You hate you

I didn’t know how it would feel. I couldn’t guess how it would taste. I didn’t know how it would smell either.

Up until now I couldn’t figure why forgiveness wasn’t my thing, I couldn’t forget neither. But now, after forgiving myself of that crime I committed several years back, forgiving is easy, letting go is nothing at all.

I used to be bitter when you wronged me. It used to hurt me a lot.And with a clear character I possess, I wouldn’t hide my current status behind my face. It would be hanged out for everyone to see.

I mean, I can’t fake a smile, I can’t force a tear.

Then in  one occasion when I tried smiling at a lady who had hurt me, I felt pain inside me. It was piercing sharp through my intestines. It started with large then to small intestine. The pain was unbearable, it was both sharp and numbing. It was as if a hot blade was placed onto my skin so long enough that my body unquestionably  turned off the receptors.

And when I took a breath, the air came through my nostril like a breath taken under water-that breath you take when drowning. I hated that feeling.



But one Saturday ,of all  Saturdays, of all  days have spent on this earth, everything changed. It was all about forgiveness and forgetting in that sermon.  After service what echoed on my head was forgiveness, and  seven hours later,seventeen hours after, what echoed on my head was letting go .

It was then I felt guilty of not forgiving, of not forgetting.  I hope you’re still listening to me.Even up to this moment as I write this article, I  still feel she was talking to me. I mean the pastor. “There is still someone who needs to come,” she called upon those who were enslaved by unforgiveness. I knew she was talking to me, I felt it, but still, I didn’t walk to the pulpit.

I’m not that kind of a lady who needs recognition or with courage to walk amid congregation. I don’t  like  attention, and besides, I knew God had known my repentance, I  didn’t have to walk to the pulpit to show how remorseful I was. It was in my soul, not my body.

I knew I was a victim of circumstance. I knew everything. I was my enemies slave. I remember how I would walk out of a room when an enemy gets in the same room, or  how  I would sit back but talk less as I would when they were not around. I would quickly change my direction and intentions when I met them. I didn’t want to be a slave anymore.

Untying myself, I had to forgive myself first. I had to deal with internal forgiveness before external forgiveness. In all, you should clean your garments before doing the same to someone, or cleaning the dirt in your house before helping someone do the same to theirs.

I started by loving me, to sharing  with me, to consulting  me, to cancelling me ,to asking forgiveness from me, and to forgetting what me did to I.

That day everything was done I found joy I didn’t know existed, I felt peace of mind and breathed fresh air with ease.Everything around had welcoming aroma only my soul could explain how.

But the best feeling was when I realized pain, discomfort, disappointment enforced to me by those my old self considered enemies were my utmost blessings. I couldn’t see then but I see now.

Now that I know this feeling, now that I can guess how it tastes, and now that I can smell its aroma as well, I’m not letting go.


She is a lioness!

Under whose authority do you roar to lioness ,

Who’s that roaring to the Queen of hearts,


Though filled with fairness


She only respect a roar from the king of the heart


He is the only one who can put her in her place,

mind your tone talking to her in her space

  Embracing my true signature hair

I haven’t always loved my full hair. I haven’t always loved my shinny black hair.  I haven’t always loved my strong hair as well.

For the past five years have heard nothing but  talks about embracing natural hair from basically everyone around me -From my parent to girlfriends to boyfriends until  I got sick of the topic. But then today I’ll surely pay a thousand shillings just to appreciate anyone talking about this topic.

I remember studying in Lwak girl’s, a provincial high school down in Asembo _ Rarieda sub- County where all students wanted good and healthy. Good hair according to us was nothing less than; dyed hair, straightened hair, and relaxed hair.

I wanted that good hair. It was a culture in Lwak and whenever you had bad hair, you would be that one white lily among red roses. No one wanted to be out of place, I too.


From relaxing my hair to dying to straightening, it became part of me, it was my routine, it was habit and that what made me Lilian.

And during holidays I would repeat the process again and again because I was in a boarding school and as always finding a salon to treat and make your hair would be finding an oasis in a desert or when you accidentally dropped a needle on a grass and then you would try to finding it.

My hair was my best asset even before my books. In the shopping list, coconut and almond oil, gel and butter cream, shampoo and  hair conditioner topped the list. I was always ashamed when I had to forgo one, two or even three hair products for books or pens whenever the amount wouldn’t cater for everything.

Now, in campus, this lady in her twenties has resort to nothing but having that   ‘bad hair’ she never cherished in high school. She wants not relaxed hair, not straightened hair. No. she wants nothing like dyed hair too. That’s not indigestible to her.

I mean she have lost her beautiful hair line, she no longer have strong hair, full Afro hair no more.

Each and every morning standing by a mirror-she is sure to see a stranger.perhaps she has never seen her or she forgot their encounter. Her gaze at me is filled with resentment and anger.

Why do you think the stranger has that sort of resentment towards her? I mean towards me?

The stranger is angry with me for having taken something special from her in her childhood life. This stranger is mad at me for having given her malnourished hair.

I want to set things right again for her because I’m sure she so badly want to remind me of our meeting. Truth is that I know her but the burden of guilt is weighing me down, erasing my memories. But then she knows me .she just doesn’t want to remind me.

Big chop is the only option and doing it isn’t a big deal like it seems. At the end of it, there is nothing to lose in losing what gives you a chance to mend your mistakes.

Everything is going to be right again. There is light at the end of this dark tunnel.

My late aunt Eunice had had this hair, my late grandmother Elsa had had this hair, my father Thomas has this hair and I have always had this hair. I have this hair.

I want nothing else but my natural hair; I want my true signature hair. I’m not hiding its form anymore.