So apparently, Duolingo now has an energy bar instead of hearts. And honestly, I don’t know how to feel about that yet. Maybe it’s growth. Maybe it’s chaos disguised as innovation. Either way, my green owl and I are still in this situationship, 800+ days strong, baby. French and Spanish, both. (If I ever start throwing ‘bonjour’ and ‘¿qué tal?’ in one sentence, mind your business.)

Now, if you’re a Duolingo learner, you know the real thrill isn’t just ‘learning languages.’ No. It’s surviving that last heart. The anxiety of submitting your answer when you only have one left; heart pounding, palms sweating, questioning every conjugation. It’s not a game; it’s a battle for dignity.

The stories section? Always so sweet. ‘Fallstaff’s Guide to Humans’ is my fav; pure genius. And ‘Lucy Is Listening’? 10/10 chaos. But let’s not lie, the actual lessons are sometimes straight from the ninth circle of hell. I’ll be doing so well, then suddenly, I spell ‘beaucoup‘ wrong and get punished like I just insulted the French Ministry of Education, or my phone’s autocorrect changes my ‘comemos‘ to ‘comments’, and I’m like, ‘What the heeeelll!?’

And don’t get me started on leagues. The rush of being top three? The trauma of seeing ‘You’re about to be demoted’? Why does it feel like high school exams all over again? Duolingo will have you doing lessons at midnight just to stay ahead of a random user called ‘LindaFromCanada’.

Still, there’s something nice about it; that daily little hit of discipline, joy, and mild panic. I love the friend streaks too. There’s something so comforting about knowing your people are also out there whispering ‘La mujer come pan’ into their microphones at 11 PM.

And yeah, I’ve seen the Preply ads (another language tutor) on YouTube, all smug and mocking our poor owl like they’re not jealous of his chokehold on us. But please. Duolingo forever. He may be unhinged, but he’s our unhinged.

I love Duolingo.

Give it a try too. Learn some French, or Dutch or German or Hawaiian, if you like, yeah? Yeah! Thanks for being here. Stay well.

Yours,

Njoks.

It’s been a heavy few weeks. My friend died on 26th September, and we buried her five days ago. I’ve been grieving in a way that’s both loud and quiet; heavy denial, anger, guilt, sadness that sits in my chest like a rock, headaches that refuse to go away, sleeping too much or not at all. I keep rereading our chats like she might reply this time.

My Google tabs have also been wild: Is death the body shutting down? Do people know when they’re about to die? Is it painful? I don’t even know what I’m looking for; maybe logic, maybe peace, maybe a way to understand something that simply doesn’t make sense.

But between all that crying, Googling, and staring at walls, grief has been teaching me a few things:

1. Life is the blessing.
Not success, not productivity, not the next big thing. Just life. It’s the reason you get to dream, laugh, worry, and complain about slow Wi-Fi. Life is the foundation of everything else, and it’s so easy to forget that until it’s taken away.

2. Love the ones you love, loudly.
Tell your people you love them. Hug them long. Forgive when you can. Good relationships make this hard, confusing life softer. I think about my friend and how often we laughed, and that’s what I’ll hold on to.

3. Do the thing.
That thing you’ve been postponing; the class, the trip, the message, the risk… do it. Don’t wait for perfect conditions or a sign from heaven. You’re going to die anyway, and so are the people whose opinions you’re worried about.

4. Ask for help.
Even Jesus had Simon help him carry the cross, and yet we’re here pretending to be strong and self-sufficient. It’s okay to say “I’m not okay.”

5. Life is fickle.
And that’s not pessimism; it’s truth. One moment everything is fine, and the next, you’re Googling what death feels like. But maybe that’s the point; to live while you’re alive.

6. If you believe in God, talk to Him.
Even when you don’t feel like it. Even when you’re mad. Especially then. Faith doesn’t always make sense, but it keeps us standing.

7. Make life feel good.
Wear the nice dress. Sleep on yummm sheets. Buy the shoes. Eat the food. Light the candle. Decorate your life, not for anyone, but because you’re here, and that alone is reason enough.

Grief changes things; the way you see people, the way you breathe, the way you exist. But it also clears the fog. It kinda makes you see what matters.

And right now, what matters to me is this: to live. I want to live well. I want a gooooood, loooongg life! Oh, Heaven knows I do.

Yours, grateful for life,

Njoks.

I just finished watching ‘Wolf King’ on Netflix, and honestly, I’m obsessed. You know how sometimes you start a show expecting light entertainment, and by episode three, you’re emotionally invested like it’s your real family on screen? That’s me right now.

The story follows Drew Ferran, a teenager who discovers he’s not just anyone; he’s the rightful heir to a kingdom divided by humans and shape-shifters. He’s awkward, stubborn, brave in the messy, teenage way; the kind of protagonist you want to roll your eyes at and hug at the same time. But what really got me wasn’t just the plot or the world-building; it was the heart of the story.

And Whitley.
Oh, Whitley.

If I could bottle up that girl’s courage and sprinkle it over the world, I would. She’s clever, strong, and refuses to fit into the ‘sit still and smile’ box the world tries to force her into. While everyone expects her to be delicate and agreeable, mostly her dad Duke Bergan, she’s out here strategizing, training, and fighting alongside Drew. She’s proof that women can swing swords and have soft hearts; that strength and tenderness aren’t opposites, they’re siblings.

One of my favourite things about ‘Wolf King’ is how it subtly explores identity and leadership. Drew isn’t born ready. He grows into who he’s meant to be, fumbling through self-doubt, loyalty tests, and moral decisions. And isn’t that all of us? None of us just are what we’re supposed to be; we become.

By the final episode, I realized that what I loved most about ‘Wolf King’ wasn’t the fantasy; it was how real it felt.
The loyalty of friends who fight beside you.
The power of a woman who chooses her own path.
The beauty of someone finding their purpose, even when they were scared to look for it.

So yeah, maybe it’s ‘just a show.’ But also, maybe it’s a reminder that bravery is learned, love can be fierce, and sometimes, the wolf you’re afraid of becoming is exactly who you were meant to be.

I RECOMMEND THE SHOW HIGHLY. GO YE, WATCH, AND ENJOY.

Yours, wishing I could meet up with Whitley for tea at 4 pm tomorrow,

Njoks.

I haven’t eaten eggs since 1st September.

That’s a whole month of no omelettes, no boiled eggs with salt and pepper, no sneaky bites of chapati mayai. It wasn’t even supposed to be this dramatic; I just decided to (try to) quit things that aren’t good for my body. And guess what? My arms are smoother, the tiny allergic bumps have disappeared, and my skin finally looks like it’s breathing again. The only thing left now is hyperpigmentation from the chaos that once was.

But today? Whew. I woke up craving eggs so bad. Like, I could smell scrambled eggs from my imagination. Same thing happened on Saturday. And yet, I found myself asking, ;At what cost?; Because yes, I could eat them, enjoy the momentary joy, but I know exactly what would follow. The itching, the breakouts, the discomfort.

So I made other food instead. Less exciting, maybe. But peaceful.

And that’s the thing about life, isn’t it? Sometimes the things that bring us discomfort don’t arrive disguised as enemies. They come as little indulgences; the convenient, familiar, easy things. The ‘harmless’ eggs. The person you keep texting even though your nervous system begs you not to. The job that pays well but quietly kills your creativity and makes you question your worth. The friend who ‘means well’ but leaves you doubting yourself after every conversation.

We keep going back because we crave comfort. But comfort isn’t always peace. Sometimes, it’s just the familiar pain we’ve learned to tolerate.

So this week, I’m asking myself, and maybe you should too, what’s my version of eggs?
What small thing do I keep choosing even though it keeps choosing chaos for me?

It’s not always about big, life-altering decisions. Sometimes peace is as simple as saying, ‘No, I’ll pass on that.‘

Even if it’s just breakfast.

I hope you have a great day, and if you’re not allergic to eggs, please enjoy them on my behalf. Heck, I feel like eating four, alongside cetirizine tablets. Irresponsible? I don’t know.

Yours, with cravings,

Njoks.

I enjoy scratching litu dandruff from my scalp onto a white sheet of paper when I’m working. It’s oddly satisfying, like a mini ASMR session I perform for one. The irony? I barely have dandruff. I just enjoy the act. It’s soothing. Some people suck their thumbs. Others pull their hair. I… exfoliate my scalp gently and dramatically.

Life’s been a bit heavier lately. I’m navigating grief after a friend’s sudden death, and honestly, it sucks. There’s no poetic way to say it. One moment you’re texting the living loved ones, video-calling nephews, and the next, you’re scrolling through old photos, re-listening to voice notes, trying to make sense of the new reality, that your friend, is actually not alive anymore.

Yesterday, I cooked lentils, veggies, and ugali. It wasn’t the plan. I’d prepped everything thinking I had rice, only to realize the container was empty; classic me. I had two options: go to the shop or borrow rice from a neighbour. But because the spirit of ‘I’m not leaving this house’ was strong, I settled for maize flour. Honestly? It slapped. Balanced meal. 10/10. Would ‘accidentally’ do it again.

I hope you’re well; eating what you have, grieving gently if you need to, and finding tiny joys in the strangest of places. Like scratching your scalp.

I’m gonna buy rice later today. And coffee too. I feel like I needs lots of it, to mix with chocolate, for the sweetness and stimulation.

Be well, be graceful with yourself and others, always.

Yours, with an empty rice container,

Njoks.

It’s a beautiiiiful morning; the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and I’m feeling Zen. Zensational! I hope you are too, and by the way, if you’re still using Harpic, I don’t know what to tell you. The blue Hurricane is where it’s at, I swear. It cleans the toilet bowl, leaving it as white as snow… or as white as my teeth, you know? Haha.

Now, about this whole ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ business… I don’t fully buy it. Sometimes, a cover does say a lot. That’s why books have covers. Otherwise, publishers would be out here dropping coverless paperbacks on us like surprise packets of unga. They’d just sell us stacks of paper like we’re buying chapati wraps at the kiosk, right?

Covers are branding. They’re a snapshot. They’re meant to give you an idea of what’s inside. Of course, you can’t know everything from the outside, but often, what you see is what it is. A romance novel with a half-naked man on the cover? Chances are, the story inside isn’t about corporate finance. A cookbook with a giant chocolate cake on the cover? Trust me, it’s not teaching you how to grill tilapia.

Same with life. Sometimes the packaging tells you a truth. Sometimes people really do show you who they are in the way they show up, the things they say, how they treat waitstaff, or even the state of their shoes. (Yes, I judge a man by his shoes. Sue me.)

Like in jobs, if a company’s interview process is chaotic, the emails are riddled with errors, and everyone seems rushed, that’s not just ‘a bad day.’ That’s the culture. Same with dating, if someone cancels three times in a row before you’ve even met, you don’t need a prophet to tell you reliability isn’t their strong suit. Sometimes the cover is already the story.

So, proceed to judge a book by its cover, with wisdom, of course. This is where discernment kicks in; pay attention to first impressions, small details, and leave room for curiosity/exploration if it feels right.

But also, switch to Hurricane. Because if your toilet bowl is the cover, best believe I’m judging the story inside.

I almost said, ‘Have a great weekend’ cos today feels a lot like a Friday, for some reason.

Anyhoooo, happy Thursdaaaay. Stay well.

Yours, with a clean toilet bowl,

Njoks.

You ever notice how quick we are to pick ourselves apart?
‘My lips are too thin.’
‘My thighs touch.’
‘I hate my fingers because they look weird. My thumb is crooked…’

But here’s the thing, you have lips. You have lips to complain about. And they’re not cracked, or sore, or bleeding. Well, they may be cracked, or a little chapped (apply some jelly, honey), but you have them, right? At least you have thighs, strong enough to carry you through life. At least you have fingers to complain about. You can hold a pen, type out rants on WhatsApp, scroll Instagram reels and YouTube shorts at midnight (don’t lie, we all do it ).

That, my friends, is body privilege.

We complain so much about how our bodies look that we forget the privilege of what they do. Your heart keeps pumping when you’re not even thinking about it. Your lungs just… breathe. Your feet carry you from Naivas to church to your neighbor’s house to gossip over hibiscus tea. Your stomach digests carrot cake with nuts (yes, I’m guilty). And still, we look in the mirror and go, ‘Ugh!’

The truth? Your body doesn’t owe the world ‘perfection.’ It already shows up for you every single day. That’s a privilege many people wish they had.

So today, instead of nitpicking, try gratitude. Thank your lips for smiling. Thank your fingers for working. Thank your thighs for walking you into rooms where God’s favor already waits.

And please, love the body you’re in. It’s the only one you’ve got, and trust me, it deserves kinder words than the ones you’ve been throwing at it. I hope you believe me. Be well, and see you soon.

Yours, sweetly,

Njoks.

We know Esther, Ruth, Deborah. Women who make it to the ‘Hall of Fame.’ And then there are the others; Vashti, who got condemned for refusing to show herself off like a trophy to her husband’s guests. Rahab, forever remembered as ‘a harlot’ first before ‘a heroine’. Jezebel, oh Jezebel; she gets all the hate. She was a wild one, though, haha.

Most times in scripture, women only appear in the spotlight if it’s tied to a man’s victory. That was the context of the time; women belonged to men, as it were. Other stories cast women as needy (needing food, needing a child, and so on) and/or weak, making them just the recipients of help (help is not bad at all): the babe at Shunem, the widow at Zarephath, the woman with the issue of blood. Rarely do we get to see a woman shine for her own boldness. Strength. Audacity.

But today, I learnt about Achsah, Caleb’s daughter. And listen, this woman was something else.

Here’s the story (Joshua 15:16–19): Caleb had promised that whoever conquered Kiriath Sepher would win his daughter Achsah as a wife. Othniel, Caleb’s nephew, stepped up, fought, and won, so Achsah was given to him. (Yeah, I know. Women as prizes. Sigh.) But Achsah wasn’t content to just be passed along as part of the victory package. When she and Othniel received land in the Negev (‘Negev’ is the Hebrew word for dry land/desert), she realized something crucial: land without water is a desert dream. So she went to her father and asked for a blessing. Not just any blessing; she specifically asked for springs. She said she needed water. And Caleb gave her not one but both; the upper and the lower springs.

Do you see it? Do you see her power?

Achsah knew what she needed. She didn’t just sit there grateful for what had been handed to her. She asked. She pushed. She stepped into her agency. And in asking, she didn’t just secure water for herself; she secured it for her children, her grandchildren, and generations yet to come.

I love this story because Achsah’s relationship with her father, Caleb, mirrors ours with God. He delights when we ask. He knows what we need, but there’s power in the boldness of our prayers. And like Caleb, He gives freely, sometimes more than we asked.

So here’s the lesson: women can step up. We can ask, loudly, for what we know we need. Not just for us, but for the people who’ll come after us. Our voices, our prayers, and our boldness ripple.

Today, as I sip my tea and think of this story, I’m grateful that we no longer live in a world where women are “’given away as rewards.’ We’re here with power, agency, and a God who loves us enough to give us springs when we dare to ask. Mimi I just know that if I lived in that era, I’d have been like Vashti, lol. I thank God for this freedom.

So, my babes, let’s step up. Ask. We must believe that our voice matters. Because it does.

May the rest of your weekend be lovely. I’m about to head out for 45-minute walk, yay! Stay well, and I’ll see you very soon.

Yours, sweetly,

Njoks.

There’s something about the right drink at the right time that just makes life feel softer, lighter, more alive. Lately, I’ve found myself reaching for the same three (okay, four, if we count the classic).

First up, sugarcane juice. I get mine from Catherine, a lovely lady who runs the loveliest healthy foods café. She makes it with lime and ginger, and it’s so fresh it tastes like sunshine in a glass.

Then, there’s hibiscus with ginger, a sweet-sour-red magic my neighbour Faith introduced me to. It’s sooo yummm, and is as gorgeous to look at as it is to sip, and every time I drink it, I feel like I’m giving my body a bouquet of expensive flowers.

And of course, kombucha. Always kombucha. My current rotation: mango and berries. Both bubbly, both bossy, both making me feel like I’m treating my gut and my tastebuds at the same time.

Finally, the one drink that beats them all in simplicity and necessity: water. Crisp, quiet, always waiting; proof that the most ordinary things keep us alive, yeah?

If you’re looking to switch things up this week, try one (or all) of these. And then tell me, what drink have you been loving lately? Let me know.

Yours, with a full bladder,

Njoks.

I’ve been thinking about fear this week. It’s everywhere, in our headlines, our conversations, even in the quiet corners of our lives. We dress it up with phrases like ‘feel the fear and do it anyway‘, but my devotion reminded me that for Christians, that line doesn’t quite sit right.

Because fear doesn’t come from God. ‘For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.‘ (2 Timothy 1:7)

Read that again. Fear is not a personality trait, or a quirk to accept. It’s a spirit. A thief. Something that sneaks in and tries to rob us of courage, of joy, of clarity. And if God didn’t give it, we don’t have to carry it.

Instead, what He does give us is love. And ‘perfect love casts out fear‘ (1 John 4:18); that means His love and fear can’t coexist. When we root ourselves in His love, fear has no seat at the table.

But here’s the thing: we still feel it. The shakiness in your chest before you speak up. The way your fingers hover over “submit application” before you close the laptop. The way your heart sinks when you want to ask for better; at work, in love, in life. Fear is loud. It’s convincing. And it always tries to stop us before we even begin.

Yet God says move anyway, not because the fear is valid, but because His word is stronger. Pray against the spirit of fear, and then act. Apply to that school. Demand better at work. Start the thing. Tell the truth. Hit on that girl (with respect, obviously). Say yes. Say no. Just don’t let fear be the one steering your life.

This week, I’m choosing to remember that fear is not the author of my story, God is. And His story for us has always been written in love, not fear.

So, here’s to stepping into the week with trembling hands maybe, but with steady faith. Fearless, because He said so. What good thing have you been afraid of doing? Would you do it if God commanded you (not requested you) to not be afraid? Well, He already has. “Do not be afraid’ is a command. Do the thing, yeah?

Stay well, and may your week be great!

Yours, fearlessly,

Njoks.