To provide some context: A few years ago, I was swept up in a whirlwind romance. Like many lesbian relationships, it escalated quickly. After 34 hours of steamy, mind-blowing sex, we were moving in together, a step symbolized by the proverbial U-Haul parked outside my house...

The vibrant colors of the setting sun painted the sky, casting a warm glow over my mother’s small cozy house. Despite the tranquil surroundings, a storm of emotions raged within me. The resentment I harbored towards my mother started as a small spark when my parents divorced when I was five. I blamed her for tearing our family apart...

We used to make love to this song. Unbidden memories of our last time together play in my head. Me lying prostrate; the strap cinched tightly around my waist, and you straddling me, gyrating, as beads of sweat made your skin glisten, our words a commingled mix of profanities and a call for ascension to the heavenly bliss of climax...

Playlist: ⁠https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4TwMuSNjYVpnyW4mxIQ2PT?si=94f16468d7ed4964⁠

He sat there, interrogating me, asserting his authority, periodically flirting while questioning my motives. The entire exchange reeked of chauvinism and the establishment of hierarchy. But after I sufficiently placated his curiosity and allowed him his moment of superiority, he finally relented. He stamped the letter and handed it to me. I took it with a quiet sense of victory. One more step in my journey toward self-naming, toward becoming who I truly was.

Roysub is a sanctuary for women who love women—a place where the night is theirs to claim. The streets, bathed in the neon glow of bars, massage spas, and liquor stores, pulse with life. Each establishment, with its inviting sign, tells a tale of liberation, of spaces where inhibitions are shed at the threshold, and the night unfurls with boundless possibilities.

If you are reading this, I’ve finally left this world! Likely the only thing I have been successful at in life.

So, you’ll probably have to sit through a boring two-hour service where people will give their bullshit versions of me (more for their own purpose than anyone else’s, evidently not mine, I’m gone). Prepare to listen as speaker after speaker says nice things. Things they would never say to my face. They might sanitise me, but I don’t want any of that...

Me and her were inseparable, like two peas in a pod, a duo as close as Bonnie and Clyde, minus the notoriety. We were not just friends, but the best of friends, bound by a connection that touched every aspect of life. Our friendship embraced the playful innocence of toddlers, the banter of sworn frenemies, the care you'd find in a well-run nursing home (definitely not the Kenyan ones), and a protective bond that puts Ruto’s cling to power to shame. The love we shared was like that of sisters, making our friendship an envy to many...

I sat at the back pew of the church, anxiety rising, my heart racing, putting Kipchoge’s feat to shame. I sat there, anxiously rubbing my hands together as memories and contemplation flowed through my mind. Holding onto the last strand of hope, to save us. People streamed in, laughing, animatedly discussing whatever it was, and oozing happiness. Why the fuck were they oozing happiness? Didn’t they realize the sadness and the loss in the room, the one my heart lacked the decorum to hold?