Clueless Twenties

  My Dearest Reader, Hi, love. It’s been a while. I don’t know how else to begin other than thank you. For reading. For staying. For returning to my words even when I wasn’t always sure I still had them in me. Every click, every message, every email that quietly said, “I’m still here”, I felt it. And it meant more than I could possibly say. I’ve been fairing well, quietly moving through the days and letting life hold me in the ways it could. I truly hope you’ve been doing okay too, or at the very least, that you’ve had gentle moments to breathe in between whatever chaos life has thrown your way. It’s been a long time since I last sat down and really, fully wrote. The kind of writing that comes from that raw, open space in my chest. For a while, I lost my voice. Not literally, but in that slow ache kind of way, where the thoughts are there, loud and begging, but the words just… won’t form. And so I found myself sitting with that silence. Wallowing a bit, honestly, in the heavy quiet...

  Dear Reader, There’s something no one really prepares you for after sexual assault: how the body that you’ve lived in, laughed in, and loved in suddenly feels foreign. Heavy. Like it's wearing you instead of the other way around. And it’s not just the pain of what happened. It's the echo it leaves. The way it shifts how you see yourself when you pass a mirror. The way you flinch when someone says, “ You’re beautiful ,” and all you want to say back is, “ No, I’m just surviving. ” For many of us, sexual assault isn’t just about violence or violation. It’s also about theft. They didn’t just take something physical, they chipped away at identity, safety, and control. And when all of that goes, what do you have left? A body you want to hide. A body you want to shrink, change, or punish. A body that carries stories you never asked to be written on you. That’s where body dysmorphia quietly walks in. Not always with loud hatred, sometimes just with doubt. Questioning every curve, eve...

  Dear Reader, We’ve all heard it. Mostly ladies. “I don’t know how to do that.” “You’re better at it anyway.” “You should’ve just asked.” On the surface, these may seem like innocent comments, harmless even. But beneath them lies a deeply ingrained behaviour called weaponised incompetence , and it’s not just frustrating, it’s dangerous. Because it doesn’t only affect romantic relationships, it seeps into parenting, workplaces, friendships, and our expectations of each other as human beings. Weaponised incompetence is when someone pretends to be bad at a task (or does it poorly) to avoid having to do it again. It’s laziness dressed up as helplessness. It’s privilege masquerading as forgetfulness. And it’s everywhere. The African Household & the Training Ground of Incompetence. In many African homes, and this needs to be said with love and honesty, weaponised incompetence often starts with how we raise our children. Daughters are taught to clean, cook, and care for others from ...

  The weight of expectation is a quiet thing. It lingers like an invisible hand, always there but never acknowledged, gently shaping who you are and how you show up in the world. For as long as I can remember, I was the responsible one. The helper. The fixer. The one who never let the ball drop. They called me strong , but no one asked if I was tired. No one asked if I wanted to put myself first. As the eldest daughter, it was as if my role was set in stone, nurturer, peacemaker, caretaker, without ever really understanding the full weight of those roles. But here’s the truth I’m learning now: the journey to self-discovery isn’t just about finding out who you are . It’s about untangling who you were taught to be, and giving yourself permission to walk away from a script that never fully belonged to you. There’s something deeply ingrained in the role of being the eldest daughter, something that goes beyond family dynamics and taps into deeper cultural narratives. From a young age, ...

  As African women, there is this thing we do that gives men our entire identity. Don't get me wrong: I adore men, but I also love myself more. Giving guys the freedom to do the bare minimum sets a precedent that can lead to women exhibiting overly masculine behaviours, which can be frustrating. Society frequently gives us a script before we are even old enough to speak. From a young age, societal expectations regarding gender, beauty, achievement, and behaviour begin to mould individuals' perceptions and choices. These expectations can put internal pressure on people to perform rather than live true lives. For example, someone may pursue a career, lifestyle, or relationship that appears to be successful on paper but is hollow on the inside. Others may suppress aspects of themselves, queerness, creativity, gentleness, and anger, to fit into the mould that society considers acceptable. These expectations often create a web of 'shoulds' that suffocate one's authentic ...

  Dear Brother, I don’t always know how to say this without fumbling over my own silence, but I love you. Deeply, endlessly, quietly. We don’t talk much. Life pulls us in different directions, and the days roll on faster than either of us can catch them. But even in the space between our conversations, you’re there, in the memories, in the soft corners of my heart that still see you as the little boy who once reached for my hand without thinking. Now you’re this grown man. Twenty-something and carrying the weight of the world in a way I wish you didn’t have to. I see it, even if I don't always say it. I see the tiredness in your eyes that you try to blink away, the strength you wear like a second skin, and the softness underneath that the world doesn’t always deserve. And maybe I don’t say this enough, but you are doing okay. More than okay. Even in your quiet, even when you feel like you’re falling behind or unsure of your next step, I’m proud of you. There’s a version of love tha...

  Dear Reader, Today I open up about something that is really hard for me to speak about, but for the purposes of this article, I feel it's important to share it. For so long, I carried the weight of silence, convinced that my story was too difficult to tell or that it wouldn't be understood. But as I reflect on the world we live in, I realise how crucial it is to break that silence. To let others know they’re not alone. So, with hesitation but also hope, I want to shed light on something that many may not fully grasp, an experience that, though often hidden in the shadows, affects far too many. But before that, let us define a few things. GBV is an abbreviation for gender-based violence, which is harmful acts directed at an individual based on their gender. This can include physical, sexual, emotional, or psychological abuse and is often rooted in power imbalances, discrimination, and societal norms regarding gender, according to WHO & UN. Victim blaming refers to the tend...