Oyenusi Victoria
@victoriaoyenusi1813
20 days ago
Three years ago, I stood in the checkout line at Tuskys in Kasarani with a cart of basics - maize flour, cooking oil, salt, onions, and a single packet of milk. My card declined. Twice. The cashier, a young woman named Grace, looked at me with that half-sorry, half-impatient expression. I faked a smile. “Must be a system error.” I walked out with nothing. Walked home on empty streets, stomach growling louder than the matatus.
I remember calling my mom that night. She always asked if I’d eaten. I lied. “Yeah, had some ugali and sukuma wiki.” She didn’t believe me. Mothers never do. She said, “Mimi naomba Mungu, mtoto wangu asilale njaa.” I cried into my pillow after hanging up. 26 years old, a university graduate, and I couldn’t feed myself.
The turning point wasn’t a lightning bolt. It was a Tuesday morning in July 2021. I was at my desk at the call center, selling insurance policies I didn’t believe in, making 15,000 KES a month after tax. My supervisor, Mr. Otieno, called me into his office. I thought I was being fired. Instead, he handed me a flyer. “There’s a writing workshop at the Goethe Institut next weekend. You’re always scribbling in that notebook. Go.”
I almost didn’t go. The workshop cost 2,000 KES. That was my transport money for two weeks. But something in me snapped. I borrowed from a friend, Sarah. She gave me the cash without asking why. At the workshop, I met a woman named Achieng - a poet and travel writer who ran a small ecotourism blog. She read my piece about my grandmother’s kikoy blanket. She said, “You have a voice. Stop hiding it.”
Three months later, I started writing for her blog. She paid me 500 KES per article. Five hundred shillings. I wrote about the Maasai market, about the texture of sisal bags, about the way light hits Lake Naivasha at 6am. I wrote about my mother’s hands, how they smell of chapatis and prayers. People read it. They shared it. One article - about the hidden poetry in Kenyan fabric patterns - got picked up by a culture website. That led to a freelance gig for a travel magazine.
Last month, I took my mom to Mombasa. First time she’d ever seen the ocean. She’s 58. She’s farmed in Kisii her whole life. She’s never been on a plane. We took a bus, but it was still magic. She stood at Diani Beach, holding her sandals, letting the waves touch her feet. She laughed. Actually laughed. Not the tired laugh she does when she’s pretending to be okay. A real one. She said, “Hii ni sawa na vile niliota.” This is exactly like I dreamed it.
I’m not rich. I still worry about rent some months. But I paid for that trip with money from words. Words about kikoys and beaches and the way my mother breathes when she’s at peace. I’m sitting in a café in Kilimani writing this, drinking a coffee that costs what a full meal used to cost me three years ago. I’m not angry at that version of myself anymore. I’m just grateful she kept writing.
Some nights I still wake up afraid the money will disappear. But then I remember Grace the cashier, and Mr. Otieno, and Sarah who lent me 2,000 bob. I remember Achieng saying my voice mattered. I remember my mother’s feet in the Indian Ocean.
We’re going again next year. Maybe Naivasha this time. She wants to see the flamingos.
#cultureandsport #ecotourismkenya #NircleStories #africapoet #wordart #musicandpoetry #kenyaecotravel #textileheritage #Notes #RealTalk #MyStory #mombasamagic #kisiigirl #writerstransformation
3 days ago
