As I sit here, with September 7th, 2025 , coming tomorrow to mark eighteen years since my graduation , my heart dances with joy, reflecting on a journey woven with academic milestones, fierce challenges, and unyielding resilience that carried me through. This milestone, celebrated on that radiant day, isn’t just about the moment I crossed the stage on September 7th, 2007 ; it’s about every step, every struggle, every triumph that shaped a story of grit, grace, and unstoppable determination. As a mother, wife, career woman , and scholar , I balanced life’s beautiful chaos with a heart full of purpose, and this is my celebration of that legacy, made even more vivid by the memory of losing all my personal things during the rehearsal day on September 6th, 2007 The journey began with a bold spark, the decision to pursue this degree amidst the whirlwind of life. Motherhood delayed my starting point temporarily. The determination remained. My third baby, too young to understand my resolve, f...
Six years ago, my mother left this world, but her lessons echo in every lecture I give, every student I inspire. In our rural Kenyan village , where golden fields stretched under the sun and life pulsed with the seasons, her kitchen was my first classroom. Without formal education, she was my greatest professor, teaching resilience, the value of knowledge, and the power of vision in quiet kitchen moments. As a subsistence farmer and savvy businesswoman, she supplemented my father’s modest income, but her heart, fierce, wise, and unyielding, shaped me into the professor I am today. On this sixth anniversary of her passing, I honor her legacy, tracing the path from her kitchen to my classroom. Her kitchen was more than a place to cook; it was a sanctuary of learning. Over steaming pots of maize porridge or while mending clothes under a flickering kerosene lamp , she wove stories of perseverance. Her hands, rough from tilling stubborn soil, moved with purpose as she spoke of overco...
They say the eyes never lie but mine have learned silence better than truth. They hold stories that never made it to words, that tremble behind a practiced smile. When you look close enough you’ll see it the hollow. The place where laughter once lived before it was stolen. I speak, but my voice is dust. It cracks between syllables, searching for something solid to stand on. Each word tastes like iron and memory. Each breath a negotiation between breaking and surviving. They call it SGBV, as if letters could carry the weight of what it means to lose your sense of safety, your own body becoming a battlefield you never enlisted to fight in. Sometimes I want to scream. But when I open my mouth, only silence comes out a silence so heavy it drowns sound itself. That’s the emptiness in my voice not absence, but too much. Too much pain. Too much remembering. Too much pretending to be okay. Still, I rise. Not because healing is easy, but because I am tired of disappearing. Tired of being a whis...
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