Jeremy Kamwaro

22/07/2026

On one hand, I had a lighter: on the other, I held a page from a writing pad. If I had some pot then, might be, I would have rolled it in the paper and smoked my troubles away. Unfortunately, cigarette smoke chocks me when somebody nearby indulges in its sucking and puffing so I hate any kind of stimulant I will be forced to smoke in order to feel the mental bliss it will bring. I hate liquor too by the way so you know am not a very big fan of any drug per say besides coffee. Coffee is a drug? Really? I don’t know too pal. But I like it anyway. Gives me plasms of joy, as we used to write in our little primary school compositions. (That made us feel like connoisseurs sipping discussing the quality of sweet old wine.)

I was minding the devil’s business by being idle in my small crib. My papa, ever since I graduated from campus and secured a writing and editing job at one of the popping magazines in the big city, didn’t really need so much of my service around the compound. This gave me a lot of free time to do a lot of nothing and fantasize about how edible my longtime GF had grown. I saw her rocking some tight jeans last holiday and I promise to be honest. Edge a little closer so that I may whisper the truth into your ear. That lass has got some B.O.O.T.E.I.I.Y. It still gives me sleepless nights when I think about it but anyway, I still have my hands holding it during our secret hookups in our regular rendezvous which is our own secret spot so I won’t share it with you for my own safety reasons. I always feel unsatiated when it’s time to go our separate ways so I will marry her ass off when time is nigh and make it mine forever.

Intentionally I lighted the piece of paper and watched it burn progressively from one corner and spread fast consuming it into ashes. The flames felt hot and terrifyingly dangerous as the ones the dry wood produce, but I highly doubted if they would cook anything let say, roast a grain of maize. They might make the air around them I little bit warmer by radiation might be, or start a fire that would consume my small crib: or start a fire that would consume all the barley stalks and chuff left in the fields. Besides that, I was positive that they would not become so much of a threat or anything of that sort. By observation, the probability of them even warming water in a cooking pot were dismal. I did not need an asbestos cloth or a complicated fire extinguisher to put it out. I just threw what was remaining of the paper on the ground and trampled it with the sole of my boot. Heck that felt great.

However, if you consider factors like the small fire created by burning a paper becoming a catalyst to a bigger all-consuming inferno, its power cannot be underestimated. Temporary short living things like this can lead to those that become scars that become souvenirs to remind the reckless and the unheeding of the mistake of taking things lightly. I made sure that the fire was completely out for I was known to being a flammable agent myself. My body has an aspiration of wanting to return to the soil of which it was made from but my spirit demanded for all of us to be careful. This temporary vessel is limited to time. Its clock is ticking and the countdown to self-destruction is beeping. We would rather loose it when it is withered and sickly than now that it is boisterous and very much vibrant.

19/07/2026

RETALIATION CHAPTER ONE: THE INCIDENT

Nairobi never truly sleeps.

Its streets breathe long after midnight. Matatus rumble through the darkness, distant music echoes across the skyline, and somewhere in the shadows, secrets change hands.

Daniel Mwangi has made a dangerous decision—he refuses to stay silent.

While others whisper about activists, journalists, and students who vanish after criticizing powerful people, Daniel documents every disappearance and shares the truth online. His growing audience sees him as courageous. Those in power see him as something else.

A problem.

Then one rainy night, everything changes.

A mysterious warning.
A government vehicle caught on camera.
A black SUV parked outside his apartment.
A knock at the door.
And one chilling message:

"Daniel... they're coming for you."

The door handle begins to turn...

Some stories are fiction.

Others feel uncomfortably close to reality.

Would you open that door?

19/07/2026

19/07/2026

Remember that you are not alone

18/07/2026

There is a quiet tragedy that happens to people who grow up believing their only value lies in what they can repair.
​You see it all the time, though we rarely call it what it is. A friend vents to you about the exact same mistake for the tenth time, and instead of stepping back, you stay up until 2:00 AM drafting solutions. A partner pulls away emotionally, and instead of matching their distance, you double your efforts—convinced that if you just find the right words, the right angle, or the right amount of patience, you can heal the broken parts they refuse to look at themselves.
​You tell yourself it’s empathy. You tell yourself it’s love, loyalty, or selflessness. But if you hold that motivation up to the light, a colder truth emerges:
​Fixing people is often just control wearing the mask of kindness.
​Deep down, the human mind craves predictability. When you encounter someone who is fragmented, chaotic, or emotionally unavailable, it feels unsafe. So, the "fixer" ego goes to work. Your mind convinces you that if you can just fix them, you can secure them. If you become their savior, they will never abandon you. It is an unconscious psychological contract: I will heal your wounds so that you become the safe harbor I need.
​But reality doesn’t care about your contract. Eventually, the illusion collapses, and it usually happens in one of two ways.
​Either you completely exhaust your own emotional capital trying to fill a bucket that has a hole in the bottom, or worse—you actually succeed in helping them heal. And the moment they get strong enough to stand on their own two feet, they walk away from you.
​That is the sting that breaks the fixer completely. You feel betrayed. You think, “How could they leave after everything I sacrificed for them?” But you fail to see the psychological law at play: people rarely love the person who witnessed them at their lowest, most shameful state. Your presence is a constant reminder of the weakness they want to forget. They didn't want a partner; they wanted a temporary crutch. And once they can walk, the crutch is thrown away.
​When that realization lands, something shifts inside you. You stop looking at people as projects. You start observing the difference between someone who genuinely wants to grow and someone who just wants an audience for their suffering.
​You notice how some people are completely addicted to their own victimhood. They don’t want solutions; they want validation for their stagnation. They use their wounds as currency to buy attention, exemptions from responsibility, and free passes for bad behavior. And when you stop offering cheap emotional rescues, they don't look inward—they simply look for a new fixer.
​Carl Jung famously wrote that nothing has a stronger psychological influence on children than the unlived life of their parents. In adulthood, we see the inverse: nothing has a more destructive influence on a relationship than trying to live another person's healing journey for them.
​The day you stop trying to save people is the day you finally face your own shadow. You have to ask yourself the most uncomfortable question of all: What am I running from in my own life that makes looking at everyone else's mess feel so urgent?
​Usually, the obsession with fixing others is just a brilliant distraction from the terrifying silence of fixing yourself. It is much easier to analyze someone else’s trauma than it is to sit quietly with your own emptiness.
​When you finally lay down the tools, the world gets remarkably quiet. You stop translating entitlement into "potential." You stop accepting disrespect because someone "had a hard childhood." You begin to realize that boundaries aren’t selfish; they are the highest form of respect you can give to reality.
​You learn to let people fail. You learn to let people face the consequences of their own choices, even when it hurts to watch. Not out of cruelty, and not out of cold detachment—but out of the profound, humble realization that you were never meant to be anyone else's savior. You are barely capable of being your own.
​And strangely, that clarity makes your connections much heavier, but far more real. You stop looking for people to rescue, and you stop letting people consume you. You look at humanity for what it is: a collection of fragmented, beautiful, stubborn individuals who can only heal when they choose to pick up their own pieces. And for the first time, you walk through the world free of the burden of carrying weight that was never yours to bear.

18/07/2026

Beautiful place

17/07/2026

Why i keep writing..
It is because i do it for myself.

17/07/2026

There is a quiet beauty in being a beginner.

Learning a new discipline is like touching the keys of a piano for the very first time. The melody does not arrive on the first day. Instead, the room fills with uncertain notes, hesitant fingers, and the silence that follows every mistake.

To an impatient eye, it looks like failure.

But hidden beneath the awkwardness is something extraordinary—a mind learning a new language, a soul discovering a new rhythm, and a dream slowly finding its voice.

Every missed note is a lesson.
Every imperfect attempt is a promise.
Every day of practice is another brick laid on the foundation of mastery.

We often admire the concert, forgetting the countless lonely evenings when the pianist played to an empty room.

So it is with every worthwhile pursuit.

The writer wrestles with empty pages before finding the perfect sentence. The artist paints over countless mistakes before revealing a masterpiece. The dreamer walks through seasons of doubt before reaching the horizon they once imagined.

Rome wasn't built in a day. Neither are remarkable lives.

Do not despise slow beginnings. The path may be long, lonely, and at times painfully ordinary, but every faithful step carries you closer to the person you are becoming.

One day, the noise of your struggle will become the music of your triumph.

Until then, keep playing.

08/07/2026

So nice