Insight of a Kenyan Girl

Weak-minded, that’s what he was. A man so fragile in his ego that he couldn’t stomach the idea of a woman being smarter than him. He couldn’t fathom why she didn’t grovel at his feet, didn’t hang onto his every word like the women he was used to. But she had been raised among men—brothers, uncles, cousins—toughened in their world, where softness was a liability. In terms of femininity, even she sometimes questioned if she truly embodied it. The only glimpses of it were when she tried on a new dress or painted her lips a deep shade of red, fleeting moments that reminded her she was, in fact, a woman.

But beautiful—oh, that she was. Not in the way society often defined beauty, but in a way that demanded attention, commanded respect. Her eyes, dark and sharp, could pierce through the thickest of facades, seeing into a person’s very soul. There was something intoxicating about her presence, an undeniable force that could not be ignored. She was powerful, not just in looks but in the quiet strength she carried. And her scent—distinct, unforgettable—lingered long after she was gone, like a whisper refusing to be silenced.

She had been born into privilege, a family that never let her want for anything. The baby of the household, the apple of her father’s eye, she was cherished, adored, and endlessly spoiled. Had she ever wished for the moon, her family would have moved heaven and earth to place it at her feet. Yet, despite all this, she was no spoiled brat. She didn’t rely on handouts, nor did she bask in the comfort of generational wealth.

She had chosen to carve her own path. Against all expectations, she worked hard, fought for her independence, and sought to prove to herself that she could stand on her own. Her family would have gladly sheltered her forever, but she rejected the cage, no matter how gilded it was. Education became her weapon, knowledge her armor. She immersed herself in academia, absorbing philosophy, science, and literature with an insatiable hunger. Aristotle, Einstein, Nietzsche—she knew their words, understood their theories, and could debate them with unwavering confidence. But the streets? Their language, their unspoken rules? She was a stranger to them.

And that’s where he came in. He, with his arrogance, his misplaced superiority. He belittled her for not understanding slang, for not being fluent in the language of the streets. To him, intelligence was not measured by critical thinking or academic prowess but by how well one navigated the unpolished world he thrived in. He judged her, assumed her ignorance was a flaw, when in truth, it was simply a different kind of knowledge she hadn’t been exposed to.

She was appalled—no, enraged—by the audacity of such a shallow mind. A man who judged a book solely by its cover, never daring to flip a single page. If he had, he would have been mesmerized by the content, by the depth of her story. He would have understood the battles she had fought, the struggles she had overcome, the courage it took to step outside the comfort of her privilege and build something of her own. He would have realized that intelligence wears many faces and that wisdom is not confined to one domain.

Yes, she liked the finer things in life. Silk against her skin, the weight of gold on her wrist, the luxury of fine wine on her tongue—these were the comforts she had always known. But at what point did that become a crime? At what point did her upbringing become an offense? Did her love for luxury invalidate her struggles, her aspirations, her worth?

No, she would not shrink for men like him. She would not apologize for her privilege nor be shamed for her intellect. If he was too weak to appreciate a woman of her caliber, then he had no place in her world. She was not meant for men who feared strong women. She was meant for something far greater.