Life Has a Way of Remixing the Beat
Life, I’ve found, can be a lot like a DJ set; just when you’re swaying to the rhythm of a familiar beat—your favorite song warming up on the dancefloor—it throws in a scratch. That sudden, jarring twist that makes you pause, makes you laugh, makes you feel silly or sometimes leaves you wondering what just happened.
I should know. My elder brother Edwin introduced me to Virtual DJ when I was a teenager, and I spent hours mixing tracks. The scratch effect was my favorite—well, that and the sirens (some thought I was the hottest DJ in town, ha-ha!). Back then, I didn’t realize I was also learning something bigger: that life, too, loves to remix. It takes what you think you know, scratches the record, and spins you in a new direction. Sometimes it thrills you, sometimes it throws you off—but always, it keeps you moving.
The Village Verdict: Learning to Stand Strong
I was nineteen when I held my son for the first time. Nineteen, still figuring out who I wanted to become, and suddenly entrusted with what has since become the most important role of my life. In the village where I grew up, being pregnant out of wedlock was not just a challenge, it was scandal. Church doors closed on me because I was deemed as bad influence for the congregation. Neighbors whispered, peers pointed. I was told I would fail, that I would never amount to anything.
While the world cast its verdict, my son’s laughter told me another story. His eyes reminded me that I was more than their words. Watching him learn to walk taught me that falling is not final—it is simply part of learning how to stand stronger.
Lessons from the Pitch: Motherhood and Work Collide
When I moved to the city for the first time, hope in my pocket, the tide was harsh. Jobs did not come. The city swallowed me, and I returned to the village, met again with the familiar chorus: “We told you so.”
In the ebb and flow of disappointment, my son was my anchor; as he grew, he walked with me—literally. At rugby pitches where I worked, he ran free while I organized events. At offices where I could not afford babysitters, he did homework at my desk until we could go home together.
My colleagues knew him, some even admired our bond. Others criticized me, warning me not to “expose myself” by showing my life so openly. But I didn’t care. He was, and still is, my purpose.
I remember one particular moment in 2014, at the Safari7s tournament. I was working long hours, juggling the weight of responsibility and fatigue, when my son tugged at my hand: “Mom, come meet my new friend, Bob.
I followed him—and there stood the late Bob Collymore, the then CEO of Safaricom, who scooped him up in his arms like they were old buddies. I laughed at the moment’s irony. Here was my child, unbothered by titles or perceptions, simply excited to introduce his new friend. It reminded me that sometimes joy slips in quietly, even when life feels loud and heavy.
Reflecting on Resilience and Anchors
When I reflect on the hurdles I have overcome before, I find both grounding and fuel. It reminds me that I have weathered worse tides and surfaced. It helps me gather the energy to face whatever comes next.
Because while I may lose opportunities, friendships, or the approval of others, there are some things I cannot lose. My son’s love. My purpose in being his mother. These are the anchors that hold me steady, even when life treats me like a punching bag.
Finding Peace in Being Misunderstood
Being misunderstood is much like being caught in the tide. People will tell stories about you that are not yours. They will judge what they cannot understand. They will whisper when you choose to live your truth.
But tides do not last forever. And if you have learned to swim once, you will swim again.
I no longer strive to be understood by everyone. I no longer fight to explain the shape of my light. Instead, I choose to float above the noise. I choose to draw strength from the past, from the lessons hidden in my son’s footsteps, from the resilience carved in every fall and every rise.
This is the art of being comfortable with being misunderstood:
But learning, again and again, to swim.
Not letting their noise define you.
Not letting tides drown you.
Originally written in my personal journal, some details are omitted to allow for me to process the emotions around them.
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