Rooftop Reflections on a Kimbi Kimbi Day

 

 

  Today is what many are calling a kimbi kimbi day.

And here I am, seated on a rooftop café in Kiserian; the only one, I believe, that serves a mug of milky tea generous enough to rival the grace of Maa land’s cows. Around me, men from the Maa community sit in quiet familiarity, their conversations blending with voices from other dialects. Occasionally, a woman appears; usually accompanied. But me? I am the anomaly. Laptop open. Work slacks on. Deep in thought. Alone.

It is not every day you see someone like me in this space, and yet here I am.

I have alot of work to do; two proposals to complete. And I chose not to go to the office today. If anything starts, I want to be within reach of my home turf. The sounds at the rooftop, include  friendly banter, silent negotiations, laughter, and casual commentary in Maa and Swahili—are soothing; they keep me anchored. In between typing, researching, and consulting chatgpt, I savour the rhythm of my own progress.

Kiserian is, in many ways, still a gentle place. Untouched by the world’s noise; unless you chokoza the community. And even in this calm, I find myself split between peace and worry.

I am raising three daughters; two of whom belong to Gen Z. My third, including my granddaughter, is Gen Alpha. In essence, I am a mother to many young people, whom I deeply cherish including, my volunteers and the teenage mothers who are at the heart of my calling. They are not just names in a register. They are lives I am deeply invested in.

And so, I worry.

I worry for our nation. For the gradual erosion of democracy and the shrinking space for free speech. I worry because I work with girls from the slums. And if you think things are bad, try living there for just one day. Today’s cessation of work—today’s protests—mean many parents or guardians are not earning. These communities live hand-to-mouth. No work today means no food tonight.

It is even more dire for teenage mothers. Girls without support systems. Girls whose survival depends on the few crumbs they can gather. Girls who did not choose this path but are walking it anyway—with grace, but also with great need.

As I sit here—one woman, two hands, one head, two feet—I feel the weight of it all. My response might be small. My actions might not shift a tide. But I will not be silent. I will write. I will mother. I will walk beside them.

So yes, it is maandamano day—but mine is a different kind of march. One of words, of care, of quiet resolve. 

From this rooftop in Kiserian, I choose to andamana with my pen—because sometimes, the most radical thing a woman can do… is keep showing up, loving loudly, and writing anyway.