A blank page

Sometimes I look at the drafts I write and feel sorry for them. They’re abysmal. They do not deserve to be set loose into the world, to be etched into the annals of literary history as art. That would be an insult to the great writers out there. Worse, it would be an act of self-sabotage to publish half-baked pieces.

I stare at them, sigh, and begin to question why I even started a newsletter in the first place if I clearly didn’t have what it takes. But then I remind myself—every great person once started out as a clueless newbie. A wandering wannabe with nothing but delusion and a Notion workspace who just put in the work.

The word just makes it sound so easy. Like someone telling you Ronaldo just picked up a ball one day, just started dribbling and it just worked out.

Sometimes I write drafts on any piece of paper I can find (Helps in not forgetting important details). And this is part of the reason I hate people touching my stuff when I’m not around—they might stumble upon those dirty, unedited fragments that betray the rawest parts of my soul. And then they’ll start to see me differently. They’ll think I’m a grumpy, chaotic, soulless young man with no idea what he’s doing with his life.

Oh wait—I do know what I want in life. For now.

I sometimes walk through town and let my thoughts wander:

These people don’t even know I have a newsletter. They’re missing out, owada.

Imagine if every single person in Nairobi was subscribed. Even the ones who only come for the vibes and Instagram reels. Imagine all of them were paying subscribers. Each one dropping just 10 shillings per month.

Let’s take a wild guess—ChatGPT says Nairobi has roughly 5.77 million people as of 2025. That’s... too many. Let’s start humbly. With 5,000 loyal, paying subscribers.

Each paying 10 bob per month equals 50,000 pesa taslimu. That’s enough for a humble comrade like me to survive, maybe even thrive. And all I’d have to do is ‘just’ churn out a newsletter issue every Sunday full of chaotic musings and literary nonsense to 5,000 souls. Simple, right?

That is what I want in life, at least right now. A healthy subscriber base enjoying the best of my content every week, and paying as little as 10bob for my efforts. That would fill a void in my soul that I’ve been nursing since long ago.

But then my writer’s block reminds me that having an article to issue out every Sunday is as easy as Ronaldo picking a ball and becoming the GOAT.

Then I sigh dramatically and continue walking through town, knowing full well that these people have no idea they’re in the presence of greatness. A big deal strolling among mortals.

Eventually, I reach a Safaricom customer service desk to register a new sim card—you know, the kind of number you only give to people you actually like. Then reality slaps me in the face and reminds me of how public service in this country tends to go. I haven’t traveled the world (yet), but I sincerely hope it’s not like this everywhere.

Rude, jaded workers who behave like we put a gun to their heads and forced them into this career. And this isn’t even stereotyping—I’ve been to enough public offices to know it’s not an industry-wide curse. There are some service people who are so graceful, so competent, you want to tip them like you’re in a fancy diner. You want to stop them in their kindness, salute, and say the American “Thank you for your service.”

But then there are the other ones. Like the ones I typically interact with. I might be cursed.

I walked into this Safaricom shop in a jolly mood. With the smile Spongebob goes to work with everyday. Life was good. A routine bird had chirped outside my window that morning—singing, and likely serenading his girlfriend. I’d seen them flirt. Seen their shameless PDA out my window while I turn in bed alone looking for the longest side of the blanket. Even birds have soulmates and I’m here writing a blog. Every sunny morning, they perch on my window sill and sing songs only God understands, gently reminding me that there’s beauty outside my room.

That beauty is quickly shattered the moment I meet people like the lady at the desk. Late 20s, maybe early 30s. Her body was... flourishing. Blossoming, in Oloisudori’s words. And before you start rolling your eyes, I’m a writer. Descriptions are my job, and they depend on what I see in front of me. Also, she was clearly wearing a push-up bra and enough makeup to alarm a fire marshal. I don’t know if it’s the SDA in me, but not everyone should lean into cosmetics. Just like not all men should pretend to be stoic, emotionless walls.

I greeted her in kindness but the wall behind her echoed it back. I muttered an “okay” under my breath and got straight to the point. Without even glancing at me, she motioned for my ID. I handed it over and she started typing furiously on her ThinkPad like the keyboard owed her money. Like she had something against the laptop, or against the world around her.

Now look, I get it. People have bad days. I’ve had them too. Days when the birds don’t show up out my window. Days when loneliness grips you like Nairobi traffic. Days when you feel like a sailor lost at sea. Days when school is a mess, family is a storm, and newsletter deadlines are stalking you like hyenas in the dark.

Some days, her job must be hell. Too many customers. Too many stolen sim cards needing recovery. Too many people with poor oral hygiene and impossible demands shouting in her face. Some days, some cheerful chap walks in wearing a Real Madrid jersey asking to register a line. What’s he so happy about? There’s nothing to smile about in this economy. I can’t wait to clock out and go home.

But that’s the job. That’s what one signs up for. And I think about the thousands of jobless youth out here who’d kill for that desk. A job that brings variety. Real, unpredictable, messy human interaction. Not corporate robot life.

But maybe that’s easy for me to say. I’m on the other side of the desk, grinning in my Madrid shirt, blessed and hydrated.

Maybe she just needs to subscribe to my newsletter. Might lighten her mood. I wonder, staring at her mascara laced eyelashes.

But then she slides my sim card across the desk like it’s a divorce paper, and I leave disheartened. I don’t want rude people like that reading my stuff anyway.

Somebody warned me to never involve AI in any part of my writing, but this image impressed me😁

Consistency is hard. This was one of those drafts I looked at and sighed. I poked it and felt no pulse. I turned to the other drafts, and they all pointed to this one like snitches in a line-up. They’ll get their stitches next week. But for now, the gods of consistency demand a weekly sacrifice—and this blank page drew the short straw.

✍🏽Reagan.