Reflections on My Chaotic Journey Through Life So Far:  Of Stolen Phones, Broken Hearts, and an Unbreakable Spirit

Reflections. There comes a time in every struggling writer’s life when they must sit down, stare at a blinking cursor, and reflect on their chaos. And the delusion? The belief that their readers care.

Well, dear reader, buckle up. I’m about to drag you through the emotional war zone of my lived experiences, all proudly published on Daily Focus, where oversharing is not just welcomed, it’s editorial policy.

Writing personal stories is a lot like showing up to a family function and announcing you’re still single. All raw and vulnerable. I need not mention the triggering of unsolicited advice from those specialised aunts; you know them.

But penning these intimate stories is relieving and therapeutic. It is like crying in the shower, but with better lighting and no soap in your eyes.

Let me take you back to one of my earlier posts – the one where I confessed to chasing a thug along Jogoo Road in my slippers because my phone had been snatched, mid-text. Oh, it was around 10 p.m. Did I share that? If I did not, at least I recounted the Githurai one in Attachments and the Pains of Loss.

 Now, most people would tell you that’s a moment to mourn silently. Not me. I turned it into a parable about reclaiming your power (and maybe your Tecno Spark 3, RIP). That story wasn’t just about theft; it was about resilience. It was more about sprinting into danger because sometimes survival looks suspiciously like insanity.

Since then, I’ve written about heartbreaks that felt like someone used my chest as a dance floor during a Gengetone rave. I’ve talked about the Monday mornings and the Nairobi jams that hit harder than my mother’s slap for failing to greet guests.

I have shared the small joys, like my memorable moments with Wendy, and I am yet to share those of being flirted with by a bank teller (they never mean it, but let me dream).

Each story I’ve written has been a little slice of my soul, lightly fried and served with sarcasm.

But let’s not pretend I always knew what I was doing. Sometimes I write with the clarity of a monk in meditation. Other times, it’s more like a blindfolded chicken playing darts with my trauma. But one thing has remained constant: I write because I need to breathe, and stories are my oxygen.

When I wrote about addictions, confusions, entrepreneurial frustrations and personal dialogues to an extent of surviving by, I thought people would pity me. Instead, they laughed at my escapades. Laughed! And maybe, that’s the secret. Life will often serve you lemons, forget the sugar, and slap you with the lemon peel for good measure. Yet, the best part is that if you write it right, people will laugh and call it lemonade.

Then came the love stories. Ah, yes. My dating life. Is it? An endless carousel of almosts, maybes, and emotional pyramid schemes. Like that time when I went on a date only to discover that the person thought I was a “different kind of writer”. One with a car and a wardrobe that didn’t consist entirely of mitumba, Gikomba market’s finest rejects. My love stories have always gotten views. Why? Maybe because everyone loves a trainwreck as long as it’s not their train.

Not Just Reflections

But I also wrote about growth. About healing. About staring at my cracked mirror and saying, “You’re doing okay.” And then saying it again, because the first time it sounded like a lie. And repeating it a myriad times until it became my reality.

The feedback has been one of mixed feelings. My inboxes are sometimes crammed with texts of “that is my story, fella,” “this happened to me too,” and even “you should turn this into a book.” I am looking forward to someone offering to ghostwrite my life and journey for me. Don’t forget I am the “ghost.” I’ve ghosted people and ghostwritten pain into poetry.

What I’ve learned, though, is that vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s the glue that holds broken people together. When I share my mess, someone else gets to say, “Me too,” and suddenly we’re less alone in our collective madness.

Now, I won’t pretend it’s been easy. Some nights I write with a fever, emotional or actual. You never really know with the Nairobi weather in my yesteryears, and the winter’s cold clung embraces in my aboard nowadays.

Some mornings I wake up and wonder if I’ve overshared, if I’ve handed strangers a map to my insecurities and said, “Here, dig.” But then I remember: what is storytelling if not self-inflicted exposure therapy?

To any aspiring writer reading this (or random stalker, welcome), here is my advice. I try to avoid this bit most of the time, though. Anyway, know that your life is interesting. Even if you think it’s just a series of boring routines and WhatsApp statuses that no one replies to.

The mundane is only mundane until someone narrates it with flair. Your struggle to afford rent and buy ice cream is a Shakespearean tragedy. Your work commute? A psychological thriller. Your dating life? Pure comedy. Or horror, depending on how many “hey” texts you’ve ignored.

So, write. Reflect. Cry a little. Maybe cry more. Then write some more.

In closing, let me leave you with this. If you’re reading my stories and wondering how I manage to stay so motivated, here’s my secret. I don’t. I just wake up, drink tea – nowadays I do more decaf – and pray my zeal doesn’t act up.

I keep writing because stopping would feel like erasing myself. And because I know there’s someone out there who needs to hear that they’re not alone. That heartbreaks heal, jobs come and go, and even the worst Monday ends by midnight. Even though another Monday comes seven days later. Trust me, it is never an absolute copy.

To all my readers, thank you for riding this rollercoaster with me. To those who inboxed me asking if my personal stories were fictional, no, I knew Wendy and my phone was snatched. To those who cried while reading some parts, I cried while writing them. To those who laughed… well, now you owe me a drink.

And to the universe: I’m still here. Still writing. Still reflecting. Still weirdly hopeful.

And most importantly. Still me.