The Unruly pen

The Cracked Earth.

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Mon, 02 Jun 2025 05:28:00 +0000

The earth has taken a decent lot from me.

My mother.
My son.
My brother.

Three people. Three graves. Three reasons I sometimes wonder how I’m still breathing.

There’s a kind of silence that falls after loss and it's not the peaceful kind. The kind that howls under your skin. The kind that makes laughter sound like betrayal. The kind that turns everyday moments - washing dishes, folding laundry - into acts of defiance, because how dare life keep going?

But it does. It always does.

One of the most gutting graves that I've had to stand over was my mother’s. I remember that day not for the ceremony, but for the absurdity of it all. How people kept saying “She’s in a better place” while I was standing there wondering where the hell that place is, and why she wasn’t still here, cooking, singing on the fly, lecturing me with love, being our lighthouse.

They lowered her in, and I swear the sky dimmed. Like even the sun understood that something holy had been taken.

Grief came with a face then. Familiar. Terrifying.
It sat at the table. Slept beside me.
It followed me into every room like a shadow I never asked for.

But I didn’t know then that grief could come in waves - deeper, darker ones.

Months earlier, I had buried my son.

I don’t write that easily. Not because the words are hard, but because they are blasphemy to a mother’s soul. There is no proper syntax for what it means to place your child into the ground. There is no sentence that makes that natural.

It was neither poetic nor peaceful.
It was violence dressed in white linen and quiet sobs, and it ripped the axis of my life into shreds.

Lang’ata Cemetery. A place where the city pretends the dead can rest while the living break apart quietly. I remember the tiny graves that surrounded us. Rows upon rows of small plots, short lives marked by even shorter stones. Some fresh. Some forgotten. Some barely named.

That patch of earth has seen too many children lowered into it. Too many mothers left behind clutching air.

My son was laid down among them. A small box. A quiet burial. A world-ending.

I remember a seedling planted beside him - something about afforestation, or to root the moment, to pretend that life could still grow from a place so consumed by death. That seedling is a tall tree now. Towering. Unapologetic. It drinks from sorrow and keeps reaching for the sun, something I haven’t quite figured out how to do.

The gravestone is now lopsided. Time has no mercy, even for markers of the dead. The name etched into it has weathered under rain and heat, and I’ve watched it fade like I’m being dared to forget. But I won’t. I can’t.

That day, when the final prayers were said and the last handfuls of soil were tossed into the grave, people began to leave. Quietly. Respectfully. They walked away with kind eyes and damp handkerchiefs, making space for my grief as if it were something that could be contained.

And then it got loud.

My mind, loud with questions.
My bosom, empty of weight that used to kick and giggle and breathe.
My heart, gorged out of my chest like an animal sacrifice.

There was no soundtrack for that moment. No slow violin or swelling gospel. Just a ringing silence so sharp it felt like screaming.

I stood there long after everyone else left. That’s something people never tell you: the grief begins after the crowd leaves. After the chairs are stacked. After the final condolence is whispered. That’s when the real burial begins: the burial of routine, of normalcy, of the woman I was before my child became memory.

I didn’t want to leave. Walking away felt like betrayal. Like turning my back on the person who ever knew what my heartbeat sounded like from the inside.

And yet, I did. With knees that barely held me and a soul that didn’t follow.

Then came my brother - Tintin.

Gone in a flash. A headache. I'd be damned. A darn headache, they said. Like life hadn’t already taken enough. Like grief hadn’t already eaten through my walls.

He had a house in progress. Bricks stacked like hopes. A blueprint soaked in dreams. He wanted a place for his boys - a space where he could cook for them, raise them loud and free and proud.

Now that house stands like a question.

The earth took him too. Without warning or apology.

Grief doesn’t get lighter. Your legs get stronger.

You walk with it. You parent with it. You celebrate birthdays with ghosts standing behind the cake. You smile with teeth clenched because you’re tired of crying in public.

They don’t tell you that grief changes your language. That suddenly words like “joy” feel too small, and “forever” feels like a curse.

They don’t tell you that every new love feels dangerous - like giving the earth one more thing to steal.

And they damn sure don’t tell you how many versions of yourself you’ll bury alongside the ones you love.

I keep going.

I show up. I speak their names. I keep the dreams alive. I picture Tintin’s boys and imagine them finishing that house. I hear my mother in my tone when I tell someone I love them. I see my son in every child’s smile and choose, against all odds, not to look away.

Sometime back I sat under that mango tree - the one that holds my brother. The same tree that fed us all along, whose fruit once stained our shirts and made us laugh. Now it grows over his grave. It shades his dreams. It witnesses our pain and our persistence.

And I think: maybe this is what survival looks like.

Maybe it’s not moving on. Maybe it’s moving with.

With the ghosts, the unfinished sentences, the ache and the love all tangled up.

The earth has taken much from me. But it hasn’t taken everything.

For Tintin - On Your Death Anniversary

A second year without you, brother. Another 365 chances to wish it wasn’t real.

I woke up to dreams, standing in front of your house again today. It’s still unfinished, but so were you. So were your dreams. So were our plans. You were supposed to stay. You were supposed to see your boys grow. You were supposed to become old and annoying and laugh at your own dad jokes.

But the earth had other plans. And all we could do was bury another piece of our hearts.

Yet even in your absence, you remain everywhere.
In the mango tree’s shade. In the steel bones of your house. In the faces of your sons. In the stories that keep you alive - stubborn, loud, dreaming.

You left too soon. But you didn’t leave empty. You left us with love. With laughter. With memories.

So today, I don’t just mourn you.
I remember you.
I carry you.
I whisper your name into the wind and hope it reaches you.

Tintin, I miss you.

Happy birthday in advance, my brother.
Happy anniversary in grief, and in love, and in fire that refuses to go out.

You are unfinished, but never forgotten. Not for one damn second.

MOTHERHOOD: NO MANUAL, NO MERCY.

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Tue, 18 Mar 2025 20:12:00 +0000

No soft landings. No step-by-step guides. Just a woman, a child, and years of absence crashing into each other. Motherhood didn’t wait for me to be ready; it threw me into the deep end and watched me sink or swim.

On the first day of 2024, my daughter walked into my house with a single suitcase and duffel bag and the kind of silence that isn't empty, but heavy. It was the silence of history of years that had passed without me, of a bond that should have been second nature but felt foreign.

She was almost twelve. But I had missed all the years that made her.

For most of her life, she lived with my sister. A choice I made because, when I had her, I was barely surviving myself. There was no room for diapers, for lullabies, for tiny hands gripping my fingers in the middle of the night. I convinced myself that the best thing I could do for her was to give her away, to let someone more stable, more ready, be her mother in every way.

I told myself I'd take her back when I was ready. When I had more money. When life stopped feeling like a fight. But the years slipped past, and with each one, the gap between us stretched wider. The longer I waited, the harder it became to claim her as mine. So, I let the lie comfort me - that she was fine, that I was making the responsible choice, that she wasn’t missing me because she didn’t know me to begin with.

But during the last months of 2023, something cracked. Maybe it was the weight of another Christmas spent watching my child not be "home" with me. Maybe it was the realization that readiness was a mirage - that if I kept waiting, I'd wait forever.

So, I took the leap. I called my sister and told her I was bringing my daughter home.

And just like that, on January 1st, I stood in my living room, staring at the twelve-year-old girl I had given life to but had never truly raised. She looked around, hesitant, like a guest. And that crushed me.

It didn’t take long to realize that I had brought home not just a child, but a world already built without me.

She had habits I didn’t understand. A way of arranging her things. A preference for a particular kind of toothpaste. A bedtime routine that had nothing to do with me. I tried making her tea the way I liked it - strong, with lemon, masala and orange slices - but she barely sipped it before pushing it aside. “Mom makes it different,” she said, not unkindly, just stating a fact.

She called my house “this place.” She hesitated before using the word Mom in reference to me. She kept asking if it was okay to have two moms.

Did someone ask about me? I fumbled. Badly. And this is a cute description.

I tried to enforce rules, only to find they clashed with the ones she had followed her entire life. I asked her about her friends, her school, her favorite TV shows, only to receive one-word answers. She was polite but distant, like someone tolerating a stranger. And maybe that’s exactly what I was. A stranger that wasn't to be trusted.

Some nights, after she had gone to bed, I’d sit in the dark and ask myself the questions I was too ashamed to say out loud. Did I make a mistake? Was she better off where she was? Was it too late for us?

The first real fight happened over something stupid - chores, I think. I asked her to do the dishes, and she ignored me, too lost in social media on her phone. I raised my voice. She raised hers back.

And then, the words I had feared, the ones that had lived in my nightmares for years, came flying out of her mouth.

"You’re not acting like my real mom!"

"This is child labor. I will tell Mom about it"

And tell on me she did. Every week she'd be on the phone about my parenting mishaps.

I don’t remember what I said back. I just remember the way my chest caved in, like something had been ripped out of me. I turned away before she could see the tears threatening to break free.

But later that night, long after the fight had died down, I heard her crying. I stood outside the door, my hand hovering over the handle, debating. Should I go in? Would she even want me to?

In the end, I did. I sat on the edge of the bed, and when she didn’t push me away, I took a risk. I pulled her into my arms.

She stiffened at first, then broke.

And I held her as she sobbed into my shoulder, her small body shaking with all the things she hadn’t been able to say. I don’t know how long we stayed like that. But when she finally pulled away, her voice was barely a whisper.

"I don’t know how to do this."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and told her the truth.

"Neither do I."

I used to work late into the night, partly because I had to, but mostly because I was scared to go home and sit in that thick, unbearable silence. Instead, I’d call her as I drove, stretching our conversations as long as I could, trying to bridge the years with words.

“Did you eat?” I’d ask.

“Yes,” she’d say.

“What did you eat?”

She’d hesitate. “I don’t remember.”

Sometimes, though, we’d slip into real conversation, and for a few fleeting moments, I’d hear her laugh; soft, unguarded. And in those moments, she felt like mine.

But sometimes, she was just too tired to entertain me.

“Mom, I’m sleepy,” she’d mumble through half-closed lips.

“Just a little longer,” I’d beg, desperate for the comfort of her voice.

But exhaustion always won.

“Lock the door,” I’d remind her before she drifted off. “But make sure I can open it from outside.”

“Yes, Mom,” she’d say, and I’d listen to her breathing slow as sleep took her.

It was past midnight when I finally pulled up to the house one night. The streetlights flickered like tired sentries, and the cold Nairobi air bit through my jacket as I stepped out of the car. I reached for the door handle, expecting the quiet relief of home.

It didn’t budge.

I tried again.

Locked.

I exhaled sharply, pressing my forehead against the door. “Jesus.”

I knocked lightly at first. Then harder. Then with both fists.

No answer.

She had locked me out.

Panic clawed at my chest, not because of the inconvenience, but because I knew she was in there, small and sleeping and alone.

I called her phone. No answer.

I knocked again, this time with the desperation of a mother who suddenly realized she wasn’t just locked out of her house - she was locked out of her own child’s world.

Minutes turned into an hour. My hands burned from the cold, my breath came out in shivering bursts, and my thoughts turned bitter.

This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be a mother? To reclaim something that was never truly yours to begin with?

I banged my fist against the door, the cold night pressing in around me.
I don’t know how long I stood there, pounding, calling her name, my breath fogging up the air in front of me. Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour?
At some point, my calls stopped going through. Her phone had died.
That’s when it hit me - she wasn’t waking up.
I was locked out. And she was locked in.
The air bit at my skin, the wind slicing through my clothes. My fingers were stiff, my feet aching from standing so long. I tried one last desperate shove against the door, but it wouldn’t budge.
There was nowhere to go.
At some point, exhaustion swallowed me whole, and I trudged back to the car. I curled up in the driver's seat, pulled nothing around me. That day, of all of God's days, I had forgotten to carry my picnic blanket in the car. It typically had residence on the back seat. I tried to will myself to sleep.
I thought of turning on the engine for warmth, but I didn't want to be a nuisance to the neighbors, what with the fumes, noise, and all. After a while, I let that thought go.
And the July cold swallowed me whole.
I curled into myself, rubbing my arms, tucking my hands under my thighs for warmth. My breath was shallow, my body shivering uncontrollably. Every muscle clenched in protest.
The irony wasn’t lost on me - this was my house, my daughter, my life. And yet, in this moment, I was an outsider. A stranger sleeping in the driveway of the home I was supposed to belong to.
I thought of waking the neighbors, but shame kept me still.
I had fought so hard to bring her home. To finally be her mother.
And yet here I was, outside in the cold, like an imposter.

At some point, exhaustion won. My shivers slowed, my thoughts blurred. A dangerous kind of stillness crept in.

But Nairobi nights don’t forgive.

The cold seeped into my bones, biting and relentless. My toes went numb first. Then my fingers. Then my face. My body trembled violently, but sleep never came; only the cruel realization that this, this bone-deep ache, was exactly what I had signed up for.

Motherhood, it turned out, wasn’t just late-night cuddles and whispered secrets. Sometimes, it was freezing in the dark, locked out and seemingly unwanted, with no one to blame but myself.

I don’t remember drifting off. But I remember waking up.

It was exactly 6:00 AM.

A soft rattling sound broke through the fog of my half-sleep. The car window.

I groggily reached for the control and rolled it down. And there she was, standing in the morning light, her small face twisted in confusion.

Her voice was groggy but firm.

"Where were you yesterday night?"

For a moment, I just stared at her, my mind too slow to register the absurdity of the question.

Then I laughed. A sharp, humorless sound that felt more like a sob.

She didn’t laugh back. She just stared at me, eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite place - worry? Guilt?

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced out the words.

"You locked me out."

Her face fell. “I - I didn’t mean to.”

I nodded, rubbing warmth back into my frozen fingers. “I know.”

A long pause. Then, in the smallest voice:

"Why didn’t you wake me up?"

I wanted to tell her I had tried. I wanted to tell her about the knocking, the calling, the sheer helplessness of standing outside a house that was supposed to be mine but wasn’t.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I forced a smile, trying to spare her the weight of my loneliness. “Because you were sleeping,” I said simply.

She chewed her lip, her eyes darting between me and the house. Then, without another word, she reached out her small, warm hand and took mine.

And in that tiny, silent gesture, I felt something shift.

She didn’t say she was sorry. She didn’t promise it wouldn’t happen again. But she held my hand, and for the first time, I believed we had a chance.

People think the hardest part of parenting is the big things - the financial strain, the responsibility, the fear of failing.

But the hardest part?

It’s the small, quiet things.

It’s learning how to comfort a child who doesn’t yet trust your arms. It’s figuring out how to discipline without feeling like a stranger scolding someone else’s kid. It’s navigating the guilt, the doubts, the constant gnawing thought that maybe, just maybe, you were too late.

Some nights, I still find myself staring at her, wondering if she’ll ever truly see me as her mother.

But then, there are moments - small, fleeting moments - where I catch glimpses of something softer.

A shared joke. A sigh of relief when I fix something for her. The way she lingers just a second longer when I hug her.

And I know, deep in my bones, that even if I wasn’t there for her first 11 years, I’ll be damned if I miss the rest.

It didn’t get easier overnight. We stumbled. We argued. We had moments of silence so thick I thought we’d never break through it.

But then, the small things started to happen. She asked me to buy her a book she wanted. She let me help her with her homework. One day, unprompted, she made me tea - the way I liked it.

And slowly, painfully, beautifully, we began to stitch together something new.

Motherhood isn’t just birthing a child. It isn’t just providing. It’s showing up - even when it’s late. Even when you’re terrified. Even when you’ve failed before and have no idea how to make up for lost time.

I wasn’t there for her first steps. I wasn’t there for her first words.

But I was there when she took the hardest step of all - walking into my home and trusting that this time, I’d stay.

And I will.

A LOVE LETTER TO OUR ORDINARY DAYS.

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Thu, 20 Feb 2025 20:54:00 +0000

The first sound of the morning isn’t the alarm. It’s her.

5:30 a.m., the house is still wrapped in the velvet hush of night, but then—water splashes, and her voice floats through the air. A song in the shower, lilting, unbothered, carrying the confidence of someone who has not yet learned to hold back. Rema, of course. She knows every word, and she sings like the lyrics were written for her.

I listen from my bed, eyes still heavy with sleep, but smiling. It’s the kind of moment you don’t think to cherish until you realize how quickly the days are moving.

She emerges, wrapped in warmth, her face glistening from a liberal slathering of petroleum jelly. I don’t have to look up to know what comes next—the meticulous laying of her edges, the soft hum under her breath. Then, the scent fills the air. A misting of perfume, then body spray, then more. I groan from my room, “Zawadi, that’s enough,” and she laughs because she knows I’ll say it, and she knows she won’t listen.

She is 12 going on 13. A girl suspended in the soft, golden space between childhood and everything that comes after. I’m not ready for the shift. Just yesterday, she fit a little more snugly under my arm. Just yesterday, she was smaller.

Now, she is stretching—upward, outward, into the world. But in this house, in my space, she is still mine.

Whenever I watch something on a small screen, she appears like a tide, wordlessly settling into my space, cheek pressed to mine, arms folded into herself like she belongs there. Because she does. She never asks if she can be there. She simply is. And I love that.

We dance. A lot. She makes me dance. She teaches me moves I’ll never perfect, but I try anyway. The living room becomes a stage, the kitchen a dance floor, the hallway an impromptu runway. There is music in our bones, laughter in the walls. She moves like she carries joy in her veins, and I wonder if she knows how much of that joy is mine, too.

And then, there is the way she dances—unapologetic, loose-limbed, wild with joy. There is something healing in seeing her so free in my presence. Something that knots and unknots inside me at the same time. When I was her age, I was careful. I don’t blame my mother—she loved me, I know that. But her presence made me uptight, made me measure my words and movements, made me hold myself differently. Love with its own formality, a quiet contract we never discussed but honored.

But Zawadi—she dances, and there is no contract. Just freedom. She moves like the world has done her no wrong, and in her presence, I let myself believe it, too.

We go on walks together. Sometimes we talk about nothing, sometimes everything. She asks big questions, ones that make me pause. She questions the world with a softness that reminds me to look closer, to stay curious.

At night, our home slows into a different kind of rhythm. The world outside dims, but inside, there is still light. She lingers in my room, reluctant to say goodnight, arms still reaching for one last embrace. We talk in whispers—about school, about boys, the little things, about nothing at all. And then, like clockwork, she leans in and cups my face. It is her signature, her unspoken way of saying, "I love you, I’m here."

And then, there are the moments I wish I could trap in amber, hold still forever.

The way she cups my face, often, without thinking.

The way she says, “You haven’t hugged me today,” before pulling me into an embrace so tight, it feels like she’s trying to tell me something without words.

The way I catch her in the mirror, mid-dance, lost in her own world, singing under her breath, spinning in her own light.

She is growing too fast. But I hope she carries this with her—the openness, the affection, the questioning, the confidence. The way she takes up space and knows she belongs.

I hope she never stops singing in the shower. That she never loses the lightness in her steps, the freedom in her movements. That she always remembers how she fits so effortlessly into my space, and into my heart.

And I hope, no matter how tall she grows, no matter where life pulls her, she always finds her way back here. To me. To the music. To the dance. To the scent of too much perfume in the morning air.

I hope my porch is always lined up with flowers from all the girls she used to be, reminding her that she's home. That I'm home.

And in the quiet of the night, when tears may well up in the corner of her eyes as is custom with life, I hope one thing is loud and clear to her - I cherish her. Deeply.

I SPEAK YOUR NAME, GABRIEL.

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Mon, 17 Feb 2025 19:55:00 +0000

Ten years.

Ten years since the world as I knew it split open, leaving a raw, gaping wound that time has failed to stitch closed. Ten years of waking up and reaching for a child who is no longer there. Ten years of learning to walk with an invisible limp, carrying the weight of a grief so heavy it threatens to crush me some days.

The world assumes that grief fades, that it diminishes, that the years smooth over the jagged edges. They believe that time heals. That’s a lie. Time does not heal. Time teaches you how to carry the unbearable without screaming out loud. Time instructs you in the delicate dance of appearing ‘fine’ while still bleeding underneath. Time is a relentless teacher in the art of survival, but it does not heal.

Grief is a ghost, a shape-shifter. Some days, it’s a quiet presence sitting in the corner, watching me as I go about my day. Other days, it’s a hurricane, ripping through my soul, making it impossible to breathe. And then there are the days like today—anniversaries—where grief is a feral animal, clawing at my insides, demanding to be acknowledged, refusing to be tamed.

I can still hear the beeping of the monitors, the rhythmic hum of machines keeping him tethered to this world. The hospital smelled sterile, a mix of antiseptic and desperation. Nurses moved in a choreographed urgency, their faces composed, their voices calm, as if they had not seen the hope drain from a mother’s eyes a thousand times before.

I remember holding his tiny hand, my fingers engulfing his, whispering promises I couldn't keep. "You're going to be okay, baby. Just hold on." His little chest rose and fell with labored breaths, each one a battle against pneumonia, against a cruel world that decided 3.5 months was all the time he would get.

I remember the doctors speaking in measured tones, their words a mix of science and sorrow, preparing me for the worst. The oxygen mask, the IV drips, the frantic efforts to keep him here. And then—the stillness. The moment when the machines stopped their steady beeping, when the nurses no longer rushed, when my world caved in with the silence of a life that was no longer.

People don’t know what to say. They avoid your eyes. Or worse, they try to fix it.

“He’s in a better place.”

At ten years, I don’t have the energy to correct them anymore. But I do. In my head, I scream it—

No. A better place would be here, laughing in my kitchen, rolling his eyes at my jokes, making a mess of his room, making a future out of the beautiful boy he was. A better place would be here, alive.

Some would say, “You have to let go.”

But what they don’t understand is that a mother never lets go. She simply learns how to carry.

Grief is the shadow that follows me through every moment, stretching long and dark behind me. I hear Gabriel’s laughter in the echoes of children playing at the park. I feel his absence in the spaces he should be—at the dinner table, in the empty chair during storytime, in the milestones that will never come...

People forget. They move on. And I don’t blame them. Life is for the living.

But I am still here, standing at the intersection of what was and what could have been.

Ten years is a long time to live without your child. Ten years is a blink when the memory of holding him is still so vivid, when the scent of his skin is still imprinted in my soul.

I remember everything. The way his fingers curled around mine, the sound of his breath as he slept, the rise and fall of his tiny chest, the way I used to place my hand over his heart just to feel it beating.

I remember his eyes.

I remember the silence that followed.

Ten years, and my arms are still empty. Ten years, and I still wake up reaching for him in the dark, only to grasp at air.

There is no justice in a parent outliving their child. It goes against the order of the universe. And yet, here I am, walking through a world where my son is a memory instead of a presence.

But if love could have saved him, he would still be here.

So I love him still. Fiercely. Endlessly. Love is the only thing that death cannot take.

I speak his name. I honor his life. I carry him forward, even as the years pull me further away from the last time I saw his face. I have forgotten his face and it scares me so.

Ten years of grief. Ten years of love. Ten years of missing my boy.

And forever to go.

MANGO ESSENCE.

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Sat, 28 Dec 2024 13:42:00 +0000

Today, I stood in front of his unfinished house, staring at the walls that rise like a promise never fulfilled. It’s strange how bricks and mortar can feel so heavy, even when they’re not fully formed. The silence here is overwhelming, broken only by the rustle of leaves from the mango tree—the one we buried him under. My brother is gone, and with him, so much of what could have been.

I still can’t believe he’s not here. He was our brother, the one who teased us endlessly. Now, it’s just us five. Five siblings where there used to be six. The number feels incomplete, like trying to balance on an uneven surface.

I can still hear my father’s bewildered voice from that day. "How does something like this happen?" he asked, shaking his head as if trying to wake from a bad dream. He had been standing near the casket, looking lost, his hands trembling. My father, a man who has weathered decades of life’s storms, seemed small and fragile in that moment. He kept repeating, “He was just here. Just the other day, we were talking about the house. And now…” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought, just like my brother was unable to finish his plans.

He had so much more to do. This house was supposed to be his sanctuary—a place for his boys to grow up, to laugh, to dream. I can see him here, standing in the doorway with that easy smile of his, arms crossed, surveying his work. He would’ve made it beautiful. He always had a way of turning the simplest things into something extraordinary.

I remember the way he used to dream aloud about this house—how he’d have a big kitchen because he loved to cook for his boys, how the living room would be filled with their laughter, how he’d plant flowers around the yard because he believed a home should always have beauty. I can hear him, standing here, directing workers with that easy confidence of his. But instead, there’s only silence.

But now, it stands empty, like the space he left behind.

I think back to the day we buried him. The sky was too bright, as if the world didn’t understand the weight of our grief. We gathered beneath the mango tree, a tree we’d eaten from more times than we could count, its branches holding our laughter from years gone by. Now, it holds him.

I recall when they hit that final nail on the casket. Two caskets this compound carries. Three in my heart.

I remember the moment the first handful of soil fell onto his casket. It sounded so final, like a door slamming shut. I wanted to scream, to reach out and stop it, to beg for one more chance to tell him all the things I never said. But what good would it have done? He was gone, taken so suddenly that none of us had time to prepare. A headache, that’s all it was. A headache. How could something so small take someone so big?

And then there’s my father, still bewildered, still carrying the weight of losing a son. Parents aren’t supposed to bury their children; it’s a cruel reversal of the natural order. I know this too well as like him, I put my son in the soil. It is not the recommended way to be kindred spirits with your father, but such is my current state. He doesn’t say it outright, but you can see it in his eyes: a mix of sorrow, guilt, and confusion. He’s haunted by the speed of it all, by the unfairness of life’s abrupt endings.

As I stood there, looking at his house today, the weight of it all crashed over me. I thought about all the times I could have done more. Called more. Shown up more. Told him I was proud of him, that I admired the way he dreamed so fearlessly. But life got in the way, as it always does. I assumed there’d be time. We all did.

And now, I wonder: What if I’d told him to take a break when he pushed himself too hard? What if I’d been there to help him plan this house, to paint its walls, to fill it with laughter? What if I’d been a better sister?

Grief is a cruel teacher that keeps returning. It forces you to face all the ways you fell short, all the moments you missed, all the love you didn’t express because you thought there’d be another chance.

But as I stood there, running my fingers over the rough edges of his unfinished walls, I realized something. This house isn’t just a symbol of what he left behind—it’s a challenge. A reminder. My brother may be gone, but his dreams don’t have to be. His boys will grow up knowing their father was a man who dreamed big, who worked hard, who loved deeply. And maybe, one day, they’ll finish this house. Maybe they’ll fill it with the laughter he wanted for them.

The mango tree swayed gently in the wind as if it understood my thoughts. Its roots run deep, just like my brother’s impact on all of us. He’s gone, but he’s here too—in his sons’ smiles, in the stories we tell, in the mangoes that will grow from the tree that shelters him.

I left the house today with a heavy heart, but also a quiet resolve. I can’t bring him back, but I can honor him. I can live better, love harder, and show up more. For family, for friends, for myself.

To love and be with urgency. Today, today, today.

So, to Tintin, I’m sorry. For the times I wasn’t there. For the things left unsaid. But I promise you this—I will carry your spirit forward, in whatever small ways I can.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find peace under that mango tree, where you rest and where your love lingers, unfinished yet eternal.

GINGER, GARLIC, STEAK AND SALT.

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Tue, 21 Nov 2023 08:44:00 +0000

I tried to recreate a dish that I vaguely remember my mama making while I was in my nursery to lower primary years.

This is all I recall…. there was ginger and garlic involved, just enough of it. She would buy steak from Onyango, the Jalejo butcher. This meat would then be tenderized by pounding it with a heavy chopping board, or rolling pin, safely tucked in cling film. When her ancestors would eventually tell her that the meat had had enough smacking, she would salt it, then add the garlic and ginger paste that she had earlier on demanded that I crush in the wooden pestle and mortar set. As I think of it now, the mortar we had was the heaviest I have seen in my life – could easily have been a weapon of mass destruction.

She would then lather the tender steak in the yummy salt-ginger-garlic mixture, roll it up with the help of the cling wrap, then use string to tie it up all over. She’d then cut the larger roll into smaller cylindrical shapes, about 2 inches in length, and either shallow fry while basting consistently, steam, or roast. It never mattered how she did it, for it always came out soul-snatching good. All this was done on weekdays, which meant I could carry some to school the next day. I am a little embarrassed to admit this, but I used these bitings to transact in school. I’d exchange them for company at break time, or a storybook, or just a session to pick the minds of the much older students. Pathetic, I know. My ingenuity was unmatched back then.

As per the predictable Crystal fashion, I set out to recreate this dish for dinner and I failed. Miserably. Somehow there was liquid in the final dish. The string gave way mid cooking. I didn’t crush the ginger and garlic to a fine paste as I used to back in the day due to some upper arm ache that has been a thorn in my flesh lately. And as if that was not enough of a misfortune, my fingers decided to be shaker-happy and too much salt ended up in the meat. One bite in and my tear ducts gave way.

What was supposed to be a thing of gentle memories turned into a memorial for my mama. I haven’t thought deeply of her in a while, so all this snuck up on me. Anyone who knew Loyce is familiar with how she’d invade your thoughts and force you to confront them. So here I was, dish turning cold, sobbing into the palms of my hands about God knows what. I remembered the random songs that she would break into while in the kitchen, or just about doing any other activity. I remembered lots of things about her, and in that moment, I ached for her.

All I had wanted was steak lathered in garlic and ginger, salted to taste, with mashed potatoes and veggies on the side. Instead, I cried me a river.

Move on, or forward?

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Sun, 11 Sep 2022 15:57:00 +0000

2015 was a big year for me. Banner type.

In February, I buried Gabriel.

In August, I defended myself before the UoN Senate. I still recall with clarity how shaky my voice and entire body were.

In September, they accepted me back into Engineering school, but it was too late in the year so my best bet was to join the incoming January class.

In November, I buried my Grandma. I couldn't fathom what it was to lose one's mum, but I saw it in my father's eyes all too well.

As is with death's insatiable nature, I lost my mama that December. I finally understood what it felt like to want your mum but not have her.

Grief is one of those things that you can't know about until you have to. Until you have a front row seat at the funeral, wishing for one more song, until the good guys at the funeral home ask you to confirm if it's your loved one in the casket before they hand them over to you, until you have to pick out an outfit, a soft pillow, one last pair of socks, a fluffy interior..... until then, consider yourself lucky that you aren't yet aware of the depths of your soul, the physical manifestation of emotional pain.

It is one of those multitasking things where you can laugh and cry, wish for life's end and continuance, want more and less, crave attention, affection and solitude all in one breath.

Grief is present, never past. You cannot move on from it, only forward with it. My boy and mama are here with me in this moment. They are in how I speak, how I move, how I respond, how I receive. I am because I loved them yet lost them. It is because of having him that I now hesitate a little when I see an infant, that I am a tad skeptical about subsequent pregnancies. My mum is with me everywhere I go - when I see a man I fancy, when my day isn't going well, when I'm browsing superstore aisles, trying to decide what to pick and what to leave behind. They are still so present for me. It's because of their life and love and deaths that I present myself in the way that I do.

They are very present for me; in the heartbreaks, though different, but similar in anatomy, in the love that I give oh so urgently, because I know what it is to want one last moment with someone.

Grief is an experience that marked me, and made me, and continues to do so without fail. From their life, and love, I am. Long after the last " I'm so sorry for your loss" or " do you want to talk about it", I still grieve. Permanently. And as life goes, more will be added to my grief pile. I'll bury more people, and people will bury me, and they'll go through these motions- I can only hope.

We don't look at people around us experiencing the wonders and joys of life and tell them to move on, do we? 10 years later, we still say happy birthday or anniversary and wish them many more. As we wish to move forward with joy, may we in the same measure carry grief.

Grief, to me, has been like falling in love, or being a new mom. You don't get it until you do it every single day. And when you think you're finally settling in the routine, it hits you with new dimensions.

Death, no matter how cruel it seems at first, is just as beautiful as life has been.

Woman

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Thu, 21 Apr 2022 05:29:00 +0000

Look at her ....

Feral.

The type of flower that still grows after a forest fire

Not just existing, but living.

Walking like a queen, or like she doesn't care who the queen is

Wearing moonlight like lingerie, making gentle the wild oceans of your soul

Dressing up to stare at her reflection in windows as she passes by

Preferring a sword over a crown

Giving the cold wind, chills.

Regal.

The granddaughter of witches they couldn't burn

Reckless mind, rebel heart

Hurricane in her eyes, peace in her smile

Wolf, no more apologizing for her wild

Taking things with a grain of salt

A start, and end to wars.

Rare.

Speaks the truth, shaking voice and all

Fragile, not like a flower, but like a bomb

Her fire will warm your house, or burn it down

Quiet, like a miracle, silent, like a time bomb

You don't just catch her. She lets you, if you're lucky enough

Fine, lovely, tender. Most beautiful. And yet, understated.

She'll find colours to paint you when the world has left you gray

Thousands of years old, yet only known by a chosen few

So effortlessly herself

Wild. Difficult to find. Impossible to forget

She'd go to heaven for the climate, hell for the company.

Powerful.

Looks a challenge dead in the eye and gives it a wink

She belongs to herself, no one else's

She's everything you cannot control

Soft heart, laced with steel

She'll make you understand why storms are named after women

Without a man, she is like a fish without a bicycle

Sexy as hell when determined

Akin to the finest glass of whiskey. Neat, strong, and full of purpose. Many underestimate her punch.

Terrifying.

Fear her when she smiles while looking into a fire

Face of an angel, mind of a killer

Throw her to the wolves, she'll come back leading the pack

Breathes fire

A storm that pens her story in lightning

Half goddess half hell

Stomps on eggshells that everyone else tiptoes on

Her stunning dresses made from scars of wounds she was brave enough to suffer and let heal.

Water.

She's powerful enough to drown you, soft enough to cleanse you, deep enough to save you

She will touch you, especially at your most damaged and broken

Too deep to be explored by those who fancy shallow ends.

Addictive.

A pure heart, a dirty mind, a sailor's mouth

Wears a smile like a loaded gun

The dominant sex. Men do all sorts of things to prove worthy of her attention.

Art.

What do you expect from her, other than confusion, beauty, and soul?

Her different is her beautiful

She takes her contradictions and wraps them around her like a shawl

Woman... She's magic, chaos, and a bit of poetry.

Love her wild, or walk away

Either way, she'll thrive.

The week past.

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Mon, 04 Apr 2022 14:06:00 +0000

Tell me what it's been like, to be in your body this past week, to squint at your phone's screen, morning after morning, when your alarm goes off yet all you wish is to stay in bed a little longer but the thought of paying your monthly dues jolts you out.

Tell me how disappointed you got when you groped in the dark, trying to retain your sleep as you peed, but the gush that let itself out woke you fully anyway.

What thoughts went through your mind as the warm water traced paths down your body, head to toe? Perhaps you felt regret over the things you did(not) say in the day past? As your hair foamed and rinsed off, did your childhood game of timing how long you could hold your breath resurface? How long did you hold it for, if you did? Did you rub your body with a towel, or pat it down? What words did you think of and whisper to your vessel as you lathered it in cream, back and forth, forth and back?

I think your body is beautiful.

When the tea lapped your lips and the aroma of it's flavor filled the air as you savoured its taste, did gratitude slowly come over you, or are you one of those who wouldn't be caught dead having tea before their morning commute? Do you enjoy tea as much as I do? Coffee? Fresh juice or a smoothie?

Did you wear your favorite pants to work as a mood enhancer, or do you just love how well they fit over your form? What did you do when Sally the snitch ratted you out in the morning meeting? How about when Mr. Manager kept reminding you of your CoB deadlines? Did you want to stitch his lips shut, 'cause I'd wish the same too.

How fast did time go before your lunch break? I bet you snagged that client you've been raving about for days. Good.

What kept you occupied as you painfully watched and waited as traffic wormed its way out of the city? A book? Music? I like the sound of that.

Tell me about the feeling that flooded over you as you peeled off your clothes as soon as you stood in your doorway. The sighs and the grunts and the oohs and aahs that came out of you as you washed the day off your body. The lightness that settled in your heart as you brought out the ingredients to your favorite recipe. You just couldn't wait to devour that dish, aye?

As you climbed into bed, what did you wish to do but maybe lacked the willpower for, a video, text message, mayhaps a phonecall that you've been dreading?

What has it been like, being in your body this past week?

Letdowns, body aches, heartbreak? Soreness, illness, bad news? Hopes dashed, victories, kisses, hugs, love?

Did you at least make eyes with someone? A week is terribly long to not pack in some amount of pleasure.

Show me where it hurts, that I may soothe you. Show me where it feels amazing, that I may share in your gladness. Show me where you desire pleasure, that I may have you enjoy it.

Down the memory lane.

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Mon, 04 Apr 2022 13:49:00 +0000

Our house stood tall at the very end of the compound. My mother was a teacher in this particular school so we resided within the teachers quarters. If you stood at the door looking outwards, Lake Primary would be to your left and Kisumu Boys to your right.

Shabby fences separated us.

Your six o'clock would be what we called Reru, or Upper Railways Estate. There were two kiosks in Reru, Baba Kemunto's and Baba Wainaina's. You would always find idle boys in front of those two shops which were, by the way, conjoined so there was no way on earth you'd miss seeing those boys, or they would make themselves be seen and heard by you. Boys who were more than eager to put their hands up the skirts of small girls like myself. The most resistance we would put up was ah! Niache! (Leave me be!).

The school that my two sisters and I attended was up the road, about a 10 minute walk away. On our way there, along the road was the gate to Lake Primary, a salon/barber's, Orya's kiosk (lord bless his soul for those one bob kashatas ), an A.P camp, a shortcut to Kakamega Road and then our school, M.M Shah Primary. Can I just say that we were for the longest time the best school, academically, in the Municipality? We'd attend prize giving days at the Stadium and we'd return with trophies for all kinds of categories. You had to pass through a court of sorts - Patel Flats - to get to our school gate. Just next to our school was Siri Guru Singh Saba Nursery. I wouldn't know much about it. All I used to do was peek through the super thick Kei Apple fence situation that they had going on all year round. Oh, they had this funny brown checkered tunic for a uniform. I thought they all looked like they came from comfortable families.

As you entered my school, you'd walk right into the assembly ground that was lined with white washed stones which the kids who'd be picked from school in the evening would dirty, with the pretext of sitting on as they waited for their people. On your immediate right would be the entrance to the nursery section, decently sized. The rest of the compound housed the primary section. We shared a small section of our fence with Arya Primary. I am yet to see a more space-starved school than that one.

The buildings within the compound were the usual administration block, class blocks, canteen, grounds men quarters, a shed where they made and sold the best fries ever, with peppered ukwaju sauce on the side and a headmaster's house which persisted in incompletion throughout the years that I was there. There was also a gray gate on that end which, if you timed correctly, would be open and we'd slip through it and get home in less than three minutes. I have to mention that the class 8 block housed a science lab of sorts, in which there was a prep room. The room had "pickled" reptiles, and was also a chill spot for some male teachers who considered themselves members of the cool league. Legend has it that that prep room saw and heard things and bore witness to deals being struck and broken and done over. That room should do an expose`. Oh what I would do to have been a fly permanently perched on its walls.

It would be an understatement to say that I thoroughly enjoyed my primary school days. In fact, it is the only part of my slightly longer than usual academic career that I genuinely enjoyed. I would go back in time and tape the button down on replay. I was really quiet, but my eyes and ears feasted on a lot. Of course I was teased. I had a distended belly and had, still have legs for days. Back then my legs were an object of displeasure, said legs are now a conversation starter between men and I. Life really comes full circle if you are still wondering. Also, my voice was deep. Anytime I spoke someone's child would parrot up. Looking back, that did inform my decision to stay quiet. I didn't want to be teased; I just wanted to be awesome.

Classwork came easy to me, I was the queen of minding my own business (I wanted so badly to mind the prep room's business though), so why were people minding my voice and my belly and my leg calves? Before I forget, I have the lazy eye syndrome. I had so much to be made fun of. So I chose to make myself smaller. That would be going well until we wrote compositions and they had to read mine up front or when the school term ended and I was almost always among the top three on a lazy term. I hated being seen because that would remind the other kids of my presence and they'd be back at it again; the lazy eye, the voice, tummy and legs. That being said, school was still a blast for me.

Street food was amazing. Mangoes with chilli - raw or ripe, we'd always pick our poison delightfully. Cassava crisps at Ochola's. Flavored ice at any of the houses within Patel Flats. Mabuyu of all flavors and colors, with or without chilli. Bhajias, ice cold homemade yoghurt, more fries, sweets...The only hindrance was money to spend. Or should I say parents who hardly gave money to spend? The good days were great. The dry days, well, just that.

Remember the idle boys around the two kiosks in Reru? I figured I had to do something about them. I knew the "accidental" touching was wrong. No one told me so; I just felt it. I took a keen interest in action movies. Back in the day I had the programme lineup tucked away in my heart plus we only had KBC and on lucky days the aerial would pick up some funny channels too. I would watch whatever action film was on and I was particular about fighting. Those boys had to be fought off. There was a catch though; I was a girl. On the flip side, there was nothing girly about me so that worked in my favor. I watched as people fought and thought myself to have mastered the technique. I couldn't wait to surprise the unsuspecting boys.

Once, I was sent to the shops late in the evening to buy milk. I was given a thousand bob note and I'm pretty sure the milk cost way less than fifty bob. Anyway, that was my mother, always deep ending me. I went to the conjoined shops but I found that they had just run out of milk. My only option was to go to Orya's, which was a bit farther up the road, and the entire section was dark. I reminded myself that I now knew how to fight and ain't nobody's dusty ass son gon' mess with me and off I went. I ran the entire way, realized that I hadn't carried a bottle and suggested that he pour it in a plastic bag instead. He did just that and gave me my change. I also randomly thought of asking for a box of matchsticks which I didn't need by the way.

I turned and started sprinting home. About twenty meters in, I realized that the milk was leaking out and so I stopped to try tie a knot around the hole. Then I heard someone catcalling. I was barely nine years old. I knew it was one of those small boys; they must have followed me here.

There I was, a girl in shorts, with nine hundred and forty seven shillings and a matchbox in her pockets, leaking milk in her hand. I tried making a step forward in an attempt to run. Three other boys emerged from the tall grass that graced the entire length of that dark section, while two boys came from behind me. I remembered from whose bloodline I came and started fighting. But first, the matchbox. I was as short as they came. I'm tall now, but every old person I meet endears me as nyadundo, meaning short one. I took the matchbox out of my pocket and struck lit a matchstick and I walked around in the circle they had formed, holding the light to each of their faces. I wasn't really going to fight them; the idea was to spice things up. But one of them touched my elbow and I lost it. Another tried to grab my butt cheek. I lost it some more and I put up what I cannot now confidently refer to as a fight. I threw jabs in the air and kicked aimlessly. One stepped on the milk that I had put down. I held him by the collar and gently guided him down and I beat him up. I was livid. I think the intensity of the situation made the rest scoot off because no one came to his rescue. I left him there and went back home without the milk. I didn't care that my mum would beat me up. I was just from teaching those boys a lesson in good manners 101 and nothing was going to dim my shine. Not even death by my mum.

When I entered the house the first thing she noticed were the milk tracks along my legs and from the look on her face it was understandable that I had just gone through a lot. An hour passed before she asked for her change. While giving her the money, I narrated a sketchy version of the story and I saw her lips crack into a smile. I had done well. At least by my mother, I had.

The Best Love I Never Planned.

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Thu, 17 Mar 2022 14:03:00 +0000

The first time I heard you laugh, it was easily one of the best things on earth. Audible love.

Your right palm straddled your coffee mug, while your left held your phone as you typed away almost furiously. You and your two friends sat two tables down from mine, and you conversed in French, a language I was curious about. I decided to eavesdrop to see how good my diction had gotten. I think I may have heard you comment on my beauty.

"Good morning, beautiful."

Foreplay. Deep, nutty voice. Almost made me salivate.

I hadn't realized that you'd walked right up to my table. I had had a terrible night, so I kept zoning out. Your scent - like dark chocolate, but in a forest next to an ocean - wafted softly into my nostrils as I saluted you back. I could get used to this.

"What has you thinking so deeply?"

"Unpredictable kisses and unforgettable laughter."

"Ask me to have a seat."

I gestured at him to sit. I cannot remember what we spoke about, but there was tons of laughter. It was like coming home after a long trip. I was dizzy from the pace of how fast things moved that morning between us.

"What do you find to be most important?" he mused.

"Conversation. And I don't just mean an exchange of words. The conversations between my fingers and someone else's skin have been among the most important discussions I've ever had. If you stop and listen carefully, you realize that someone's body tells you everything you need to know. Where it likes to be held. Where it likes fingertips to lightly graze. Where it likes to feel the warmth of your breath. Or the contours of your face. The sting of a pinch. A tug. A bite, if that's what they like. You learn to read the lines of their body as you would the pages of a book. And when you have studied long, you know their body."

"I like clear and consistent intentions, he chimed in. Tell me how you feel, what you want, what you need. Be as honest as you can be. Have good character, strong enough to see your intentions through. And if you want to stop trying for us, tell me so. Respect me enough to keep it real, so I can make informed decisions."

I cannot emphasize enough how badly I want this man to myself, and for myself. To me, first gut feelings matter most, and my gut is telling me to have a go at some sort of relationship with this man. He has a beautiful mind, and soft eyes. I want us to slip briskly into an intimacy from which we'll never recover. I decide to gift myself this man.

He kisses the back of my legs and I want to cry. Only the sun has come that close, only the sun.

He kisses me, and often, and he knows how, producing a grin on my face before the new light of the day has even touched my eyes.

Afterwards, we join the sun of a Sunday morning with a tranquil, satisfied relish. A tray of toasted English muffins appears along with a pot of coffee. If there is a more perfect way to start the day, I haven't discovered it yet.

If the fates betray us and our love story fades,

I will settle for

One minute,

Few moments,

Coy smiles,

Just to know, we were once in close proximity.

I have learned. This time, I'll take it slower. I have learned that there are things that must be savoured and drunk a little at a time.

Things like coffee, bourbon, and men.

9 things I will do in Dublin, Ireland.

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Mon, 14 Mar 2022 12:16:00 +0000

Dear travel, I think about you all the time.

I cannot stop thinking about you - from the mornings you ease, to the evenings you quiet, to the dreams you inhabit. My thoughts of you never end. Duke of Hastings

I desire Dublin - top of the friendliest cities in the world, what with it's lively pubs, great foods, storytelling, music and dance. I'll allow it to steal my heart over and over. I will kayak down River Liffey as many-a-musicians perform under the Ha'Penny Bridge.

I will visit the historical landmarks that is the Jameson Distillery and immerse myself in the storytelling as a tribute to the centuries old craft of Irish whiskey. I'll draw and taste whiskey straight from the cask and possibly sip my way across the Emerald Isle.

I'll marvel at the Christ Church Cathedral, originally a Viking church, almost 1000 years old with a crypt and distinct treasures. It holds the spiritual heart of Dublin.

I'd like to meet the mummies inside the crypt of St. Michan Church, boasting of 17th to 19th century underground vaults.

I may squeeze in some quiet time at the Glasnevin Cemetery. Quirky, I agree, but the graves of notable figures and a museum are there, plus a high wall with watch towers built to deter the then active body snatchers.

The Dublin Castle will be a must-see. Built in the 13th century on a Viking site, it holds a big part of Irish history.

The Trinity College Library (1592) sits in Ireland's oldest college with over 200,000 ancient books, cue the Book of Kells - arguably Dublin's most famous work of art.

St. Patrick's Cathedral (1191) is the tallest and largest Church in Ireland, with it's 43 metre spire. A better experience would be for St. Patrick's day to fall within my visit there.

In the heart of St. James Gate Brewery, an old 1902 fermentation plant, the Guiness Storehouse sits pretty. Standing at 7 storeys, surrounding a glass atrium in the shape of a pint of Guiness, it dramatically tells the story and heritage of the world's famous beer since 1759. Here, I will pull a perfect pint of Guiness, take it to the top for a scenic view in the Gravity Bar on a clear autumn day.

And that's just in 3 days.

Rumor has it that when you visit Ireland, you fall in love with all things Irish. It is charming, gentle, yet feisty. Dublin, and the whole of Ireland dances to her own beat....the pubs, the food, the Celtic lasses and lads, the livestock, the thatched cottages, the lush rolling hills and countless castles that dot the countryside.

Everyone there has a novel in them, if only they'd go home and write it.

Coffeeshop Chronicles.

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Thu, 10 Mar 2022 09:02:00 +0000

Roaster, on. Grinders, on. Batch brewer, on. Dishwasher, on. Dialing in the coffee is the highlight of my morning pre-opening routine. Jazz music, on.

The kind of coffee I brew finishes nice, clean and smooth. A little bit velvety. Nicely balanced.

I love early mornings here. The place is filling up slowly. A relaxed atmosphere is in the air. Sunlight slowly filters through the large windows, touching the whitewashed walls. The place feels warm.

Regular customers file in. Cappuccinos. Lattes. Americanos. Espressos. Specialty teas. Hot chocolates. To modulate the orders, I make the espressos first. 40 seconds a pop. Everything else takes longer. An easy going morning, almost like a Sunday. Casual even. Right up my alley. Small talk.

I sit down briefly to perform regular tasks. Ordering milks, liquors and ice creams. The Motown music playlist is vibing just right. My eyes dart across the room, implying that I know what I'm doing, eager for new orders.

I start to focus more on the routine around the coffee machine - proper distribution, back flushing, cleaning the screen to maintain the clarity of espresso. I clean the group heads every 40 minutes.

I consume liters of coffee per day. Trying to keep count would be a losing battle.

At 10 a.m, I sit down for a coffee break. I serve myself a cappuccino and a turkey club sandwich.

Back inside, I spend equal parts of my day Infront of and behind the coffee machine. The cutlery won't polish themselves. I'm hands on when it comes to every aspect of this business.

The afternoon shifters are right on time. I was starting to lose hearing in my left eye. Now onto the most annoying part of this job - counting money and splitting tips. I really, really enjoy working behind the coffee bar. But making money is important, right?

I sit for my lunch break - cream of squash soup. I could eat this for days. I'll wash it down with a strawberry slushy. The text comes in.

POV. I run a coffeeshop and I'm secretly an assassin. In my free time, I blog. Mostly about this coffee shop. Sometimes, about people. Today, my contract has turned out to be YOU. The basic of this (side) job is kill or be killed. If I don't kill you, they'll have someone else kill you and I. I'm sorry, but I'm not done living. I still have names to keep messing, and coffeeshop chronicles to pen. I'll admit that I've enjoyed the subtle moves you kept making on me while ordering your drinks but I had to stay professional. I'll miss your face, but someone else can always me feel the way way you do.

Shit. You've caught me staring a little too long and hard at you. I whip out my pretend smile. The instruction said I keep it clean. I wonder why you're a target. It's not my place to wonder, just execute. I attach the silencer in readiness. 5 more minutes till you walk up to the POS to pay your dues. With my gun tucked into my side, I excuse myself and follow you out and into the dark alleyway. One shot to the head. That's as clean as it gets.

Tomorrow will be just another day at the coffeeshop. I'm thinking of opening up the far corner to host live jazz bands. What do you think?

But first, coffee.

AMAZING WAYS TO FALL IN LOVE WITH YOURSELF.

noreply@blogger.com (The Territory Playbook) — Fri, 10 Sep 2021 12:23:00 +0000

Let's face it; self love is the most attainable thing, yet the hardest practice to stick to. You cannot pour from an empty cup so it's only practical that you fill yourself up till you overflow. The following suggestions are simple and straightforward but will require intention and practice to follow through. Remember, loving yourself is a journey and you must welcome everything that comes with it.

Stop the comparison. The only thing worth comparing is who you are today with who you were yesterday.

As much as you can, stay positive.

Stop caring about people's opinions.

Let go of people who aren't good for and to you.

That being said, surround yourself with uplifting company.

Allow yourself the luxury of making mistakes.

Celebrate all of your wins, especially the smaller ones.

Spend lots of time with yourself. “We need to replace the vicious stress cycle with a vicious cycle of self-care.”- Sara Gottfried

Develop habits that are healthy for you.

Take steps towards the life you want. “Do not be afraid to give yourself everything you’ve ever wanted in life.”- Frank Lloyd Wright

Less perfection-chasing, more self-trust.

Be unapologetically yourself. This way, everyone around you has permission to be themselves. Part of loving yourself is having people in your circle who are true to themselves.

The wisest thing to do is to be on your own side.

Talk to yourself like someone you love.

Know your worth, state it, and don't accept anything less.

Feel everything that is beautiful and possible in your soul, and let yourself become it.

Invest in looking good at a price point that you are comfortable with. When you look good, you feel good. Feeling good is a mighty of act of self love.

What do you practice to show yourself love?