I’m considering changing careers; I work in a volatile environment. Writing for a living, is convenient, but it can break you. I should go back to writing for fun. It’s been 11 years since something I wrote first appeared in a newspaper. I guess I’ve proved to myself that writing about- Locksmiths in New Zealand- only takes a few minutes, but write five similar articles and your head gets fried. And asking for my money all the time sucks the joy out of writing. I recently wrote down in my work book: Accomplishments that only mean something to me and me alone. I went up to 11, and didn’t even finish the sentence. I realized kumbe all my dreams have come true. Everything I set out to do when I was 12 and feeling quite grown up. I remember that is when I decided to cut off any relationship that was not adding value to my life, and to my great surprise I scored 62% in Maths. You know my history with numbers, and the number of plum trees that lost fine branches to provide canes for my Math teacher to try and help me understand train stuff. Like, why a train leaving Mombasa at 6.00p.m traveling at 60 mph and another leaving Nairobi at the same time might meet at some point and at where they will meet, while my big concern would be; what if there was a collision? And did they inform the train driver that another train was heading his direction. Lives could be lost you know. So anyway, I also realized the accomplishments were not anything to boast about, but something to boost me. I’m often ambushed by feelings of low esteem, and before I can get up, I have at times considered looking up a counselor. But writing helps, it helps me remember my worth, and what I really want out of this life. I am at an advantage, having faith in God does really keep me up. In my search for self worth, self knowledge and an understanding of how I work, me and not somebody’s daughter, granddaughter, niece, or cousin, I get stronger. I realized early that I was different, as different as a hippie. From my need to look after vulnerable living things; I once hid a puppy under my grandmother’s bed, but it started barking when granny started to snore. She woke up and announced that me and the pup would sleep outside. She didn’t lock the door when I carried the puppy out, so I crept back and slept in the middle of the bed, and remained still until she started to snore again.