maũndũ makwa #24

(my things): an invitation to remember & find warmth in 2026

May 15, 2026

wa Ngamĩro, meaning of or from Ngamĩro. Ngamĩro, a gourd used to hold milk and my maternal great-grandmother's name. an ode to vessels and also my grandmother who was of — from Ngamĩro. this is a space for exploration, curation, na meciria makwa (and my thoughts). wa Ngamĩro is a free monthly-ish newsletter.

An Invitation 🪴

Welcome, across time and space. I’m thankful for you.

An Invitation🪴

Karĩmi

February 18, 2023

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There are opportunities beyond what you are familiar with, beyond boundaries and seats with indents of your body. There are other seats, doors, and rooms. There are places beyond rooms, expanding beyond what your eye can see, expansive. There are opportunities.

This is one. A way to create and connect beyond the limitations of algorithms and capped caption counts. I will still be in those places but moving differently. I have agonized about this newsletter for longer than I can say. Spinning between worry and excitement. I’ll let you guess which one won.

Here we are, together. You and me, communing. In this rebellion of sorts. You found this place at this moment and I wrote these words hours, days, months, or years before you read them. Time travel and interwebs.

I invite you to journey here with me here. There will be curations, musings, and more. You could stay here if you so decide. Still, remember the opportunities and seats that exist. Remember there can be joy and rebellion.

kĩndũ kĩnini #4

(small thing): on warmth and celebration

kĩndũ kĩnini #4

Karĩmi

September 13, 2024

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I want to learn the writing rules so I can thoroughly break them. To one day write a sonnet about the falling of empires and the ways I am becoming most me. I want to include celebration in my writing practice, because sometimes words fail me and when I find them it feels like coming home. I used to believe I wasn’t allowed tell my stories or write about what pains and impassions me. I used to feel small-small. Had a long season of self-doubt, still coming out of it. Still, I write. Love writing about writing. Love writing about freedom. Love reading about writers. Love encouraging others to write. Love to write. These days, I don’t wait for inspiration. I sit and stare and type and erase and type again until something is birthed. Sometimes I feel proud of my way with words. Sometimes I’m afraid that the pride will lead to disconnection and ego. The beginning of my unbecoming. Sometimes I’m afraid that I am taking up too much space, still I write. I have never written this much before. Maybe this too is a season. I’ll bask in the warmth of this moment for as long as it lasts. I am still learning to believe in myself. I want to be confident. I want to not wince when I press publish, to not spiral once my words are out in the universe. I want to be a writer. I want to leave my mark on this earth, for folks in the future to remember and repeat the crucial things, to know that despite it all some folks still spoke out and up. When I was younger, had journals. Felt like I mattered in those pages, like what I had to say had importance. I started journaling again this year. Words just for me. There is something magical about writing to yourself, writing with yourself. I made a playlist to encourage myself to keep writing, in case the warmth fades away. I want to be more bold and honest and principled in my writing. The picture for the playlist is Octavia E. Butler. Saw her personal notes once. She dared to have big dreams and created worlds for herself. I want worlds too. I want to write like I matter. I want to write myself into being. I started this newsletter last year in February. Since then I have written over twenty pieces. I want so deeply to write twenty more. To sharpen my pen and grow and learn as I journey on this path. Took a poetry class recently. It was intimate, Black, and transformative. I miss it. I yearn for a writing community. I want to read my work out loud. To memorize all the words. To read from my phone. To read from my zines. I want to write until I’m all written out, for the keyboard to tire of me, for my ink to run dry. I will learn all the writing rules, so I can thoroughly break them. I will make this a ritual. I will write and publish as often as I want. I will forgive myself for ever thinking I wasn’t enough. I will break curses and mend my own heart. I will write and write and write and write. I give myself eternal permission to write. I give myself permission to exist, to resist. I give my myself care and gentleness. I give myself compassion and grace. I give myself time. I know that there will be hard days, moments when the words fail me. I will fight and crawl my way home and even if I have to build a fire with my bare hands, there will be warmth and celebration.

kĩndũ kĩnini #19

(small thing): new years 2026 in kenya, palestinian jesus, and black church

kĩndũ kĩnini #19

Karĩmi

Jan 2

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And the missionaries told my people Jesus was white and that we were sinners.

They came Presbyterians, Catholics, Anglicans, and more. They came with administrators and men with guns. They came wanting our souls and land. My grandmother was called a prayer warrior and she woke up at early hours each day to pray for all she knew and the world.

I used to pray in public places as a child, out loud and with intention, and I was good at it. Poetry in another form. I stopped going to church in my teens and moved away in my 20s. In my 30s I am back to places I thought I could not heal, be loved, or grow in.

On new years in Nairobi, I am dancing with my aunt at her church in Nairobi, to praise songs in Kiswahili and Gĩĩgĩkũyũ. I don’t know all the words, but in my 30s I feel free enough to jump with my might and sing along with strangers to songs of my Sunday school days. The Jesus I know is Palestinian. The God I know is the one of my grandmother. She has been gone since 2008 and I am still dealing, I am still aching heart.

Black churches remind me of her. We praise in an African way, still. They could not take out our spirit even when they told us to cover our heads with kitambas and to leave our traditions behind. I went to Mathaga on new years eve, before church, and got a Kĩembu bible. My grandmother, a Mũembu, used a Gĩĩgĩkũyũ bible. Close but not the words of her heart.

I will learn all the language(s) and learn the bible. As Palestinian Christians teach me about the religion and it’s origins, about justice and love. Cũcũ, my grandmother taught me so much too. She spoke to me in Kĩembu and I would respond in Kiswahili. I understand and care because of her influence. I love and feel hard like her.

There are no white men I pray to or ask forgiveness from. Jerusalem is in Palestine and I am in Kenya praying freedom. I pray in parking lots and go up when folks are asked to be prayed for. I am the making of the prayers of the matriarchs in my life. I want to heal enough to pray again out loud. I want to pray over the children, the detained, the bombed, the occupied, and for me.

I want 2026 to be different. I have no new years resolutions. The word is still “steadfast”. Still an aspiration. Still caring and devoting to liberation. I am my grandmother’s grandchild. She, wa Ngamĩro, me wa Muthanje. My Kiswahili and Gĩĩgĩkũyũ teacher says I can learn and that there is no shame to be had for starting where I am.

I and a friend joked about going home early in the year, her Palestine and me Kenya. We are both here now, one hour apart planning and forcing photo shoots with our cousins and living the joys and griefs of home. I wear my Palestinian map necklace now with a cowrie shell one.

I don’t know if I am ready for a new year but it is here. I have never felt ready for beginnings, mostly nervous and anxious as a creature of rituals and habits. I have not prayed in a parking lot since arriving in Kenya but I can still pray. I will whisper them into my phone and listen to them loud. I will shower myself and the world with hope, grief, and love.

The world is worth believing in and so am I. I have felt uncertain and embarrassed many days of my life. This vulnerability is not something I am used to. Sometimes after I press publish I feel faint, but I think trying and sharing and reaching matters. I want more of the world. Many are praying and working towards it. When I get back to orange county, I will pace on pavement once more and while here in Kenya I will pray and poet when possible, towards life and love and liberation.