L.J's red jumper chronicles.

When you ask my father if he has daughters, he’ll simply say he has children. To him, we were never “just his daughters" in the way people usually mean it, we were just his children. And in his house, that distinction mattered. It meant there was no room for the “but I’m a girl” card. Not once. Not ever. We grew up knowing that roles were not divided by gender. If something needed to be done, you did it. Simple. We climbed roofs to fix the TV aerial so he could watch football. We helped offload the car, lifting and carrying things that felt far too heavy at the time, figuring it out together while he stood aside, watching, not out of neglect, but out of quiet expectation. And then there were the moments that felt like abandonment but were actually lessons in disguise. He would drop you at a doctor’s office or a bank, give you clear instructions, and leave. Just like that. No hand holding. No waiting. You could stand there, overwhelmed, even fight back tears, but he wouldn’t come ...

Have you ever noticed that many people tend to be closer to relatives on their mother’s side of the family? It’s not necessarily because maternal relatives are kinder or more welcoming sometimes they are, sometimes they aren’t. One possible explanation lies in the science of imprinting and early emotional bonding. During pregnancy, a mother’s social environment often includes frequent interactions with people from her own family i.e., her siblings, parents, cousins, aunts, and uncles. These are often the individuals who call, visit, offer support, and whom she speaks about most often. The developing baby, while still in the womb, is sensitive to the mother’s emotional states and physiological responses. When the mother experiences comfort, familiarity, or joy in relation to these people, those emotional signals can influence the baby’s early associations. After birth, these same relatives often continue to play a prominent emotional role in the child’s environment. Importantly, this ex...

“A mother’s love is seen and felt…” Behavioural scientists have long documented the differences between men and women, often highlighting subtle contrasts in how care and affection are expressed. In many of these discussions, mothers are portrayed as the more nurturing parent, soothing, expressive, emotionally present. Popular books like ‘Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus’ have further simplified these differences, making them easy to digest, easy to repeat, and easy to believe. But who is to say a father is not just as nurturing only that his love speaks a different language? Where a mother might hug a crying child and rock them gently until the tears subside, a father might quietly ask what happened and then disappear briefly, returning with a sweet, a snack, or an idea that might fix the problem. Not because he doesn’t feel the pain, but because his instinct is to solve, to restore balance, to make things okay again in the way he knows how.  As children grow older, this di...

“Mama! Mama!” That call became her signature tune, the sound that made her mother’s heart skip a beat every time she heard it. This is the story of Ella, the family’s messenger of doom. A role she never asked for, but one that somehow chose her, maybe because she is the eldest daughter in the family of Habbu. Ella is the fourth child out of eight. Before her are three brothers whom Habbu, their father, sent to the white man’s land, America, to study and make something of themselves. So when they left, Ella became the eldest at home, holding the fort for everyone else. She took care of her parents, her younger siblings, and in many ways, became the glue that kept the family running. With that came another role, that of the bearer of news. All news. But mostly, bad ones. The first message came like a thief in the night. A telegram from Nairobi. Her younger sister’s husband had died, barely two years into marriage, leaving behind two little children, one still breastfeeding. There were n...

I don’t always understand it, but I’ve come to accept that I see things before they happen. Sometimes, it comes in dreams, vivid, detailed, and impossible to shake. Other times, it’s just a knowing, a deep, undeniable sense that something is about to unfold. I used to find it strange. Now, I treat it with reverence. There was a time when I went a whole month unable to focus. The dead wouldn’t leave me alone. Every night, they came to me, not with fear, but with urgency. Faces I’d never seen, voices carrying messages that weren’t meant for me. They pleaded with me to find their loved ones and speak for them. It was overwhelming. I tried to carry on with normal life, but my spirit was somewhere else straddling two worlds. I’ve looked at people and simply known. I knew that something was coming, good, bad, life-changing. In the beginning, I’d be consumed by fear. But over time, I learned to pray. I realized that perhaps knowing wasn’t just for knowing’s sake. It was an invitation to inter...

When I think of prayer, I remember that the African way was often through calling on our ancestors. Long before formal religion came to our lands, our people believed that those who had gone before us still walked with us, standing at the threshold between the living and the divine. Ancestors were not distant shadows but custodians of wisdom, protectors of families, and intercessors who carried our cries to God. Whether through libations poured on the earth, whispered names in the quiet of the night, or ritual gatherings around the fire, prayer in Africa was deeply relational, a way of keeping the bond between generations unbroken. I never imagined I would one day find myself reaching for that path. But when my niece lay in a hospital bed, and doctors struggled to find a clear diagnosis for her discomfort, I felt powerless. That night, my sister sent a message saying the doctor suspected a heart defect. My younger sister and I had just left Gertrude’s Children’s Hospital around 3 a.m.,...

I met my mother-in-law in 2018. She was warm, charming, and generous , the kind of woman who always had a thoughtful gift in hand and an extra seat at her table. I thought I had won the jackpot. Free lunches, laughter, and a sense of belonging that felt genuine. I grew fond of her, and honestly, I believed she felt the same way about me. We were family or so I thought. But 2024 opened my eyes in ways I didn’t expect. It wasn’t one big betrayal, it was the slow, painful realization that the kindness had come with conditions. That behind the smiles, there were whispers. I discovered she had planted someone in my home, a house girl ,who fed her stories. False ones. And from those stories, she built a narrative: that I was a mother who hated her child (my husband), all because I was trying to balance motherhood and a demanding career. It didn’t stop there. She and her two nieces, her inner circle, decided I was worth investigating. They quietly went behind my back, digging, questioning, wa...

 Some stories find you and change you. This one did. In today’s post, I’m honoured to share a deeply moving account of pain, survival, and unexpected grace. It's a story of resilience, recovery, and what it means to return from the edge with five scars and a breath. Shared with permission and written in her own words: Five Scars and a Breath " At the beginning of last year, I became fluent in the language of pain. I knew the routine by heart - walk into the hospital, wince through registration, and recite my prescription like a nurse: Start with 40 milligrams of Nexium, top up with another 40 if the pain doesn’t retreat. I wasn’t a doctor, but I played one with practiced confidence. Until one day, the pain didn’t follow the script. They gave me 80 milligrams of Nexium, then paracetamol. The pain remained, stubborn and screaming. Then came the opium. Relief arrived cloaked in a darkness so absolute it stole my sight. The pain retreated but not without a warning. I finally surre...

 Part 1 "Peter! Peter! Light the bonfire and open the gates. It is time." Mama Lushana called out to the farm boy, her voice carrying the weight of tradition and loss. The title Mama —a sign of respect in her community—had been given to her by the church. It meant "Mother" and was used by everyone to address her, though not all knew the trials that earned her the name. Flashback Lushana was born in the 1940s, one of only two children her mother bore before tragedy struck. Her mother died in childbirth, leaving Lushana and her younger sister to navigate a harsh world under the care of their stepfamily. Determined to provide for her sister, 13-year-old Lushana agreed to marry into a well-off family. Her dowry would allow her younger sister and step-siblings to afford an education. Her husband, Habbu, was an evangelist, often away on preaching missions. While he spread the Gospel, Lushana stayed behind, carrying the weight of countless household and farm ...

It is Saturday evening and I have a feeling that I recognize all too well. It comes suddenly even after I have had a lovely time earlier in the day, I call him Mr. Mood. I am writing this article while seated beside Mr.Mood so as to easily describe him because once he is gone, all I am left with is a sigh of relief to not think of him. Writing this post with Mr. Mood is not easy, he keeps pulling me and I keep trying to push myself away from him, and when we reach a stalemate, we tango till one gets tired.  Mr.Mood sometimes likes to make me feel sick giving me a headache, forces me to crawl in my bed and not to leave unless answering nature calls, to lose my appetite, or to be nonchalant when forced to interact with people. And when our fight for control begins, he holds power over me when he causes me to be stuck in a never ending negative thought process pattern: ‘I HATE MYSELF! PEOPLE DON’T LIKE ME! I CAN’T DO THIS! GIVING UP SEEMS EASY!’ But then I take the power back when I m...

  I need milk My cow is no longer producing any milk Minister Agriculture says, ‘I have a solution!’ ‘I am going to Zim, I will feed the cows there to start producing milk then we export.’ I need food This cost of living is making it hard to feed my family Minister Health says, ‘I have a solution!’ ‘If we reduce the number of deliveries, we can then have fewer mouths to feed.’ I need fuel for my car It is now too expensive to drive to work Minister Energy says, ‘I have a solution!’ ‘From now on we will use our own currency to buy fuel from Russia!’ I need sleep Am too stressed with how hard life is to have enough sleep to function at work The Vice President says, ‘I have a solution!’ ‘You just need to wake up like I do and go to work, see it is easy!’ I need a job I keep applying but am not being selected, is my name an issue now? The President says, ‘I have a solution!’ ‘Maybe if you change your surname and be my tribesman it would work!’

  ‘See those fallen shadows there Are the shadows false of life?’ ~except from poem by anonymous    When l wake up in the morning l love to hear the song of the birds, crickets and our loud chickens in the storehouse echoing to let them out before the crickets disappear from the grass. But within all that noise, a voice also echoes - a person singing, it is Meja. He has a different tune each morning and today he was singing alongside his radio a luo song.  Mornings weren’t complete until you hear a collection of these sounds…the birds in the sky, crickets, chicken then Meja. Oh and incase you overslept in the house of Wuod, my father, then you would hear also mum’s voice pulling you out from your sweet slumber. Their house their rules, in the house of Wuod everyone including our cat was to be awake by  8am . l personally hated mornings, and so any opportunities to be sent out to get something from the shop l would always jump at it, if not l would ...

Take my hand and lead thy spirit to Thine For my body thus flesh remains Give me a moment’s glance I will ask To make thy peace with no regret With no withering to salt to become.   Hold my hand to journeys’ end Where my fate lies with Thine To suffereth or to rejoice? I hope my name is in the book.   Was it worth all I did? My deeds on Earth are read to me Was my heart right Thine will ask Unto to Thine I kneel and bow With my spirit I wait in judgement.   With my judgment set on stone I walk thy fate that waitheth for me As my spirit fades away, I hope the ones I left behind Live their lives right for this day.      

  ‘Please help him…help him out!’ To date these words still ring in my ear.   ‘That food is not going to cook itself!’ My mum shouted out to any one of her child who was within earshot. The trick was always to hope you were the only one of your siblings who heard it so that you can tell the others the task was assigned to them under the false pretence that it came directly from mum. My elder sister, Lauren, was the queen bee of doing that!   But for today it was a case of all hands-on deck situation in the kitchen. Visiting that day were our godmother, mom’s friend, our maternal Aunties and Lauren’s friend. It was going to be ladies' night and we always aimed to impress with our prowess in cooking. With my sisters Lauren and Paula we each automatically took the role of our speciality in the kitchen. Lauren was the meat queen, Paula was the pastry queen and I was the worldwide exquisite cuisine, of which for that day I was making Indian naans and baked potato...

‘We found each other I helped you out of a broken place You gave me comfort But falling for you was my mistake’             - Call out My Name by the Weeknd   This is the end. Maybe is the fact that Siba asked his friend if they could exchange girlfriends or that Kasanda forgot she was dating Siba when she let another guy flirt with her. It was the word unsaid that needed to be said, who was going to say it first?   Kasanda The news of her Uncle’s death devastated her, her mother’s brother. The news came just a few days after they had gone to see him at the hospital and he had looked so much better. Maybe that is the thing about death, it likes to creep in when least expected. A secrecy it dwells upon, only sometimes known to the one with whom it owes. Kasanda was placed in charge of designing and printing the funeral programs, and the graveyard flowers acquisition. It helped distract her from feeling t...