I washed my hair this morning and it’s now evening… and guess what? Still wet. My hair. Not damp. Wet. Low porosity girlies, are we okay? Because my scalp is clean, my heart is full, but my strands are holding onto that water like it’s ancestral debt. Anyway, in between patting my head with a towel and regretting not stretching my wash day to Sunday, I found myself thinking about purpose. Again. That big, annoying, existential word.

People talk about purpose like it’s a specific GPS coordinate. Like you’re supposed to wake up one day, stumble upon it (preferably in your 20s), and then do that one thing for the rest of your life; effortlessly, exceptionally, beautifully. You know, like Michael Jordan with basketball, or Tiger Woods swinging like it’s the only language he’s ever known. Or Oprah, just talking and healing generations. (I really love Oprah. My secret now-not-so-secret wish is to meet her sometime next year. May the congregation shout ‘Ameeeeenn!’)

Perhaps some people have that kind of calling – that laser-sharp sense of ‘This is what I came here to do.’ But most of us? We’re fumbling, feeling, figuring it out…and I think that’s okay.

Liz Gilbert (the Eat, Pray, Love one) said something once that really stuck with me. She questioned this idea of purpose being one grand mission. She said maybe it’s not about that. Maybe it’s not about being the one who does the thing. Maybe that whole mindset puts too much pressure on us. The pressure to be known. The pressure to leave a legacy. The pressure to be exceptional. And the truth is, we’re 8 billion or so on this floating rock. Statistically speaking, you’re probably not the only one born to do the thing you do, and what a relief that is.

I could say that writing is my purpose, cos I really enjoy it, and I do it rather effortlessly, and a good number of people love reading my work and may refer to me as ‘The Njoki who writes a lot.’ And maybe, writing truly is my purpose. But I’ve also let my curiosity lead me, to designing lessons on sustainability, doing a bit of media work, painting when I’m overwhelmed, mentoring here and there, dreaming of teaching high school kids about Geography and how to survive being 16. I don’t always know why I’m drawn to certain things. I just let myself go there.

What if purpose is less about the one thing, and more about how we show up for the many things? What if it’s less about impact, and more about integrity?

So maybe the real question isn’t ‘What on earth am I here for?‘

Maybe it’s, ‘Am I living with honesty, softness, and curiosity?‘
Maybe we don’t need to ‘find’ purpose. Maybe we should just follow the thread of what lights us up, even if it leads us in ten different directions.

What have you always felt quietly curious about, even if it doesn’t ‘make sense’ or fit your current path?

What would it look like to explore that thing, not for achievement or recognition, but simply for joy?

You could use these questions as your journal prompts tonight. Answer yourself truthfully, and let’s see where curiosity leads us.

Do you feel like you’re here for just one thing? What is it? How did you find out? Please let us know in the comments section.

Thanks for being here, as always.

Be well.

Yours, with curiosity and wet hair,

Njoks.

I woke up today and told my sister that it’s Day 1 of my menses, and that I needed chocolate, ice cream, pads, and a trip to Cape Town. She sent me money. Not for Cape Town (rude), but the rest was covered. I had sent her a photo of my blood-stained bedsheet and she called me disgusting. Fair, but also, sisterhood. You get the love and the insults, and money; one M-Pesa message and one “Wewe uko na shida” at a time.

Somewhere between spoonfuls of sugar and sulking over mild lower back pain (I usually don’t have cramps but these days, my lower back feels some type of way on Day 1), I was finishing an article on nuclear energy, and I suddenly remembered my primary school teacher of English, beautiful Mrs. Mwaura. That lovely woman taught me that you don’t start sentences with ‘Because’, and that there’s a time and place for single vs double quotation marks. She taught me that writing is a craft. And yet, here I am, starting sentences with ‘Because.’ Because it turns out that rule was a myth, and because language bends. But still, I honour her. Teachers shape how we think, how we express, how we show up ,even when we rebel against the very things they taught us.

I’ve been thinking of walking into a nearby secondary school and volunteering to teach. English. Physics. Geography. Those three are my favourite disciplines. Something in me wants to give. But also, something in me is scared they’ll want full commitment. Timetables. Staffroom tea. Reporting time. Expectations. I just want to walk in, teach about volcanoes, tone, and poetry, and leave before the staff meeting starts. Is that too much to ask?

Here’s the nuclear energy article that has a sentence starting with ‘Because’ somewhere: https://mambo.biz/reactors-red-flags-what-communities-deserve-to-know/. It has just been published so read it noooow. Thanks.

Anyway. What about you? What ‘rules’ are you breaking lately, grammar or life ones? What strange, soft, or urgent thing do you feel like doing… just because? Teaching Geography like Njoks? Starting a podcast called ‘Tea and Rules’? Asking your boss for menstrual leave and a bar of Dairy Milk? Let me know.

Yours, with love and thick pads,

Njoks.

I’ve been carried by people’s kindness more times than I can count. sometimes in grand, unforgettable ways, and often, in small, quiet moments that feel sacred. I try, as best as I can, to pay that kindness forward; not in a performative way, but as a habit- as a way of being, even when I don’t have to.

Today, a fundi came to do some work at my house. After he finished, he paused and asked, “Huku nje hamna choo?” I told him, “Hatuna, lakini unaweza tumia yangu.” He hesitated and said, “Mimi siwezi tumia choo ya watu,” and from the look on his face, I just knew it was a number two situation, lol. Then he said, “Basi unaweza nisaidia tissue nikate alafu nitafute loo huko nje?” Almost instinctively. I gave him the whole roll, like, ‘Enda tu na yote uweke kwa bag.’. His relief and gratitude were sooo pure and palpable that you’d have thought I had given him a million shillings.

As he was leaving, he told me, “Wewe, utakuwa unapata good and fast customer service kila mahali. Watu kama wewe hawakosei.” He meant it, and it touched me deeply, and made me happy. Good and fast service cos of one roll of tissue? Sign me up!

Sometimes, we forget that fundis, waiters, touts, and all these people we interact with in passing remember how we treat them. They feel it, and honestly, there’s no pride in being rude or dismissive just because you think you can be. Sometimes, the kindest thing you can do is offer your loo. Or a roll of tissue. Or just… not be mean.

So, this is your reminder: be kind. To the people fixing your sockets., and to the person holding up traffic just trying to make a living. To the ones who serve you, greet you, help you. Kindness doesn’t cost much, and it might just come back to you wrapped in unexpected blessings.

Today, the blessing came back, as a yummy, fatty avocado with a small seed, and no black spots. It slapped so hard!

Be kind, to everyone, and stay well, reader:-)

Yours,

Njoks.

Hey, you.

It’s been a minute, hasn’t it?
This little corner of the internet got a bit quiet,
gathered some cobwebs,
but I’m here, broom in hand and heart in tow.

Life has been… life-ing.
Mostly good, a little hectic.
Some days I’m blooming,
other days, just a seed under soil.
But I’m still growing, and I hope you are too. Are you?

So, here’s a tiny promise:
expect at least three warm little entries a week.
Stories, musings, maybe a rant or a recipe (of just tea cos in the kitchen, that’s all I am – an Infusioneer. Cooking anything else stresses me tf out.)
Three warm little entries a week, of whatever feels like sunlight that day.

I’m sending you love and light,
especially in this cold season.
Wrap yourself in softness.
The world may shiver, but we don’t have to, yeah?

We’re still here. Brew some Earl Grey tea while you are. Will you? I know I will.

Be well, reader.

Yours, thoughtfully,

Njoks:-)

What would you do? What would you do if you could change anything about the way you look?

Saturday. Sabbath. Today felt like a sigh. I had an interesting and long week – had to use a lot more energy and focus to do things that I’d normally do effortlessly. I was in a bit of a funk and I’m glad that I feel more like myself now. Self-soothing, journaling, and sending melancholic voice notes to loved ones actually help.

Last night, I played Uno with my neighbours, and then had a paint-and-sip session – sipping fresh water, haha, and I ended up sleeping at 1.30 am.

Today, I woke up, had breakfast, attended church virtually, prayed, sang a bit, then watched a few episodes of ‘Ginny and Georgia’ (it’s a great pastime), and took a nice, loooong hot shower. I didn’t even care for water consumption today – so much for a sustainability enthusiast. As I was moisturizing my face, I noticed that I had two coarse chin hairs. I’ve had a lot more before, but I had briefly forgotten that I once had a PCOS beard – hello, hirsutism?

I can’t remember when I started noticing the chin hairs, cos I’ve always had more hair than the average girl – hair on my tummy, side burns, on my legs… The chin hair disturbed me, mostly cos of the questions, like, ‘Haiyaa! You’re growing a beard! Do you usually shave?’ So, I started trimming the hairs with scissors, but they’d still be visible. Then I used a shaver once, got cuts, and stopped. Then, I discovered shaving cream – did a great, smooth job, until my skin started reacting to the chemical, so, I stopped using it and ‘got used’ to my chin hair. Theeeennn, after a while, I waxed, and my skin got terrible bumps. It was nasty work.

‘Salvation’ came when I went to school and booked an expensive consultation session with an aesthetician. She told me about laser treatment, and I was sold!

The service and their products were great, but there was no black practitioner there and after the first session, I felt like I couldn’t trust a non-black person to do laser therapy on my skin. It was simply a conviction, so that was my first and last session there.

After a few days, the chin hairs started falling off, with their follicles, and it was such a fun experience, haha. Depending on the amount and coarseness of hairs, one should do 4 to 8 sessions, about 4 to six weeks apart, in line with the hair growth cycle (anagen, catogen, and telogen phases)- it’s a whole science. After that first session, the hairs took long to grow, and they grew back finer, and I had no cuts or burns or any side effect, so I knew laser was ‘it’ for me.

I came back home shortly after and found another lovely aesthetician called Esther. She’s at Eyaly Skin Clinic in Kilimani and I’ve done 3 sessions there – amazeballs!! Their services are A1, significantly cheaper, and super-effective. I mean, now, I only have 2 chin hairs! All hail technology!

Laser therapy is the thing I’ve done to my body, or at least a part of it. People, women, have different insecurities about their bodies, for different reasons. Some don’t love their big boobs, so they go for breast reduction procedures. Others are insecure because of their small boobs, so they get boob jobs done. Some hate their teeth, so they get braces. Others hate that their derriere is flat, so they go for gluteal augmentation. Some hate that their skin is dark, so they bleach their skin. Others hate that PCOS gives them chin hair, so they go for laser therapy. Some hate excess fat around their tummy or thighs or wherever, so they go for liposuction, and so on.

It’s undeniable that most of these industries thrive off of our insecurities. One would argue that, if it’s not for health reasons, it’s unnecessary. Hirsutism is caused by PCOS. Excess abdomen fat may be caused by unhealthy eating habits and sedentary lifestyle. Big boobs are genetic. Small boobs are genetic. Hirsutism can lower one’s confidence. Weight issues can be heavy on some women – affecting how they see themselves, how they show up in relationships.. Big boobs can cause back ache, and can make activities like running painful.

In the past, say, in high school, I’d be like, ‘God made you. You are perfect as you are. Don’t do anything to change what you look like…’ Now, I’m like, ‘God made you. You are perfect as you are. It’s okay that you don’t like your wide nose, and your crooked teeth. If they’re making you feel shitty and you can do something about it, do it. If a narrow nose and textbook-perfect teeth will make you love yourself more, helping you show up in life more boldly, get the nose job done, and get those damn braces, and solve the inner issues as well, cos otherwise, you’ll be feeling like there’s always something about you to be fixed. From nose job and braces, to eyebrow lifts and forehead lifts, to lip jobs, and all. Temperance is key. Balance human desires (to look a certain way) with reason.’

As I try to eat better and to move more to heal my body from the inside, I am grateful for technology and the privilege to be able to manage PCOS symptoms in the meantime.

If you could change anything about the way you look, what would you do? Do you judge the girls who’ve gotten some procedures done? Do you think they’re vain? You don’t have to answer in the comments section. If you do, know that this is a judgement-free zone.

I hope you like yourself, even if you wish you had bigger eyes, smoother skin, a smaller nose, and wider hips. You were made well.

Have a restful evening, and enjoy the rest of your weekend, reader.

Yours, gracefully, without judging,

Njoks.

Oh! Don’t I love getting the ‘Your stats are booming’ notification on WordPress? Thank you for your readership and for your comments, even on my WhatsApp. I see you, and I’m grateful for this community we’re building.

Death by meetings is a real thing. I’ve just had my last meeting of the week, and I let out a huge sigh. Phew!!! I love what I do, but as you probably know, if I could earn a living by writing and hosting workshops like Liz Gilbert, I’d be the happiest person on earth.

Lately, I’ve been having an obsession for boiled stuff. No, I’m not with child, and I’m not sure when this began, but I just am really enjoying boiled maize, boiled eggs, and boiled beef. Boiled beef! Crazy, right? In one pot, like my ancestors, WHAT DOES FOOD MEAN TO YOU? A STORY!, I put the meat, and add criminal amounts of ginger, garlic, black pepper (I know it’s enough when I start sneezing), cumin, salt, and two big onions – not diced, but sliced in half. That is my new favourite meal. It tastes like old age. and wisdom, and remembering.

Let’s talk about boiled eggs. As a child, I never ate egg yolk. It grossed me out. Neither did I like sweet potatoes. I still don’t. Weirdly, also, I hated scrambled eggs (the ones cooked with tomatoes and onions, to be eaten alongside ugali and spinach). Right now? Eggs? Yolk?? It’s probably my favourite part now. It got me thinking of how I’ve changed over the years.

I’m fundamentally the same person, and I love that I can change my mind, for whatever reason – not changing my mind (and tongue) about sweet potatoes cos they give me goosebumps. My mum would tell me, ‘Ria ukue kana tugutware thibitari…’ (Eat those potatoes and die if you will. We will take you to the hospital if need be!) African parents are savage, haha, and I know sweet potatoes are better than bread and mandazi but still… I’d sneak and ask my dad for twenty shillings to buy mandazi. He always came through, lol.

I, also, was a ‘careless’ child. To be honest, I think it was undiagnosed ADHD. I KEPT LOSING STUFF. Rainy days? I’d forget my umbrellas somewhere in school or in the matatu and my mum kept buying new ones. Jackets? I kept losing them, too. Handkerchiefs? I’d use one every day, and lose it during, or at the end of the day. I wasn’t one of the organized babes who’d put their things in order. Slippers?? Flip-flops?? Nilikuwa nakata flip-flops almost every week, cos I loooveddd playing, and running, and all.

Right now, I buy handkerchiefs almost every time I have a cold. Only one handkerchief has survived the test of time cos it was a gift from my aunty. Gloves? I’ve bought several pairs, but now I have one of each – one black glove, another beige one, and one navy blue one. I don’t know where their partners are. I’ve managed to keep my flip-flops well, though, cos I don’t play outside anymore.

I really am the same girl – in a bigger body, with adult responsibilities. Now I lose jackets and handkerchiefs and umbrellas and have to buy them myself. Do you want to know what happened to my last good umbrella? Left it in a SuperMetro bus. Ghetto. I

What were you like as a child? Very playful? Shy? Carful? Loud? Have you changed much, or at all? Think about it. Have a conversation with your friends about it. Love on yourself, and the little you you carry, a little harder today.

Have a great weekend. I know I will.

Yours, with one handkerchief,

Njoks.

Hey! Hey! Hey!!! Life has been happening so fast that I forgot I about my blog – my rusty not-so-rusty fingers. How are you? I hope you’re keeping well.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my mother – her life, her values, her. I remember her – mostly what she smelled like (she smelled like love and Lady Gay lotion, and then later, like love and Vaseline cocoa butter lotion). I also remember what her hugs felt like. I remember her handwriting because she bought me many books and wrote, on the front pages, ‘BOUGHT ON 22ND DECEMBER, BY MUM, FOR NJOKI.’ I remember that she was incredibly sweet, and generous, and kind, to a fault. I actually think I remember everything, except her voice. I remember it faintly – when I close my eyes, and take my brain 13 years back. Painfully.

I have been thinking a lot about her because of the things happening in my own life, and in the lives of my loved ones, not to compare her to us cos that would be unfair. I remember her passions, and I see how I take after her – she was creative, sewing fancy seat covers, crocheting mats, scarves, and skirts, not for sale, but for her joy. I see and feel her every day as I live my life – when I sit down to paint or read a book, at my big age (I’ll be turning 27 this month), I feel like I’m doing it for both of us. At my age, my mother had a husband, and two children, and a full-time job, and hobbies, and choir practice to attend every Sunday, and she was the head of the chaplaincy department at church, and she was in several chamas – with her friends, with her sisters… She did not have that much help (other than my aunty who lived with us for a while). I can afford to watch a Netflix show because I don’t have to bend for hours to wash clothes, and I do not have a husband to care for and worry about. My rest is a tribute to her, and to all the other women before me. My strength is theirs. My creativity is inspired by them.

My creativity, however, is in other things, mostly writing, and I know how to crotchet too – we’d do it together sometimes, and I chose to forget about it when we couldn’t do it together anymore, the same way I have never bought cocoa butter lotion since. Grief is funny. There are things you want to keep, and there are things you bury, because they would be painful reminders of absence. I’ll make a scarf for my daughter, though.

I am who/what I am mostly because of my mother – her love, her nurture, her advice, her essence… Heck! My fingers look exactly like hers. My toe nails look like my dad’s. Genes are interesting.

Today, something happened that reminded me of advice my mother gave me in 2012 – the only thing she taught me that I do not live by. On my first day of high school, after settling in, right when my dad was about to drive off, and when my first tears were about to drop, my mother held my hands and told me, ‘Njoki, this is your first time in boarding school. Always remember that Jesus is your only friend. Earthly friends can betray you. If you’re going through a hard time, pray about it...’ We said a few things to each other, hugged each other, and then, they left. My whole family left me in what felt like a God-forsaken school. Story for another day.

I do not live by that, because I know that pain and shame thrive in isolation, and that more often than not, discretion is the enemy. Yes, not everyone needs to know everything about everything in your life, but when things feel heavy, it is not enough to just tell Jesus. Jesus, Himself, had a community of disciples – He was constantly surrounded.

This week, I’ve had to lean a lot on others, even after telling Jesus. It doesn’t have to be a big thing – sometimes small things fester, and they consume our being – one negative thought or occurrence, left unattended, can cause mild depression after spiraling, can cause loss of appetite, then insomnia, then clinical depression… It doesn’t matter how innocuous you think what you’re going through is. After you’ve self-soothed and it feels heavy, and you’ve talked to Jesus and still feel some heaviness, reach out to a few of your loved ones – your trusted family and friends. Tell them what’s up. Ask them to pray with and for you, because healing, sometimes, requires community.

I’m sorry, mother.

The other thing my mum taught me that I’m trying to unlearn is that I have to finish everything on my plate. Sometimes, it happens that I serve more food than I can handle. In most African households, leaving even two spoonfuls of food is taboo, for good reason, and I also don’t waste food in my house. I’ll keep it and eat it the next day, but I’ll not force myself to eat when I’m feeling satiated.

I’m sorry, mother.

PS. Enjoy this song, ‘…sometimes in our lives, we all have pain, we all have sorrow… Lean on me, when you’re not strong… For no one can fill those of your needs that you won’t let show… We all need somebody to lean ooonnn…:’ https://youtu.be/2YapAxPfRyI?si=b3J6H9EeGM6HlZu4

I hope to get back to blogging more frequently. Thanks for being here, reader.

Be well,

Yours, in communion with Jesus and earthly friends,

Njoks.

Oprah Winfrey, Michelle Obama, Tracee Ellis Ross, and Graca Machel. One meeting with all of them is all I need for my 27th birthday, which is exactly a month awayyyyy!!
My goodness! 27?? Meeee?
I feel like ’27’ is such a big age, and I also feel like I’ve really come into myself, and I’m also like ‘What on God’s green earth am I supposed to be doing/wanting/being?’

My life is my own, and I’ve been feeling really grateful for that lately – that my life is really my own. I’m not responsible for a child, or a parent, or a sibling (at least not entirely), and I get to do whatever I want, whenever.
It’s freeing. It’s also a mindfuck because I’m asking myself many hard questions.
Do I want a child in two years or never?
Is a PhD. a good idea now?
Should I marry two husbands?
Do I want to go back abroad, briefly, to work in radio and in an established magazine house?
How quickly should I fall in love? What is falling in love even?
Where are my missing gloves?
Should I dye my hair again? The roots are now black.

How do I feel about the church? What matters most to me? How are my values shifting? Do I have enough friends? Am I being good to the ones I have? Present enough? How often should I be going home to visit my parent? How much money should I be sending to my sibling when he ‘needs money urgently’? How frequently? When should I say no? What do I want to do on my birthday? Do a sexy photoshoot and eat cake later? Book a flight and go to that city that’s been on my bucket list for years and come back to eat noodles as my pockets recover? Are Von electronics better than Mika? Are all my organs working fine? A laundry list of questions. This is barely a quarter – I have a busy brain, and this is a very interesting space for me, and I’m sooo grateful to be here, all things considered.

I’ll do a proper reflection post on my birthday.

I hope you’re keeping well. I am, those many questions notwithstanding.

Have a great weekend.

Yours, almost 27,

Njoks.

P.S. I’m currently obsessed with Tracee Ellis Ross. Find her interviews on YouTube please, and thanks.

16th May. Today.

It’s a beautiful Friday morning. The birds are chirping really loudly outside, in different tones, different pitches, and different durations. I love the loud, prolonged birds, cos if I were a bird, those would be my chirps – full of character, almost annoyingly.

Usually, I open my WordPress to blog about something specific, but not today. Today, I felt like dusting cobwebs off my site, and also, I felt like checking up on you. Hi! You’re good? I hope you are. It’s okay if you’re not feeling A1 today – self-soothe, ask your loved ones to soothe you… Do something about it cos you can.

I am well. I have been well. Tony Elumelu classes have been trying to finish me, but i finished them instead, whoop whoop! Before I started writing this blog, I was working on something they need us to submit – financials. I’m talking about balance sheets, profit and loss statements, cash flow statements.. I hate that shit. In uni, I did an ‘Engineering Economics’ unit that I hated and only understood enough to pass the exam. I didn’t know I’d need that information at any point in my life. Look at me now, on YouTube, learning how to balance sheets!! I wish we also could balance all the aspects of our lives instead, you know? Anyhoo, a girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do.

My chrome has several tabs open – Tony Elumelu Program, another where I asked ‘Did Methuselah die in the flood?’ (cos some scholars argue that he died the same year. Others say he died the same year, but before the flood, and others say he refused to enter the Ark. I hope the former is true.), Netflix tab, ChatGPT tab, YouTube tab… My favourite is the Netflix one. They’re suggesting that I watch ‘Deadly American Marriage’, a true crime film, or ‘Sweet Magnolias’, or ‘Blood of Zeus’ or ‘Nonnas’ or ‘The Four Seasons.’ Most of these films, they say, ‘May cause anxiety’, like, ‘Hello! As if I don’t have it already!? Haha! The ‘A’ in ‘Adulting’ sometimes stands for ‘Anxiety’ so Netflix films have nothing on me.’

No, I don’t duffer from anxiety disorder but anxiety is an emotion I identify with, but Jesus is working on my heart and I and I’m learning to relax, which is hard for people with ever-busy minds like mine. I’m going to watch ‘Nonnas’ cos it’s a feel-good film, as I retie a few of my locks, and then I’ll join a meeting at noon, then finish working on the freaking balance sheets and all, then I’ll have lunch, then play with my nephews, then prepare dinner, cook, eat, sleep, and then go to church tomorrow.

I’m glad the weekend is here. I know you are too. May yours be restful.

Let’s talk again soon. Be well, okay?

Okay, bye.

Yours, with luscious sister locks,

Njoks.

(Totally here for the rhyme, haha!)

Getting my nails done, queue is long af, and it makes me think about how, as human beings, we are drawn to beauty.

Painting nails serves no other purpose than to please the one with the painted nails, and the people who touch those hands – lovers, fondly, nephews, curiously.

Nail technicians, like most artists, are not ‘essential’ to society’s survival – they’re not doctors, or engineers, or lawyers, or teachers. They’re not firefighters. They’re not drivers, or plumbers, or accountants.

They simply create beauty, from strokes – different colours, on little nails, long nails, damaged ones, and healthy ones.

Art is not essential.
However, as the famous quote goes, ‘It is art that makes life, makes interest, makes importance…and I know of no substitute whatever for the force and beauty of its process.’

Painting my nails isn’t necessarily part of my self-care. It doesn’t elevate me – I do it about one or two times yearly, when I feel like seeing a different colour on my nails.
It’s great that periodically, I allow an artist to add magic on them, and I put money in their pocket:-)💅❤️

Here’s to all the people in our society who do things, not to solve problems, but to add beauty to the human experience.

Life could be doing you in the wrong places, but you could be done with brown nails, or yellow ones, and/or with a nice piece of art on your wall.

Here’s to all artists! Cheers!

Yours, with painted nails,

Njoks.