My 2018 - This is my hobby- Writing

I fell in love with pens when I was still in primary school. A composition was my unchallenged platform where I'd show off my vocabulary. The proudest moment, of course, is having my work read to the entire school. I'd listen to it like I had an idea who the writer was but never met them while withstanding both jealous and admiring eyes.

My favorite author/columnist at that time was the late Wahome Mutahi. A legendary scribe from my country once imprisoned for penning the truth about a former corrupt regime. Whispers, as he was commonly known, had a way with words and humor. I knew I wanted nothing more than to move masses like he.

My dream was put on hold when I lost my mum to cancer when I was only fourteen. As the eldest, I shove my pens on a shelf and took on the responsibility of being a guardian to my two sisters. Life went south and I made bad decisions.

I got myself married at seventeen trying to outrun abusive relatives and the shame of the idea of having a child out of wedlock. I felt for me not to get entangled with such problems, I'd rather marry the first person who seemed like he loved me. How wrong I was.

Grief piled and ripped my heart apart. The realization of poor choices hit late and too hard. I was stranded in an abusive marriage with my children and if I didn't find a way out, I was going to either commit suicide or be killed. I left.

That's when my pens found my hollow soul wandering about. My hands shook with the anger as my inner critic was birthed. I questioned so many of my past decisions as I bled on personal journals.

Life wasn't done yet with me so it grew lemons within my bitter heart. It would present a challenge disarming enough that forced me to drop writing but somehow I found my way back.

I was well in my late twenties when I first shared mediocre pieces on Facebook. Grammar nazis brutality forced me to retreat. You see, I was a school drop out and my wording wasn't as smooth. But I knew I wanted nothing more than to express some suffocating thoughts.

I went back to reading and discovered the legendary Ngugi wa Thiong'o and the daring Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie as technology kept advancing.

A little more than five years ago was my first time to learn about blogs.

Mild depression had eaten away my self-esteem and most of my time was spent indoors online on facebook. Links I clicked lead to websites and Wordpress became a common name.

I got into blogging a few months before the whole year I spent in prison. Writing followed me behind those walls and there we bonded some more and bang! I found my healing space.

Writing has helped me say so much and reveal deep wounds in disguise. It got me through the ghosts of domestic abuse and the cold walls inside prisons. It is also my path to sharing painful life lessons that I feel the universe demands of me to pass on.

I have had my strength tested again and again through writing yet I kept at it. This irresistible urge to pen erotica just because I believe sex is a craft on its own has landed me some very unfair judgments. Pervert is a better word than what most called me.

It was unafrican to pen such dirty thoughts they said. Western books and pornographic sites were blamed so I took down everything on my blog. Knowing what cyberbullying in Kenya is, I didn't need the attention.

I started scribing on books and computer notepads what I wouldn't put on my blog. Poets and storytellers need an outlet and if they are denied that, I believe they'd go mad. I am both.

Because of my reading, everything I can on my screen, I found my space on Steemit.

Mine has been a bittersweet journey wading in the skeptics' minds. Everyone, including my sisters (I have two), assumed writing can never be more than a hobby. To them it as my way of entertaining them. Writing beautiful messages on their Facebook walls on special occasions or giving them tips on what to say to people they pretended to love or those they actually loved.

I also feel like being a drop out really made me doubt my skills and with good reason. I am back to school, thankfully, but I still feel handicapped due to the rate of skilled pens out here. Having access to some unlimited internet has also helped to expedite my amateur skills.

Writing I can therefore say, found me. It filled that void nothing else could and ignited some undying reading hunger within my soul. I think they go hand in hand... If one wants to be a writer they have to be a reader first.

It also flew me over burning bridges back to light and healing. We sailed through rough seas in solitude like we still do until humans found their way back to me or I found mine back to them.

Writing helped me share wounds and hidden scars with unimaginable ease. I felt at home soaking my journals with tears as I let out haunting ghosts from the past.

I blended my naked truth in poetry and reflecting pieces. Had the majority of my pain finally aired to the world in fictional characters and alternate egos. I feel encouraged by how most souls can relate or simply understand that they too are not alone.

The beauty of a writer is that everything is a story. One can evoke deep thoughts with written phases and bring forth change. Though most writers are still censored by these governments and the society at large, writing remains a powerful tool. A worthy skill.

I dream of authoring books and ending some African literature myths. Currently, I am just learning as much as I can on this skill... so you can call me an amateur!

Thank you @anomadsoul for the opportunity and the unending support :)

Thank you for coming.

#BlackQueen