She Was 14: Chapter Two: Loved & Hated In Equal Measure.
She Was 14 Chapter 2: Loved and Hated in Equal Measure
She Was 14
Chapter 2: Loved and Hated in Equal Measure
“You are a writer? I saw it in your CV,” she asked.
This was the third day of our studies, somewhere between Genesis and geopolitics, while we were discussing How the Bible Shaped Western Civilization by Dr. Vishal Mangalwadi. According to the good doctor, the Bible did not merely save souls; it paved roads, built universities, and politely nudged Europe into development. In short, the Bible made the West great long before hashtags existed.
“Yes, I am a writer,” I replied with a calm smile, the kind you wear when you are about to be laughed at.
She laughed.
“What have you written? Any bestsellers?”
“I am also a certified academic researcher,” I added quickly, cutting through her laughter like a footnote in a heated debate.
“Clearly,” she said, eyes narrowing playfully. “You almost got a first-class honours. Sixty-nine point eight five nine nine nine, (69.8599) was it? I agree, you do have research skills.”
“How does it feel to miss a first class honours by zero point zero two marks (0.02)?” she asked gently, the way surgeons ask before anesthesia.
“I made peace with it,” I replied, reaching for Walter Rodney’s How Europe Underdeveloped Africa from their home library. Nothing comforts a wounded academic like structural critique.
“I read your article, A First Class That Never Was, on Substack,” she said. “You really deserved it. Have you ever thought of appealing to the university? Maybe they could be kind.”
“I made peace with it,” I repeated. Peace, once made, should not be renegotiated.
“I also saw you have five hundred and sixteen subscribers (516) on Substack. Are they all from Kenya?” she asked, skillfully changing lanes.
“Substack is global,” I said. “Most of my readers are from the U.S., Europe, Asia, and Iran. Kenyans don’t like long articles. We prefer headlines that shout and disappear.”
“Which article is your favourite?”
“I love them all equally,” I said, sounding like a politician. “But A Citizen of the World stands out. It mirrors my life, my visions, my dreams, my destiny.”
“You should read it,” I added.
“I already did,” she replied. “It was amazing.”
She paused, then resumed scanning my CV as though it were a sacred text. “You have written several research papers.”
“Yes. I wrote a five-page article on the political and social situation in our country in June. I emailed it to two leading local dailies. They never responded. I don’t know whether they ignored it or rejected it in silence.”
“Was it the one about Gen Z radicalism that you shared on Medium?”
“Yes.”
“That piece was a masterpiece,” she said. “God bless the article and the author. I’ve seen articles with less sense published daily. It hurts. It should worry intellectuals that work like yours never makes it to local dailies.”
“It’s funny,” she added, “how a newspaper will headline how friends of the president raised eighty-two million shillings to buy goats for Christmas, yet ignore an enlightening piece like yours. Communication is clearly failing this country.”
“I once wrote a three-page paper on the achievements of a former U.S. ambassador to Kenya,” I said. “I shared it with her on Twitter. She replied, ‘Thank you.’”
“You mean she didn’t even buy you coffee?” she asked, offended on my behalf.
“I was fine with the thank you,” I said, practicing minimalist gratitude. “I also want to publish a book titled I Know This Feeling. The manuscript is ready, but publishing costs are expensive. I can’t afford it right now.”
“Have you ever thought of writing children’s books?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And civic education?”
“I will consider that.”
“You would make a good blogger,” she concluded, unplugging her iPhone from the socket as if sealing my fate.
“What inspires your writing?” she asked.
“Real life and the Bible,” I replied.
“Let’s go for a walk,” she said.
During the walk, she asked, “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“You are still young,” I replied casually, attempting a tactical retreat.
“It’s a yes or no question, Ignatius,” she said, cornering me with logic.
“Yes, I do.”
“Who loves the other more?”
“I think we love each other equally.”
“No, you don’t,” she interrupted. “In every relationship, one person loves more. There is no equal measure.”
“Among your siblings, who do you love most?” I asked.
“My brother,” she said. “My sister lives overseas, so the attachment is lighter. She lives in my heart, but my brother lives in both my heart and my mind.”
“And your parents?”
“They are always busy. They live in my heart alone. Mum works from home and the courtroom. Last night she was reviewing submissions for a defilement case. Judgment is next week. Dad juggles political and economic meetings, both at home and in the office.”
She lowered her voice. “Just between me and you, my parents care more about my academics than me as a person. There is a family legacy here. That is the compass.”
She stopped walking.
“If I ever marry,” she said, “I would choose a middle-income family. It’s lonely at the top.”
She smiled. “Goodbye. My brother is here. See you tomorrow. Take care.”
She was fourteen, loved and hated in equal measure, already wiser than most adults, and walking ahead of time as though she owned tomorrow.
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She’s fourteen and already doing adult-level noticing. That’s both wow and oof.
I like how the jokes sneak in like little cushions and then... bam..! truth sits down anyway.
“Walking ahead of time” feels like she skipped a grade in being human.
Quietly brave. Loudly smart.