Insight of a Kenyan Girl

A wave of nostalgia washed over me today. I miss those days when life felt simple, when everything was just right. The happy mornings filled with laughter, the warm evenings spent with the ones I loved—oh, how life used to be fun. I used to wake up with a heart full of joy, and the world seemed full of endless possibilities. Looking back, I truly believe those were some of my best days, or at least my happiest.

But in the blink of an eye, everything changed. I have become unrecognizable, a mere shadow of the person I once was. The girl who used to revel in moments spent with friends, who found joy in the simplest of things, is gone. What remains is an empty shell—someone who occasionally puts on a fake smile, pretends to enjoy meaningless conversations, and engages in friendships that feel more like obligations than connections.

It’s as if I’ve been submerged in a dark wave, drowning in a sea of sorrow and uncertainty. There are moments of calmness, fleeting moments of peace, but they never last. Still, I have grown accustomed to it. I’ve come to accept the darkness, perhaps even to welcome it. Strange as it sounds, the darkness has become my haven, a place that surprisingly comforts me in a way light never did.

We are all taught, as children, to fear the dark. It’s a fear instilled in us by tales of monsters lurking in the shadows, by warnings to never go near the dark corners of our homes. I remember being terrified as a little girl, lying in bed with the overwhelming certainty that something terrible was hiding under the bed. My mother’s voice, reassuring and firm, was the only thing that brought me comfort, as she would chase the monsters away and tell me that the light would keep me safe.

Back then, the darkness was a foreign enemy, a place of monsters and nightmares. But I now realize that the true fear came not from the dark itself, but from the absence of light. It was the unknown, the fear of what we couldn’t see, that made the dark so terrifying. I remember my mother telling me that she named me Nuru—meaning light—so that I could ward off the darkness. She believed that if I were named for the light, I would carry it with me and push the darkness away. I believed it too, until the day when darkness engulfed me completely.

It was the first day my mother wasn’t there to chase away the monsters. She wasn’t there to hold me close and reassure me that I was safe. It was the first time I had to face the darkness alone. I remember it so clearly—how my heart raced, how my hands shook. I begged the darkness to stop, sobbing uncontrollably, asking for mercy, but it didn’t listen.

Scarred and broken, I was left to live with the darkness. At first, it consumed me entirely, threatening to swallow me whole. But as the days went on, something unexpected happened. I adapted. I learned to survive in it, to live with it. In a way, I became friends with the very thing that once terrified me. I grew stronger in the silence, in the stillness that only the darkness could provide. I found a strange sense of comfort in its embrace, like an old friend who understands my pain and doesn’t ask for explanations.

Of course, darkness still throws its tantrums from time to time—its mood swings manifesting as panic attacks that leave me gasping for air, desperate to escape. But even then, I forgive it. I forgive my best friend, my constant companion, because I know that it has shaped me into who I am today. We coexist now, in a delicate balance, a fragile peace forged through years of living side by side.

Maybe I am still searching for light, deep down, but for now, I will accept the darkness. It is no longer my enemy. It is simply a part of me.