Insight of a Kenyan Girl

It has been a while since I have felt like this—sad and angry. I had vowed never to shed tears for another again, and yet, here I am, teetering on the edge once more. Emotions have always come effortlessly to me; I am the kind of person who cries at sad movies, whose heart aches in tune with melancholic melodies, and whose empathy knows no bounds. It is both a blessing and a curse to feel so deeply, but it is who I am.

But this one—this one was different. Or at least, I had convinced myself that they were. In reality, they were nothing more than a well-rehearsed act, their words scripted with such precision that I often wondered if they practiced them in the mirror. They claimed to feel deeply, to care, to love—but they were just empty declarations, devoid of sincerity. Their emotions, if they ever truly existed, were feigned, their affections awkward and misplaced. And yet, despite knowing this, I let them in.

Their ego was fragile, as delicate as glass, and yet they masked it with a bravado so transparent it was almost laughable. Jealousy poured out of them, raw and unfiltered, like a raging river with no bounds. They spoke grandly of power, of influence, of people in high places, believing themselves to be among them. But I knew better. True power does not need to be announced—it simply is. And in their foolish attempts to prove their worth, they only revealed how little they truly had.

I have always been an avid reader, my standards for others shaped by the literary worlds I have lost myself in. The grand gestures, the unyielding devotion, the kind of love that transcends the ordinary—those were the things I believed in. And knowing this, they should have understood that by choosing them, I had already lowered my standards. They were a walking shell, devoid of depth, of passion, of the very essence that makes love worth having. And yet, I ignored the signs. I let myself believe in the illusion.

They believed themselves to be powerful, or perhaps I made them feel that way. They thrived on the idea of control, on the notion that they were the dominant force in our dynamic. But they forgot one crucial thing—I had known power long before them. I had seen it, lived it, and wielded it in ways they could never comprehend. Their shallow aspirations and empty boasts meant nothing to me, yet I humored them, letting them revel in their own delusions.

Selfish, arrogant—that is all they ever were, all they ever could be. And now, as I sit here reflecting on what once was, I realize the futility of it all. Isn’t it foolish to have thought that emotions could flourish with someone so undeserving? We were from different worlds, and they never could have fit into mine. Their fragility was their greatest weakness, and my strength was something they could never match.

And so, dear broken heart, here we are again, nursing another wound, learning another lesson. But we will overcome this tragedy, just as we have before. With every heartbreak, we grow wiser, stronger. The tears may fall tonight, but tomorrow, we rise again. And this time, we remember who we are—unapologetic, resilient, and deserving of something far greater than a fleeting shadow masquerading as a storm.