July 23, 2025
Well, I bet just like me, you might have noticed that we are in a bad place. Tuko pabaya guys!
I wonder if Sauti Sol thought it would get any worse when they sang their banger, Tujiangalie, the other day. Back then, it sounded like a warning. Now? It reads more like a prophecy.
My therapist says, “Brian, don’t bottle things up. Feel your feelings. Speak yourself into healing.”
And I said, “Cool, but can healing also pay rent?”
She laughed. I didn’t.
Anyways, by the powers vested on me by my therapist, you guys will have to let me rant, because it seems like the only thing to do. Because at this rate, I either rant or start talking to geckos for emotional support. And honestly? They’re busy. We all are.
The past? Well, it already happened, nothing we can do about it now.
The future? Feels like that friend who keeps saying, “I’m on the way,” but never quite shows up.
And the present? Let’s not even go there.
I’m not even trying to be dramatic, I wish I was, but everything lately feels like a bad plot twist. Like watching a house burn from the inside while we all are outside arguing about the colour of its smoke. Like we’re living in a live-action comedy, only the laugh track was stolen, and someone forgot to write the ending.
The other day, I was out in the streets, fully possessed by my inner Dedan, Kimathi, revolution mode activated.
My head? Motivated.
My heart? Fired up.
Because these guys just messed with the wrong generation. Kwani hawajui sisi ni Gen Z? We fear nothing but marriage.
Never, did I think that I would turn out to be a fully fledged freedom fighter, Not in my most promising years, Not after Mandela had done all the work. Don’t these guys ever learn though?
We tossed teargas like it was our birthright. Ran faster than Kipchoge, literally, and screamed louder than Nyaboke.
I wish you’d seen how Larry made use of his tall legs, tracking the teargas trajectory before it even landed. And when it did? He was ready. A born baller that one!
But I realise that even revolutions have an aftertaste, and to be very honest I hate this one.
When the smoke cleared and the adrenaline wore off, so did the high.
The crowds thinned. The chants faded. The hashtags got quieter.
And just like that, everyone is back to the norm.
Like it was just another Tuesday.
It’s a special kind of heartbreak when you realize that the more things seem to change, the more they just stay the same.
Like running on a treadmill, breathless, hopeful, determined, but somehow never moving an inch.
And if I’m honest? I feel defeated.
Not the kind of defeat that makes you cry. The quieter kind.
The one that just makes you tired.
The kind that sinks into your bones and whispers, “What’s the point?”
Because while we’re out here shouting ourselves hoarse, the very things that cripple us, joblessness, corruption, exclusion, broken education systems, keep growing fatter and bolder.
It’s like the system is allergic to shame.
And here we are, expected to move on, to “stay hopeful,” to be the so-called leaders of tomorrow, when today itself is already chewing us up.
Come on tell me guys, what is the point?
Does it ever get better?
