Insight of a Kenyan Girl

Today, I sit on the sidelines.

I watch silently as they, those I once called my people—gather around the very tables I built. Tables where laughter once lived, where loyalty was spoken in warm meals and late-night calls. Now, they sit comfortably, as though my presence never mattered. It’s both hilarious and heartbreaking. Strange how clarity often walks in dressed as pain.

Sometimes, I want to stand up and scream: “I built you. I stood by you. I fed you when your cupboards were empty. I gave when I had little. And when my hands were empty, you left me.” But I don’t. I keep my silence. My dignity.

The silence of my phone is louder than ever. No calls. No messages. Just echoes of conversations I used to be part of. I once held space for these people, offered my shoulder, shared my dreams, opened my home—and now I sit alone, becoming a memory. A cautionary tale.

They still mention me, I hear. But no longer as a person, no longer as me. Now, I’m an anecdote. A whispered warning:
“You remember her? Don’t be like her.”
And I wonder, did they ever see me for who I truly was? Or was I just a convenient stepping stone, someone to lean on while looking over my shoulder for better options?

A few come back—but never to truly check in. They come to collect. Their visits are sugar-coated with flattery and sweet lies:
“I was just checking in… also, are you still up for helping me with…?”
They speak like I’m not completely dead yet, like there’s still some usefulness left to squeeze out of me. I see through it. And I laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s ridiculous.

But I remember. I remember the nights I cried myself to sleep, with no one to hear me. I remember trying to keep a brave face while my body ached and my mind slowly unraveled. Where were they then?

Where were they when the fridge was empty, when hunger gnawed at me in ways no one could see?
Where were they when I was drowning in exhaustion, when even thinking felt like a battle?
When my silence wasn’t peace but survival?

I showed up for people who now walk right past me like I’m a ghost. But I am not dead. I am bruised, yes. Changed, absolutely. But I am still here.

And maybe sitting on the sidelines isn’t a punishment—it’s preservation.
It’s the chance to observe without being entangled, to rebuild quietly, and to remember who I am without the noise.

One day, when the dust settles and their tables crumble—when they look around and wonder why no one stayed I will still be here.
Not bitter. Not vengeful. But stronger.
Wiser.
Clearer.

And I will choose better.
I am still healing.

There are days I move like I’m walking through fog, where the ache is heavy and old wounds feel freshly cut. But I’m healing. Bit by bit. Slowly, gently, in my own time.

No, I’m not who I used to be, but maybe that’s a good thing.

The version of me that comes back won’t beg for space at anyone’s table. I will build a new one. One where peace is the guest of honor, and I am not just invited—I am the host.

So if you’re watching from afar, wondering if I’ll ever rise again.
Wait.
Watch.
I’m not done yet.