I mop the floor at night.
On the third floor, there's a brown door.
It's a Plain and simple door.
But,
By day, it tells a different story. People treat it like gold.
They walk in like they own the place—shoes shining, bags worth more than I make in a month. Their laughter bounces off the walls.
At 11 every night, I'm here. My mop swishes. My bucket rattles.
Outside, the city is noisy, with honking cars and people talking. Inside, it's quiet except for the sound of my footsteps.
When I finish, I sit in the corner with my notebook. I bought it for 100 bob, but it's my most valuable thing. The cover is bent, the pages are smudged, and some stick together from my sweaty hands.
But every night, I write.
I write about Mom. She spends her days selling fish at the Elwanikha market. The sun burns her skin, and the smell clings to her clothes no matter how much she scrubs. By the time she gets home, her back is bent like the baskets she carries, and her hands are rough from scaling fish all day.
Still, she never complains. She just washes up, eats in silence, and gets ready to do it all again the next day.
I write about my street, where Mama Mboga always saves the last sukumawiki for the customer who never pays but promises to next time.
It's not perfect. But it's real.
Five months ago, I hid behind trash cans to write. People told me, "Stay in your lane. Just clean." To them, I wasn't a person—just gloves and a mop.
But the words didn't stop.
Maybe you're sitting somewhere now—your room, a bus, or a job that feels like it's going nowhere. You want to write, but something holds you back.
Fear. It's bitter, isn't it?
One night, everything changed.
The building was dark and quiet. My mop moved back and forth—swish, swish, swish. Then I looked at that brown door.
Really looked at it.
And I laughed.
Because of that door? It's just wood. Just paint. A trick we tell ourselves to stay stuck.
Look at me. Yes, you—the one holding words inside like a secret.
Stop staring at their door.
Write now.
Write on the bus. Write after dinner. Write between jobs. Write messy words. Write the wrong words. Write true words.
Nobody starts perfect. Not one. Every great writer begins where you are—scared, but writing anyway.
Your story matters. Not because it's perfect, but because it's yours.
Me? I'm still here. Still mopping floors. Still writing in my cheap notebook.
But I've learned something:
The only door that matters is the one you open when you pick up your pen.
So. Are you ready?
Write your first word. Open your door.
