A FALLEN HERO

For the longest time, I’ve wondered how a man like Jesus, so pure and righteous, could have been rejected and hated so deeply by anyone. From the stories we hear, He seems to have been a truly lovable man. Yet, it was only in His death that people came to realize who He truly was, and by then, they had already crucified Him.

As a Catholic, during Lent, when I participate in the Way of the Cross, I always reflect on His journey here on earth. I often ask myself, out of all the people in the crowd, who chose to crucify Jesus over a thief, Barabbas? Why? Why didn’t anyone say anything? Watching The Passion of the Christ is always a painful experience. I just can’t understand how people could be so inhuman; it breaks my heart every time. And yet, despite that pain, we forget. We still sin. We still do wrong as if His death means nothing to us.

I like to compare our life lessons to that of Christ, and so I always say if Him, what of us, just mere human beings?

Today, I want to celebrate a fallen hero, Raila Amolo Odinga.

He meant so much to me, even though I never met him personally. In my community, he was deeply praised for the work he did for the people, not just for us, but for the country at large. A man of many names, both loved and hated passionately on either side.

As for me, it breaks my heart that he’s gone, 15th October 2025. As an empath who even cries during movies when moved, it’s no surprise that the tears came naturally. I cried, truly cried, for a man I never knew personally. But he was a father figure to our community. It’s no wonder we called him Baba. He kept hope alive… the hope that one day we would see a better Kenya, because he always put the country first.

He ran for presidency so many times, and though he never sat in that chair, in my heart, he was always my president. The People’s President, as many called him, and I voted for him every time. I hoped, each election, that we would finally see him lead the people who loved him so much, myself included.

He successfully fought for multi-party democracy and devolution. I can only imagine what he might have achieved if he’d been given the chance to lead this nation. He fought for peace, even after winning elections that were stolen from him. Yet as a nobleman, he let it go and chose to work with those who had taken his victory. I admired his forgiveness, how he always rose again, telling us, “We live to fight another day.” He even worked with his political enemies for the good of the country.

What hurt most during those times was the mockery. Imagine having your victory stolen and then being laughed at for it, and as a community, we endured that pain and insults.

But now, in his death, I pray Baba can finally rest. He suffered so much for the people, for a better Kenya. Imagine being detained without trial for nine months, then coming back again and continuing the fight, for the same people who would later mock you.

After all is said and done, at least I can say he got the send-off he deserved. He received a state funeral, the kind given to presidents, because to me, he was my president. The People’s President. And it was well deserved.

I don’t even know what to do with my vote anymore, or what direction to take. He was one of a kind, the reason they called him the Enigma, Agwambo! Seeing how a man can be both deeply loved and equally hated reminds me of Jesus. If even the Lord and Saviour was treated that way, then what of our mere Raila? Not that I say the two are the same, but the lesson feels familiar that nobody in this world can be loved by everybody.

Through Baba, I’ve learned perseverance and consistency. I’ve learned to hold my head high despite abuse and mockery. I’ve learned forgiveness. And with all that, I can only pray that we, too, take those lessons to heart, to love one another, live peacefully, and together build this nation into the great and prosperous Kenya that not only Baba but that we all dreamed of.

As he once said,

“I have been to the mountaintop; I have seen the glory land. I may not get there together with you, but together you will get there.”

 

SILENT BATTLES AND THE GRACE TO HEAL

 

There are seasons in life where silence feels safer than words. Where speaking becomes too heavy, and even explaining feels like reopening a wound that’s trying its best to close. I’m in that space now, the space where not talking to people feels like a form of protection. I’ve been sitting with my thoughts lately, and I can admit it: I feel shame. I feel embarrassed. I feel stuck, not doing “anything”.

Part of it came from the condition in my eye, which I had a week ago, a subconjunctival hemorrhage. Walking around with a bloodshot eye caused by a burst vein can make you want to crawl into a hole and stay there. It’s the kind of thing that draws attention, even when you wish it wouldn’t. You catch people staring a second too long, their expressions shifting from concern to discomfort. It’s no wonder I kept my sunglasses on the whole time, even indoors, not because the light hurt my eyes, but because I wanted to protect everyone from how hideous I felt I looked. I didn’t want to see that flicker of horror or pity reflected at me.

The strange thing is, this small condition brought back so many buried memories, ones I thought I had long made peace with.

I remember the accident. My face was barely recognizable. Hideous, that’s the word I recall and imagined, as I saw my reflection in the mirror. I saw the stares, the uncomfortable glances, the way people shifted in their seats when they looked at me. Their reactions cut deeper than the physical pain ever did. The wounds healed, but the scars both seen and unseen lingered because of how people squirmed around me as if my face was something to be avoided, as if scars could somehow be contagious.

That’s when I learned something about people, about behavior, compassion, and the power of silence. I realized that, as much as some love you and give you comfort, they may not always be the ones who take the time to understand your story. Sometimes, it’s strangers on the internet who stumble upon your words and feel them more deeply than those who’ve known you your whole life. Maybe it’s because I can articulate myself better in writing than I can out loud. And maybe an experience lived daily loses its edge for those around you, but for someone reading it fresh, it hits differently. You get a raw reaction that relives the moment and relates to you at a deeper level.

People’s behavior taught me that if you want to hide something, you should put it in a book. Because truly, most won’t read. Even when you write it right in front of them, even when your story is laid bare, they’ll scroll past it, skim it, or avoid it altogether. It’s no wonder that saying exists. But somehow, that realization doesn’t make me indifferent anymore. It’s freeing. It means I can tell my story without fear. I can write without worrying about judgment because most of those who would judge won’t even take the time to read or understand.

Whether people read or not, whether they choose silence or pity, it no longer matters. In fact, I’ve learned that sometimes, silence is better. Pity, though often well-intentioned, can be more painful than the wound itself.

And somewhere in between all that noise and quiet, I learned an important lesson:

Choose peace over poison.

To stop drinking from the cup of other people’s opinions and reactions. To stop replaying their stares, their whispers, their pity in my head. Peace, even when it’s lonely, is still softer than the poison of self-doubt, pity, and shame.

I often think about what Bella said in Twilight, how she’s “the suffer in silence” type. I get it completely. There’s something about quiet suffering that feels… controlled. You choose not to let people in, not because you don’t need help, but because explaining everything while it’s happening feels impossible. You can’t form words for a storm that’s still raging.

And that’s the hard part, for both sides. It’s hard to be there for someone who won’t let you in. You can only ask so many times before you start to feel like you’re prying. I’ve been on both sides of that wall, the one hurting and the one waiting outside it. It’s taught me to be gentler. To understand that sometimes people need space to fall apart, to sit in their own mess, to find their own way back.

I’ve learned to give people grace, to let them go quiet without judgment, to allow them to wallow if they need to, and to trust that maybe one day they’ll come around. Because we’re all fighting something, even if our battles don’t look the same.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is sit with your pain until it teaches you something. Sometimes healing looks like isolation, like quiet mornings where you barely recognize yourself but still choose to show up. Sometimes it’s writing words you’re not sure anyone will read, just so you can breathe again.

The good thing is, my eye is healing now. The red has faded, and I’m slowly seeing more of the white return, something so small, yet it fills me with gratitude. It’s funny how we take little things like that for granted until they remind us just how fragile we are. Illness really puts life into perspective; it reminds you of the gift of health and how easy it is to overlook what once felt ordinary. There’s a quiet joy in recovery, that moment when your body begins to feel like your own again, and I constantly remind myself never to take that for granted.

If you’ve ever felt ashamed, unseen, or broken, I see you. You’re not alone in your silence. You’re not strange for pulling away. Sometimes, stepping back is the only way to move forward.

And when you finally find your way back into the light, you’ll realize that even in your quietest moments, you were growing patiently and beautifully.

YOU REALLY DO BECOME WHAT YOU THINK

Recently, I’ve been reflecting on the incredible power of our minds. Every thought we entertain, every belief we hold onto, quietly shapes the way we see ourselves and the world around us. It’s easy to underestimate the impact of our inner dialogue on our peace, confidence, and sense of purpose. Yet the truth remains: you really do become what you think.

If your mind is filled with clutter, negativity, and self-doubt, it becomes almost impossible to live with joy. I’ve experienced seasons where I let my thoughts spiral into worry, comparison, or fear, and soon enough, I felt drained and disconnected. But when I intentionally fill my mind with gratitude, hope, and truth, everything begins to shift. My energy feels lighter, my focus becomes clearer, and I start to see life through a lens of possibility rather than limitation. The state of our minds determines the state of our lives.

Emotions are not problems that need fixing; they are signals that invite us to listen. Fear often points to what truly matters. Anger reveals where our boundaries have been crossed. Anxiety usually means we’ve wandered too far into the future, and it gently calls us to return to the present. I’ve learned to see emotions as teachers rather than enemies. They don’t define us, but they help us understand where we are and what needs healing.

Many people chase motivation, hoping it will change their lives. But motivation is fleeting, it fades the moment things get hard. What truly transforms us are our habits. The small, consistent actions we take each day hold more power than bursts of inspiration. When we build habits rooted in purpose, like spending time in stillness, choosing kindness, or showing up for ourselves even when it’s hard, everything begins to shift. Little by little, our habits shape our character, and our character shapes our destiny.

Our past, too, has a way of trying to hold us captive. But the past is only a chapter, not the entire story. I remind myself to learn from it, to take the lessons it offers, but not to keep living there. Living in the past steals the beauty of the present moment. We can’t rewrite what has already happened, but we can choose how to move forward and what we carry with us.

As a creative, I’ve learned that this truth extends into the work we put out into the world. It takes faith to believe in your talent when no one seems to notice, and courage to share your art even when you doubt if it’s good enough. There are times when the results don’t come right away, and yet that’s where quiet trust is built. Every sketch, photo, painting, design, or idea is a seed. It may not bloom immediately, but with consistency and belief, it eventually finds its place. Faith in your creative purpose means releasing control over the outcome and trusting that the work you create with sincerity will reach who it’s meant to reach, in its own time.

Interestingly, this week’s Gospel reading from Luke 17:1–10 spoke about faith, the kind that starts as small as a mustard seed and moves mountains. Whether you’re a person of faith or not, the message holds true for everyone. It reminds us that transformation doesn’t come from massive leaps but from small, steady steps in the right direction, like the mustard seed, which begins tiny yet grows into a great tree over time. Just as with faith, the smallest change in thought or attitude can grow into something powerful when nurtured daily. Besides, we know that faith without action is dead.

In the same way, when someone triggers us, it’s rarely about them. It’s often a reflection of something within us that still needs attention. I’ve learned to pause in those moments and ask, “What is this trying to show me?” That pause creates space for growth. It reminds me that healing is an ongoing process and that grace must start with ourselves.

We spend so much time trying to control everything, yet control is an illusion. The only real power we have lies in our responses, in our habits, and in our choices. That’s where freedom begins.

At the end of the day, everything circles back to this truth: your thoughts shape you, your habits build you, and your choices define you. When we nurture our minds with positive, grounded thoughts, cultivate habits that align with who we’re becoming, and make intentional choices each day, we begin to step into a life of peace, purpose, and quiet faith.

Even the smallest seed of belief in yourself, in hope, in God, or in the goodness of life, is enough to grow into something extraordinary.