#Brave and Afraid
I remember the day Kijana Wamalwa , Kenya’s former VP died. I remember how, that early evening, we huddled in front of the TV in disbelief. I was 11, a tad young to fully fathom death but old enough to be shaken by it. To this day, I cannot explain why his death stood out so distinctly, but that week, I wrote a composition on his death that the English teacher declared so outstanding he read it in front of the class.
To write, for me, is to unburden myself, to find release from the words and sounds that build inside me over time so that I’m whistling like a kettle of boiling water. From a young age, I found the strength in words, both written and spoken. I loved listening to poetry by Caroline Nderitu, read anything I could lay my hands on; storybooks my mum- a teacher- brought us to read over the weekend and steamy novels from fellow classmates that were only read in secret.
Through books, I found the power to go anywhere in the world, developed a hunger for travel so intense I am constantly dreaming of places to go. It is through words, I have found, that I’m able to make sense of the world around me with its sights and sounds and turmoils.
Now, if I told you there are times words get stuck in my throat, hiding under my tongue, refusing to be spoken, would you understand? Would it make sense if I told you that my chest gets heavy from the weight of unspoken words?
Because as I sit on a wooden deck outside a quaint cabin nestled on a hill, the earth falling beneath me and then rising gently on hills beyond, Lake Elementaita spread out on the plain below, this is exactly how it feels.
Out here, the wind is howling instead of blowing, knocking against the cabin’s doors, against its windows. The trees shiver helplessly, their branches bend and sway from side to side, leaves fold into themselves. Blades of grass bow reverently to the ground.
This, I reckon, is how being in my twenties feels like sometimes- life howling loudly, blowing without abandon, and me trying not to be swept off my feet. I am the shivering tree, the swaying branch, the leaf folding into itself, the bowing blade.
Sure, there are times I am the back of the tree, strong and unwavering; standing tall and strong, howling winds be damned. I am Grace, brave and unafraid, taking life head on, tubing down the Ewaso Nyiro, throwing myself at life heads on.
And there are times I am afraid, still brave but mostly afraid. Times I have been afraid of speaking up, leaving uncomfortable situations, comfort zones turned toxic. I have been bogged down by internal and external pressures, expectations of where I should be, the disappointment of failed plans, the sting of rejections. I have felt trapped, helpless.
Do I stay beaten down, letting fear keep me from moving? No. I have asked for help from family and friends, turned to books and left home for new places. I have turned my fear into fuel, come alive in the midst of these adventures.
And you know what?
Brave and afraid, I will keep leaving home for new places.
