break. At last I found the need to focus on myself. Now, you should know that this was not the first time I said I would do this. When you are a single girl dating in Nairobi and you meet a few jerks along the way you tend to step back a little from time to time, but this was the first time I told myself to take a break accompanied with a real desire to focus on me and me alone. I was not scared to be lonely.

Perhaps one day I will share my personal diary on how this period of time unfolded but for now allow me to give you a summary. Month one, nothing really changed for me emotionally. I stuck to my no dating rules (Except this one time? I was out with my friends? and I got a little bit drunk? and forgot my new rules? then agreed to go on a date with a guy? he was an old friend? but anyway I had to go for the date. Later on I explained to him my situation which to my surprise he took well). But in general, for month one, I was still kind of an emotional mathogothanio (in the area of relationships). My heart was a jaded mess of emotions from past relationships mixed with a hope for future ones but I stuck to my rules and relished my time alone. I kept busy with video editing, cleaning my room, Netflix, errands for my family, eventually started going to the gym again and I didn’t dread any of this because this time, I actually wanted to be alone. My motivation and drive (which I think are not the right words to describe what made me feel okay with this strictly-no-dickly vow) came from a place of non-resistance rather than resistance. And because of that, it was in month two that I started to finally feel good about my decision. And what do I mean by this? I mean that my attitude towards relationships was not one accompanied by feelings of fear, pain, rejection and abandon. It was one accompanied more by contentment, peace and ease.  That was and still is, the beginning of what has always been my real intention with my expectations from love.

You see the thing about being single and happy is that it can be kind of an oxymoron. There’s a sense that being single and particularly being single for a long time, is sad. And I get it, because I am the physical manifestation of this. But when I finally understood that what I needed was to stop ‘pushing against’ and simply accept that if I’m single, I’m single, it was then that the single and happy came. And not in short bursts which was the case for me in the past, but in a stable, everyday sense of contentment. My best friend to whom I was cry-bitching over the phone about Mr. Settled For Him said to me the words that created my paradigm shift. She said, “Julia, there’s nothing you can do. And you really cannot go on talking about your bad luck. Just be okay with all this now cuz there’s nothing you can do. You have no choice but to enjoy being single. I’m also single!” She was right. I had no choice. I had to, for the sake of my happiness and in the words of Abraham Hicks, find the sweet spot in my situation because of this notion; Every subject is really two subjects: the lack-of and the having-of what is desired. And in each subject, there are two ends to the stick, one positive and one negative. It’s your job to move towards the more positive end and only then can what you really want come into fruition because like attracts like. Also, the juice of life is in the process of moving to the sweet spot-not even in the sweet spot. Can I hear an Amen.

Some time has passed now and sometimes I want to restart or extend my three month vow to a 6 month vow just because it feels so good. Beginner’s luck? Maybe. And what if I am single for another year? And another year? Well, there is nothing I can do about that. But I do know my time is coming and I will just wait until then. This is not a post to encourage you to be okay with not having what you really want neither is it one encouraging ‘forced’ patience. No. In fact it’s worse when you force yourself to be happy with something you have a lot of unhappy momentum towards. This is a post to acknowledge your not-so-good feelings about being single. This is a post to say to you, I hear you, it’s okay, go on that date with that guy you know is not good for you if the desire to go on that date is greater than your desire to not go. But keep in mind that no one can make you happy but yourself. And if you peg your happiness on another person’s actions or presence, then your happiness is in their hands and not yours (I am also still  in the process of practicing the acknowledgement of this teaching). Also keep in mind that whether you are in a relationship or not, a time will come when your significant other will disappoint you and it would be a good idea to already have the skills that enable you to wade through these uncertain waters with ease.

Hope this helps.

Always,

Jules.

PS: Please don’t sign me up for Famously Single. Not a brand ambassador for singles. I’m not single, I’m Julia.

Why can’t I get what I want?

I told you I don’t blog often and why. I become resistant when my creativity is scheduled. I fear rigidity. Not with all my creative talents, no… Just with writing and painting. Which is why I started to paint for free; as long as you don’t give me a deadline for your piece or offer any money to use as collateral for the same, we are goodvto go. Regardless, I keep being asked to write more often. Even though I cannot write when I don’t feel like it.

That’s just an intro to explain my silence (smile). Really I want to talk about something else. Let’s see where this goes.

To help me deal with some pain in January this year, I went online and searched for Oprah. She always had something encouraging to say. There had been a radio interview Oprah had uploaded on You Tube which I kept saying I would listen to later, “It’s so fucking long…” I would complain. But on this day I had nothing but time. I would be on a five hour flight so I just might as well. I made the You Tube video/audio ‘available offline’ and let it download. And that is when I met Abraham.

Listen here to the interview that pretty much changed my life. Or created a huge marker in change of disposition and consciousness: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uMaIPwYOjoc&t=3715s

Good day 🙂

Jules.

Who Are You Here With?

Pre-London, I was single. Sure I wanted a boyfriend. Sure I wanted to settle down. But I was too busy discovering myself. Well, no. I was too busy trying to make something of my art and music only to realize that self-discovery was part of the deal. Another thing I discovered when one takes such a leap was the plenty of self-time. Alone-time. I woke up alone. Went to the gym alone. Came back home alone. Sketched on my canvas alone. Painted for hours alone. I did so much alone that I got used to being alone. I was no longer in an office dealing with colleagues and emails and badly brewed coffee. And so on weekends, I would be invited to a night out and I would drive out of my house alone and walk into a party alone.

Over time I realized that people would often ask, ‘Who are you here with?’ I would say, ‘Solo…’ It was no big deal. Matter of fact I didn’t realize it was a deal to be made into any matter. The non-boyfriend man I was seeing at the time went out alone a lot too. And my friends would say, “Oh, we saw Anthony last night. He was alone.” Or “Spotted Anthony at such and such, he was having dinner by himself.” At the time all I was interested in knowing was if he was with another woman and so, obviously, I missed the undertones of perplex in my friends’ comments, ‘He was alone…who clubs alone? Who dines alone?” is what they were really asking.

After a few parties though I got fed up. Not only by the questions but also by the pity party that formed around me when I joined a group at a party that I had attended by myself. So I started to call a friend to tag along. And then one day I asked Anthony, ‘Do people often ask you why you move around alone?”  And he said, “They used to. Now they don’t. I am a grown ass man with a lot of money and power Julia. Why would I give a shit.”

I went to London. Like I have always said, London became my second love. I had an exhilarating love affair with London and left Nairobi in the dust, literally. No one cared that I was alone. I drunk coffee and smoked cigarettes and people-watched and hang alone all I wanted and no one ever asked, even once, “Who are you here with?”

I ended my affair and came back home. She was still kind of beat up and unkempt my beautiful Nairobi, but you know- East or West. I told Anthony, “You know what I miss? Going to a bar alone. Sitting at a restaurant alone. I want to do that and not get odd looks from people wondering what a beautiful young woman such as myself is doing there by herself.” Anthony sipped his whisky and smirked, “You’re a grown ass woman, single…um, well… unmarried, at a bar by herself, in Nairobi. You will get an odd look.”

And there it was. The same rules just don’t apply for women. He was single. I was unmarried. And what if I had Money? Power?  Just like him. The conclusion would be that I am alone because I am too rich for a man. Too powerful for a man. I am threatening to the man.

And I get it. I don’t think it is fair but I get it.

Why am I writing this then? Look. This blog post will be my buffer. My get-off-my-case card. I am back home. I am still single, yes. I did not land myslef an African loving Mzungu. I am (kind of) embracing singlehood and I just need people to get off my case a little. You know… I came to the conclusion that a beautiful young woman such as myself is still single because there is a lesson I am yet to learn before I can meet my partner. Simple. So I will just learn it. In the mean time I want the liberty to move alone. Besides, I am single.  And I want when I go out alone, like tonight when I attend Patricia Kihoro’s ‘Life in the Single Lane,’-go figure, and someone asks, “Who are you here with?” I can confidently say, “I came alone. Have a problem with that? Here is the link to my blog.”

Always,

Jules_her

a selfie at a restaurant

How I experienced Brexit undertones as a Foreign Student

Brexit. A term that has been used recently to explain UK’s interest in pulling out of the European Union. By now I think we all know what the EU is and what it stands for (albeit the fact the biggest online search term from the UK this past weekend was ‘what is the EU’. Hilarious.)

In summary, however, the EU was formed to basically improve the economic well-being of its 28 member states. Cameron, who was pro-EU stay, stated that it should now be a decision by the public (by way of referendum) as to whether or not the UK should stay or leave the European Union. And so the polls called it; British voters endorsed European Union Exit.

I could go on about the ins and out, the pros and cons on the ‘Leave or Remain’ debate but I think I will just talk about my personal experience. I lived in the UK. London. Not too long ago and not for too long. I was a legal immigrant on a short stay or limited stay – student visa it was called. After deciding to pursue my master’s degree abroad, almost everyone I talked to was not too keen about me going to England.

They said it is too rigid. Too tight. That the policies on student visas don’t give you room to do much outside of class and that applying for the visa itself was a long and tedious process. I did it nonetheless because the UK was the only place where I could complete a business post-graduate degree within a year.

And so in London, I arrived – just as the leaves turned yellow and the wind became unforgiving. I loved it. I went to school. I studied long hours in the library. I did my own laundry. I toured the city. I tried microwave food. And I got blown away by the intense multiculturalism in London. I mean, I probably brushed shoulders with more immigrants or non-born Brits than I did actual Brits. Even those born there mostly had their roots from other countries; Jamaica, Poland, China, Nigeria, Albania. I was stunned.

But I needed work. London was extremely expensive and I wanted to do more leisurely activities –all which cost a pretty penny. I dropped my CV at a recruitment agency and within a couple of weeks I had a job. An office job at that. Another pleasant surprise see, that nepotism was not the number one recruitment method in London. That a young and ambitious Kenyan girl like me that didn’t pronounce ‘water’ as ‘wo-ah’ could get a job at a multinational in a city such as this. Sure, it was part-time, 20 hours a week max as stipulated in my visa, but it paid, got me into the English job market I so desperately wanted to experience and added onto my resume.

A few months in, I decided that I wanted to stay in England after my studies. For a little bit. They were so ahead. I had so much to learn, so many new ways of doing things. Especially in my field, marketing, it was a whole new world for me. I started to apply for jobs within the field. I decided on an entry level job because I didn’t feel like my experience in marketing at my home country could get me through the rigorous interview levels. I also felt like I needed to learn rather than manage. I was in a new market with different kinds of customers that had all sorts of dissimilar consumption patterns from those I knew.

By my fourth job interview I was hopeful. I had discovered that the Brits really did mean it when they asked, “What can you do for Us?” I practiced and polished my interviewee skills. This time I made it to the final stage. The few of us that had been selected sat nervously in the global marketing firm’s board room, all of us avoiding eye contact and mostly staring down. The carpet was impeccably clean.

“Hello everyone! You alright? That was good! So can I just have all of your passports please? For some processing?” Hannah, the very friendly HR lady walked in with that dreaded list in hand, a politely rehearsed smile in broad display. We all handed our passports to her. I noticed that mine was the only blue coloured one. She flashed me a look and then quickly turned away. I wasn’t sure what I had just read from her face.

Shortly after, she came back and pulled me aside, “Erm, Julia… I was just wondering… I realize that you are erm…” she looked down at the piece of paper, now limp, in her hand from use “Kenyan is it?”

“Yes…” I responded.

“Right. And do you have erm… a work permit?” her voice was soft and almost motherly.

“Yes, I do, but as a student. After you take me up on a permanent basis, the company will have to sponsor me. But you are a registered sponsor… so I figured it would not be a problem…” I responded coolly.

“No, no, not at all! We actually do have a lot of people here on work permit… Em…this doesn’t affect the outcome of your interview. Not to worry!”

That night I called home. I told my mom and dad that work visas in the UK are a nightmare to get. That it was not easier for students. Even masters students. That I wanted 2 years work experience in the UK and that this would really propel my career but it was seeming unlikely. Mother asked when I would hear back from the company. “Tomorrow. They call us tomorrow.”

That night I went online and did some research. As it turned out just a couple of years ago, students would be given 2 extra years on their visas to work and live in the UK following the end date of their school year. For my lot however, we only got 4 months. 4 months to get a job that would sponsor our stay (basically pay us a salary through work) and thus allow us to be granted a work permit. Four Months. I found a group online that protested this, “What is four months? I can’t even get part time in four months where I live! “One student lamented.

In another article I read about the concerns of Britain and the high level of immigration. “We need to pull out of the EU. Too many jobs are being lost to these immigrants who are willing to work for lower wages,” a worker was quoted saying. “These immigrants, they come and live here and use up all our benefits. Our taxes are going into their pockets… Our healthcare system is under too much pressure,” another quote stated. I recalled going to hospital once…I didn’t have to pay because National Health covered me. Being a legal immigrant, I had access to free health care. I wondered if I was putting pressure on the NHS.

I wrote under the comments section of the article,

“What about students? We have paid to be here. In the tens of thousands of pounds… International students make more than half of the immigrant population in England and we have paid to be schooled here. We have gained education from here and we are willing to WORK here, PAY TAXES and therefore contribute to society, rather that only take away from it. I understand that this is a complex issue but as an international student who is looking for a skilled job, I don’t think the process should be as barred. Is this issue on the exit and stay of the UK within the EU about economic freedom or just a masked case of extreme Xenophobia?”

The following day, Hannah called me. I wondered why she used her personal mobile phone rather than the office line she had used before, to contact me. Her voice was preppy as usual but I sensed something else in her voice.

“You didn’t get the job. “

“Is it because I am not British (EU)?” I interjected.

“Julia… these matters are quite complex. No. it’s not because of that.” She paused.

“But a lot is changing in England and companies risk a lot when they are tied in between government decisions and an employed work force. The issue is not us…” She paused again and took in a deep breath before changing her official tone to that motherly one before saying, “We want to have qualified people here. But sometimes-” “Yeah, I understand. It’s okay. You don’t have to explain,” I interrupted. For some reason I felt bad that she was trying to make me feel better.  “I do wish you all the best Julia!” she went back to her  HR-friendly, politically correct self “I know you will do well. Do keep looking at our career page for more opportunities…”

The rest of my interviews were pretty much the same after that. Tasha, my friend from New York who I also was in school with, gave up after 2 job interviews, “Going back to the Big Apple girl! No point staying here any longer…” She too, an American, needed a work visa to work in England. Katyia was next to leave, then Karina and then me- all of us international students. Kacey stayed 3 months after me… she wasn’t ready to give up just yet. She also preferred London winters-it was December, Russia’s cold was merciless.

Class of 2016.Excited after our final exam. (Only 3 students in at this Masters class were British Citizens. Just one of the three of British decent).

And so now that the Brits got what they wanted, I wonder what will happen to my friends who stayed behind… those from the EU like Daniel from Hungary and Terry from Italy. What of Huyen who fell in love and married a Polish guy who lived and worked in London? Will she have to move to Poland with him?

At the end of the day, I feel like this is an immigration issue rather than anything else. I may be wrong but most immigrants coming into the UK are young people ready to work and by doing so spur economic growth and help pay for public services. There are those that take advantage of the system so I may empathize a little with the pro Brexit folk. It all depends on how you look at this issue though and what you deem important for ones economy. I on my end am happy to be home. I will be back to visit though! Hope you don’t deny me a visa for that too!

Julia.

Found your Talent?

I was listening to a conversation a friend of mine was having about a Kenyan photographer, highly sought, and just how passionate he was about his work, “He will even climb an acacia tree full of thorns to take that perfect shot,” Monica exclaimed.

Talent. Passion. Purpose. These are just some of the nouns that have haunted me from the day I received my Bsc. in International Business; overheated under my black graduation gown, feet in aching agony because my  black peep toe heels were brand new and still too tight… But I had to look good walking down the podium to receive my degree.

A few weeks ago I was invited to a talk. The email invitation was bold and captivating, ‘Talent. What is Yours? Turning your Talent into Money.’They allowed to me carry a plus one and so I asked one of my best friends to tag along.

The talk kind of blew me away. Of course there was the inspirational guest speaker whose story was intriguing but what really fascinated me was the definition of a Talent. I’ll give you my synopsis on it.

When someone asks us to describe talent or perhaps give an example of it, we tend to describe things that are out of the realm of what I would call the rigid, the desk job type, the 8-5 ish… we think of things that are expressive in an artistic or abstract way. Cooking! Painting! Landscaping! Singing! Acting!  You say, “Yes I am good at accounting but my talent is Baking…” or “I am a really great engineer but my talent really, is Pottery.”

” First things first, talent is not only something that is artsy or vocational…” Well I knew that… But did I really?

Our speaker then asked us to think about something, anything, that when doing it we were ‘in the flow…’ That’s all he said. In the flow. The room stared back at him blankly, some eyelids frantically blinking.

“…guys, when you are doing this thing, you find yourself completely engaged… free from over-thinking, it comes easy to you, usually easier than it does to others and more often than not, you lose track of time. What is it when you do, you are in the flow? Take a moment and write a bunch of things that come to mind.”

I grabbed my paper and pen:

1. Writing
2. Cleaning (not always)
3. Creating stories in my head.

He then pointed out, “I will tell you this. There is a class I attended where one of the participants wrote down, ‘Climbing Trees’. So I want you to really let yourself to wander into your past experiences and allow it to be anything. It can be the obvious or not so obvious.”

I then went back to my list and edited it a little bit:

1. Imitating people
2. Story telling
3. Writing
4.  Cleaning (not always, but most of the time-especially with bleach).
5. Organizing
6. Creating plots for short stories-like those in ‘Encounters from Africa’.
7.  Painting, mostly in black and white.
8. Singing …well…of course, singing.

After this, he asked some of us to tell the rest of the class what we wrote down. Someone said, “Taking care of animals.” A lady yelled from the back, “Reading and analyzing maps,” Another said, “Budgeting my money on a spread sheet.” And another, “Talking… or like inspiring people by talking to them…”

“Great,” our moderator said. “Next step is one of the most important. Now you must keep in mind that people will not buy your ability to talk, or read a map or your liking of budgeting. What people buy is a product. You must then package your skills into something that is sellable. For the young lady who loves to read maps, what are some of the things that you think she can do with that… how can we package that?”

Hands shot up in the air. Hers did not.

“Creating apps for city maps”

“Being that er.. co-driver to the rally driver?”

The rest of the class went on like this. There are many other important things that were said. But for me these were the most important. Finding your flow and packaging that flow. Apparently, everyone has that one, two or whatever number of things that to them come easily. And those things, those things that come easily to them don’t always come already perfected. It is your job to perfect them. But it is easier to move these things from a B to an A star performance than move something that you are forcing yourself to learn, from a D to a C. Ever sat in a meeting about the most boring project and you have this one annoying person who is super pumped and is just in her moment with the planning and perfect lead times and amazing delivery? And you’re just there like, “Oh god, I can’t wait for this to end…”? She’s in her flow and you’re not.

In conclusion, if you want to turn your talent into money and do what you love every day, then find your flow,perfect it, package it and sell it. If you don’t want to sell it, doesn’t matter. Let it be your escape. In this flow even if something is exhausting and demanding, you will see a challenge as a mole hill and not a mountain. You will even climb that thorned acacia tree for the perfect shot.

Always,

jules_her

 

Nothing Much…

Got a lot of responses from my last post. Appreciate it all. Unfortunately I don’t write every week but only when I feel compelled to write. Writing is my avenue to express my thoughts calmly and peacefully with the aid of auto correct and the delete key-because in real life I am very talkative and have hardly any filter (smile). I am therefore afraid to taint this process with a schedule.

I was reading through my personal diary this past weekend and I came across an entry that I put in on 8.12.2015. It is closely related to my previous post and so decided it would be nice to share it. Sort of as an extension of the other post. Sometimes it’s interesting to see where you were mentally at certain times in your past which is why I write a diary. Also because I want my grand kids to know who I was and that I wasn’t always old and backward… And so that they can see that life’s shitty problems were still the same in the early 2000’s and maybe be inspired by my my journey to keep on keepin’ on :-).

I was 4 days away from my flight back to Nairobi.

Always,

jules_her.

I’ll tell you why home is Best-well Better.

When I left for London, I left Nairobi in a huge ‘good riddance’ exhale. Before I left, I must say I was not at my best. I had given myself about 2 years of self discovery and what you learn when you open yourself to self discovery is the ugly part of life, and yourself. You also learn the beautiful. But mostly, you are astonished by the ugly.

I had left work, joined a band, taken up exercise, started to paint, sell my work and meet all sorts of people outside my regular circle. Until today I am uncertain as to whether I regret that decision. When I look at where I am today I am glad I did what I did because had I not, I would not be here. Neither would I be me. But when I think back at the time, while in the time, I think I never want to go back as I cannot understand even my own strength not to give up. On everything. Even life. Certainly out of the concrete a flower can grow.

And to the plus four-four I went. And I loved it. I was determined to love it. I loved the cabro streets. I loved yellow and red leaves in fall. I loved the street restaurants. I loved men in big bushy beards and overhang trench coats. I loved tea with a dash of milk. I loved sweaty Carribean night clubs. I loved the ease of shopping. I loved the dustless CBD. I loved the brick walls. The hippy subcultures. I loved the sight of dogs being walked in the morning. I loved being part of the morning rush hour in the tube-knowing that I too was on a mission, to get somewhere, to work, contributing to society… there was hardly anything I didn’t love.

However, I wished so baldy that my mom was there to see the red and yellow leaves. That Kathy was there to see the bushy beards and overhung trench coats. That Shiko was there to get broke with me shopping in Zara and Next and New Look and H&M. Primark too (lol).

I had an amazing group of friends: Karina, Jimena, Kacey, Julie, sweet Veronica, Katia and Latasha the New Yorker. My very own version of my Kenyan clique- Greenwich chicks, Jimena named us-but you know, sometimes you miss your own people. I was never really homesick, but sometimes you miss the inside jokes, the predictable reactions and familiar love. When it came time to decide whether I was staying or going, whereas before it was never an option to leave London my beloved, I suddenly became okay with the idea of being back home.

And so I started to mentally prepare myself for the horrific traffic, the scorching sun and the clutching close of my handbag in the city. Things I found synonymous to my home town. I bought my ticket and kissed my second love, healer of my soul London good bye.

And now that I am back and settled in, I am at peace. Nairobi is still the same. Politicians are still rumbling, our poor stray dogs are still straying, night clubs are still overly familiar, city dust is still unsettled as if we are never tranquil down below and the heat, the heat is still sometimes uncomfortable. I’m okay with that. I no longer sit with a blanket in the backyard with my dogs soaking up the sun as I had missed it so while in winter-wonderland-London but, I am okay with that too. I don’t have to speak slower now so that people can understand me, my slang fits in perfectly with the local diction, food tastes better than ever and everywhere I go I know someone-fine, that can get annoying really quickly but for the most part it’s comforting if I am being entirely honest.

Bitch I’m Back.

jules_her

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…Dedicated to you…

I ended up in a slightly heated conversation with my girls about depression and suicide. We are not usually a gloomy lot but miss sherane’s death sparked the exchange. Please note I am not a psychiatrist nor a psychologist and so the opinions expressed on this publication will be just that, expressions. And so to an expert, will seem deeply naive and short sighted.

I think depression is the worst disease to ever befall the human race. To me, depression is rooted in two things: self doubt and self pity. And it seems that these two things are ignited by an event or a series of events usually circling around the theme of rejection. For some, because of inherent personality traits and behavioural habits earlier picked up, it is easier to shake off these dark clouds. For others, it may be not so easy.Because at some point in everyone’s life as my mom said, “…you will always feel a ka depression…acknowledge it and then decide to rise above it.”  

I know I have been there. For about 3 and half years I wallowed in a dark, dark place. Because I am naturally outgoing and spunky, it was easier to mask. I would stand on a pavement and notice cars whiz past me as I was trying to cross the road. I would say to myself, “I am (was) only 40 ft from death with that car… I was only 30 ft from death with that one… “ I never tried. Thank God. But I let the thoughts swim in my conscience. When I finally was able to come out of the fog, people would say, “Boy, Julia, you were not happy last year…” or “…you didn’t seem to be in a good place that time we went on that trip.” All were acquaintances…people I knew from a far. It seemed those closest to me could not see because it was easier perhaps to hide it from them. The better, I thought.

And so nowadays, if I feel that wave start to creep back into my life, I resist it. I listen to the ques of my inner voice,aka, God, before the tragedy unfolds. I have come to learn that there is always a voice, an internal nudge, that is constantly trying to guide us to the right places.

And with that let me conclude by saying, depression is real. It is not limited to ‘those arsty’ or ‘those creative’ types. I believe under the right circumstances, anyone can slip into depression and anyone can decide to take their own life.

May God grant us all empathy. So that even when we don’t understand another’s pain, we are still able to lay ego aside and lend a shoulder. Amen.

 

Always,

jules_her.

RIP my sweet.

“We are not humans on a spiritual journey, we are  spiritual beings on a human journey,” – That Indian sounding guy who’s always on Oprah’s life class.

 

Insomniac

I couldn’t sleep from 3.30 am last night. I had woken up to pee and was wide awake after that. I know better. Not to drink too much water before bed, but I can’t help myself when I am thirsty. So I say fuck it, and gulp. I tossed and turned for about an hour after that. I have been having a lot of these sleepless nights lately, I thought. I decided to write a list of things to do because a lot of times when my thoughts are not organised, I can’t get my mind to stop. Maybe that’s why I cant sleep.

Call Jessica from Step Ahead 

Email Trevor.

Write speech for Uncle Ndwiga’s funeral (may he rest in peace).

Pack gym clothes.

Fold laundry.

Haircut.

Do not eat sugar or dairy.

But I still lay awake. I did my daily devotion. Gave thanks. I listened to some gospel.Then some Lianne La Havas. I read my texts. Replied messages I had ignored and deleted conversations from the winter wolves in sheep skin. The kind who only call you when the leaves start to fall and the air gets sick with winter’s whispers. The cold can be brutal. These are clever strategists. Trying to stock up on as much…affection…for the coming season where the sun has forsaken us and the wind is bitter. And then I decided oh well, I am up now, it’s 5 a.m. Need to be up by half 6, might as well go to the gym now rather than after work because I will obviously be too tired and sleepy at the end of the day for a workout. So I wore my gym clothes. Trainers and everything. Went up to brush my teeth and heard from the half open bathroom window confident raindrops pitta patta down below.

Hell no, not walking to the gym in the rain. And I turned off the lights. But then I thought… It’s just water. Rain water. And there’s my cousin’s rain coat at the bottom of the stairs.I turned the lights back on,  brushed my teeth and left. The drizzle was lighter than I thought. But I sprinted to the gym nonetheless ,11 minutes away on foot. The workout was great. 40 minutes fasted cardio nothing crazy – 6.30 am. Endorphins were exploding into my bloodstream and I was upbeat. I had a spring in my step, like the proverbial middle aged man’s who has finally cheated on his wife one week before his retirement.

As I turned the corner, the cold raindrops now a relief rather than a nuisance and the crispy dawn shy with a distant glare, a car whizzed past me on my left and a tsunami of urban rain water that had collected at the curb splashed hard and unapologetically against my side.

“Oiiiiii!!!!!” I screamed, surprised as well at the acculturation of British slang.

And I turned around to scold, but saw the blonde girl who had been next to me on the cross trainer at the ladies section of the gym where I trained, brown murky water dripping down her face, not forgiven by the selfish driver either. She flashed me a huge bright smile, sudden and intentional to capture my attention, teeth white and sparkling in childish delight. I smiled back. She laughed. I laughed. And we went our separate ways.

That is the end of my story.

Always,

jules_her

Fate or Decision?

I hardly ever miss an episode of “Who Do You Think You Are?” Since my tender years, I have always questioned my roots; not only by way of origin as this show suggests but also in the way of mannerisms and character. I might have mentioned this once but when I was watching three 2 week old kittens play at the backyard of my neighbour’s house, I was thrown by my mother’s friend’s comment when she explained that the reason she named the kittens Fidget, Spicy and Dainty was because of their different personalities.

As a young girl, my mother always said that I was naughty. Now she says instead, that I was curious and headstrong. Perhaps a synonym at a time when you have no idea what you are doing with your child as a first time parent. Nonetheless, I was definitely a handful; always testing, always beating my own path and publicly questioning authority. I wondered why I was ‘a naughty girl’. I wondered why my sweet brother was never called ‘naughty boy’.“Say your prayers now,” my mom would say as she tucked me in, “And ask God to make you stop being naughty,” And I would.

So on this day, as I looked on at the kittens fumbling in the grass, sitting quietly next to Mama Mariam as she waltzed around a clay pot dotting it here and there in oil paints, her feet  bare and jingling bracelets a spectacle, something dawned on me. I identified with Spicy.Of course I did. And I watched the feline. She sprung up and grabbed a locust from the air. Fidget and Dainty jumped around her in wild excitement as their sister guarded her newly caught treasure. Mama Mariam leaped over to them and grabbed the locust placing it gently on a bush nearby beyond the reach of the kindle. Spicy pounced onto Mama Mariam’s foot, clawing at her toes but doing what seemed to me rather, like trying to climb up to the locust. “Ouch, Ouch,” she shrieked. “ No Spicy! Here, play with this,” and she dropped a bouncing rubber ball on the ground.

I wanted to run home to my mother at my wild discovery. I wanted to tell her that how I was, curious and headstrong, was my nature. If the kittens were born this way then it must be the same for me.  I never came round to doing this. 

What am I going on about? Fear. On this episode of Who Do You Think You Are, British actress Frances de la Tour was pursuing her family tree. Somewhere in her bloodline was Maria, married to a navy officer of some sort. Maria had had an affair with Henry, an affair that began during one of Maria’s husband’s voyages at sea. The maid at Maria’s house had given an account of how she found Maria’s marital bed in a tumble one unusual afternoon after Henry had visited. Maria fell pregnant. After realizing that the baby would be born about 5 weeks after the time it should have come had it been her husband’s child (based on the last time she lay with him before he left for sea) she decided to lie to her husband that the reason for her swollen belly was due to an illness. Rumours of the affair nonetheless reached her husband. He filed for a divorce-rare and only reserved for the social elite at the time. Soon after the divorce, Maria and Henry married and had other children. Maria died at just 50 and as a memento of some sort to his wife, Henry built a monumental inscription which still stands in a church somewhere in England to this day ,

“This is a tribute of the fondest affection to the memory of Maria Elizabeth the wife of Henry Jadis who died on the fourth of December 1831 is inscribed by her husband whose days of happiness gone forever by the bitterness of his sorrows…

…her gentle love for his children fearful sufferings and resignation …

…these are the tender and warmful recollections pressing upon his weary heart…”

And so the adulterous pair were shared a genuine love.

And then there was Sophia, whose indiscretions led to undesirable fortune. A daughter of an rich man, I think the last of three siblings, from a different part of the France de la Tour family tree Sophia fell pregnant out of wedlock. This made her marriage prospects weak. And so she married a low level army officer who was an abusive drunk. While her sisters were  attending tea parties, off getting married to the social elite; lords and the like, Sophia was resigned to a lesser life. A hasty and erratic yet affectionate letter written by her father (to whom I don’t recall) was found that described the sadness that filled the man over his daughter’s life. It was also discovered through the finding of expensive receipts from an apothecary (chemist) that Sophia was buying large and frequent amounts of a concoction that contained opium- the stuff used to make cocaine today- and that based from her buying patters, she was addicted to it. This medicine, in those days, was used to cure a range of diseases: depression, malfunctions of the nervous system, abdominal cramps but mostly venereal diseases such as Syphilis. Most venereal diseases at the time came from army men, as was her abusive husband. Sophia died soon after her last purchase. Her father organised an elaborate funeral for her that totaled to more than £500 pounds- equivalent to  over £ 60,000 today.

And thus my alarm. I haven’t committed adultery nor had a baby before marriage but a lot of the decisions I have made in my life , a lot of the relationships I have ended and friendships I have had (or dropped) have led me to where I am today. 27 years old, living in London, single and scared shitless of what my future might look like. Oprah said that your twenties are all about self discovery (smile) and if you know me personally, you know all well that self discovery I did pursue. But Oprah isn’t married. Nor does she have any kids. While all my friends are off getting married now or secure in long term relationships, I am nowhere near the sight of a relationship let alone an engagement.

Sophia, made this one bad mistake that had a negative domino effect on her life and ultimately led to a sad and slow death. Maria on the other hand committed adultery numerous times and then died young (karma perhaps) but she experienced what we all live for in this life; meaningful long lasting relationships. 

Frances de la Tour

De la Tour expressed how startled she was to discover that  she had such scandal in her family. How such scandal even existed in those times. These two women. So improper. So bold. So curious and headstrong.

I would love to end on the note of bliss and somewhat just discovered wisdom; like a silver lining. That even though everyone is getting married or having babies or both I am on my own journey and my time will come too. Or that  even though they are happy on wedding photos, greasy smiles filled with anticipation and promise, plenty are getting into a union whose relationship is tar tarred with rumors of infidelity and secret offspring. The silver lining perhaps?

Deep down, however, the worry is real.

And so when a pompous ex calls me to explain to me a year later that it has just occurred to him that I am the one he must wife, that being in the bridal party at three weddings in three months has sparked in him an awakening, I realize that there surely is a (proverbial) clock. And ticking away it is. So much so that even the foolish who are now repelling good girls like a raindrop that has fallen on an army of ants, are discovering the errors of their ways.

How else can I be, but hopeful?

jules_her.