Insight of a Kenyan Girl

I walked to the gym today.
Headphones in, no music playing just silence that I wear like armor.
Because if a woman walks without pretending to be busy, the world takes it as an invitation.

And still, it doesn’t stop them.

The catcalls slice through the air. Whistles echo like mockery. Eyes crawl across my skin as if they have a right to it. They will say as they always do —
“She shouldn’t have worn that.”
“She shouldn’t have walked there.”
“She was asking for it.”

I wasn’t asking for anything.
But in this world, a woman’s existence is treated like consent.

We are told to shrink our presence, to mute our laughter, to walk quickly, eyes down, keys in hand as if safety is a ritual we can perform to keep ourselves alive.
We memorize escape routes, we calculate which side of the street feels safer, we learn to smile just enough not to anger, but not enough to invite.
We call this living.

Even the gym, a place that’s supposed to make you stronger, teaches you weakness.
I go early when it’s mostly women because we know the hours when it’s “safe.” We show up like ghosts before the men come in, because once they do, the air shifts.

Their eyes strip you before your sweat even begins.
They stare, they comment, they laugh.
“I just looked, I didn’t touch.”
“She’s too big for the gym.”
“She shouldn’t wear that.”

And suddenly, I’m forced to explain why I’m here as though my body needs permission to exist in a place designed to change it.
Yes, I’ve gained weight.
Yes, I’m trying.
No, I don’t hate myself enough to need your approval.

But they won’t hear that.
They only see what their entitlement allows them to.
And we , women are left explaining, apologizing, surviving.

At work, the same rules apply.
You don’t smile too much. You don’t make eye contact too long. You don’t laugh too loudly. Because a smile becomes an invitation. A glance becomes permission.
“She was flirting.”
“She led him on.”
“She tempted him.”

And when you refuse the advances, when you say no, when you demand to be treated like a person you’re labeled difficult. Unfriendly. Ungrateful.

I’ve had to explain to men that I don’t like my boss. That I’m not trying to seduce him. That I just want to do my job.
But pride male pride is fragile. And when rejected, it breaks into revenge.
You lose your job, your peace, your reputation.
You become the problem. You endure the stares, the whispers, the invisible hand that tries to push you back into your “place.” And even when you make it, they still ask “Who did she sleep with to get there?”

And dating , dating makes it all the more difficult.
You have to act a certain way, speak softly, dim your strength just enough so they can call it feminine. You have to nearly grovel, just so they can label it as “submissive.” Because that’s what they want, control.
A weaker gender, they say.
But go to the dating sites, scroll through the prompts of the so-called alpha males they want women without opinions, puppets they can pull by invisible strings. Women they can beat and still say it’s love. Women they can silence, belittle, or kill, all justified by a single poisonous thought: She talked back.
She earned more than me.
She forgot who’s in charge.
To them, we’re not partners , we’re property. The obedient wife, the compliant toy, the foolish girl whose voice fades with every “yes” she’s forced to say.

We are told to be careful.
We are told to adjust.
We are told to be strong, but never loud.
We are told to cover up, but not too much because then we’re “trying too hard.”
Every part of our lives is a balancing act on a wire we didn’t build.

And when something happens when we’re harassed, violated, or silenced , the world asks,
“What were you wearing?”
“Why were you there?”
“Did you provoke him?”

Never, “Why did he do it?”
Never, “Why does he think he can?”

We live in a world that grooms women for survival, not freedom.
A world that teaches us to carry pepper spray before confidence.
A world where silence is safety, and speaking up is rebellion.

And somehow, we’re still blamed for not fighting harder.

But I’m tired of explaining.
Tired of tiptoeing through a life built to trip me.
Tired of pretending my existence is a provocation.

So here it is , the truth they hate to hear:
I will walk.
I will sweat.
I will speak.
I will live without apologizing for the discomfort of men who can’t control themselves.

Because I am not the problem.
And I am done surviving their excuses.

To Every Woman Who Reads This

Walk anyway.
Smile if you want to. Frown if you need to. Wear the damn clothes. Take up space. Lift heavier. Speak louder.
Do everything they said you shouldn’t because every step, every breath, every act of defiance is a reminder that they don’t own us.

We are tired, yes, bruised, silenced, blamed but not broken.
And the day we stop explaining ourselves is the day they lose their power.

Let them call it attitude.
Let them call it rebellion.
We will call it freedom.