The Night-Stolen Hours

My muse, it seems, is a creature of the shadows, a nocturnal beast that stirs when the rest of the world slumbers. It’s in the quiet hours, when the city sighs in its sleep and the only sounds are the distant hum of a lone boda-boda and the rhythmic chirping of our cricket companions, that the dam within me seems to break.

Perhaps it’s the absence of the world’s insistent clamor that allows the inner voices to finally be heard. The endless emails, the demanding phone calls, the tyranny of the to-do list – all fade into the background, allowing the whispers of imagination to rise to the surface. It’s as if the silence itself becomes a fertile ground for creation…

The Ghosts Of Drafts Past

To My Writer Self, I write to you from the edge of a comma, where ink bleeds into possibility and sentences tremble like unsteady bridges. A century yawns between us, a chasm, a cathedral, a carnival mirror. Do you still wear time as loosely as a moth-eaten sweater, or have you finally sewn its threads……

Finding Freedom in Failure’s Embrace

“Let me tell you about the year I unraveled. It was 2017. The kind of cold that lives in your bones. I’d built a life like a house of cards, shiny promotions, dutiful nods, a LinkedIn profile polished to a high gleam. Then, in one gust, it collapsed. A project failed. A trust fractured. A door slammed with finality. I sat in the rubble, picking shards of my ego from the carpet, and laughed. Not the laughter of joy, but the kind that comes when you finally see the punchline of a joke you’ve been living. So this is failure, I thought. Not a monster, but a mirror. Here’s what the mirror showed: I’d spent years sprinting from failure’s shadow, only to realize I was fleeing my own silhouette. My fear wasn’t of stumbling, it was of soaring. Because success demands a tax. It asks you to trade pieces of your soul for standing ovations. To become a statue on a pedestal, frozen in the pose of someone else’s admiration…”

A Letter Across A Century

A century separates us, a gulf of time that whispers promises and anxieties. They say life is a story, and at this point, I’m just turning the first fragile page. I am a writer, a weaver of words, yet I grapple to define myself. Am I a dreamer chasing the phantoms of imagination, or a thousand souls trapped in a single form?

Whispers Of Connection

Life, in my experience, has been less about the grand pronouncements and more about the quiet moments of connection. It’s about the unexpected encounters with individuals whose journeys, though unique, echo the whispers of our own. It’s about recognizing the shared humanity in the eyes of a stranger, the flicker of a familiar dream reflected in their gaze.

Dear Teenage Me

Remember that awkward, lanky boy with a head full of dreams and a heart full of uncertainties? That was you, and you were magnificent. You were a whirlwind of contradictions – shy yet daring, sensitive yet brash, brimming with hopes that felt both immense and fragile. Don’t be afraid of those contradictions. They’re the brushstrokes that paint the masterpiece of your being. Embrace the stumbles and fumbles, for they’re the stepping stones to your growth…

Soul City

The city of the future is not a city of concrete and steel. It is a city of green spaces and open skies. It is a city where people can walk and bike without fear of cars. It is a city where people can connect with nature and with each other.

I hope that you will help to build the city of the future. Make it a place where people can live, work, and play in harmony with nature. Make it a place where people can be happy and healthy.

Your loving father…