“It’s over, Polycarp."

Man, you should’ve seen her. Just sitting there, staring at her milk tea like she’s trying to read her future in the milk swirls.

Her hands? Rolling the sugar packet back and forth like it held answers.

I did that thing people do when they don’t know what else to do—I laughed. Bad move. It came out like a hyena with hiccups. Nearly spilled my coffee too. At fifty bob a cup, you don’t waste a drop.

Remember those samosas I saved for? They’re sitting there, cold. Funny how food loses its taste when your stomach’s full of butterflies.

"Won’t you even look at me?" I ask.

She picks at her sleeve. The blue one with the hole near the elbow. "I can’t."

"Why not?"

When she finally looks up, her eyes are guilty, like a kid caught stealing mangoes from Mama Joy’s tree. "Because... you’ll see right through me."

Those words sounded like the voice in my head every time I try to write. You know the one, right? That voice that says, "Who do you think you are?"

Outside, some kids are making a football out of a plastic bag. Turning nothing into something. Like what we writers try to do.

"Nobody starts as Shakespeare," I tell her, thinking about my own notebook. The one with more crossed-out words than stories.

She shakes her head. Her braids fly like skipping ropes. "Easy for you to say. You’re out here chasing writer dreams while reality is chasing us."

Then Mama Atoti—bless her—brings over some mandazi. Hard as rocks, but free is free, right?

"I have to go." Just like that, she’s up. Her chair falls back with a thud.

You want the weird part? As I watched her walk away, past those campaign posters—promising heaven, delivering potholes—I felt something click.

You won’t believe this, but that wasn’t just any girl walking out of my life.

That was my doubt catching the next matatu. That was every "I can’t write" excuse leaving me behind.

Look, here’s the thing about writing—and don’t roll your eyes at me—everyone has a story. That kid making a football out of slippers? He’s got one. That boda boda guy who never stops talking? He’s got a book’s worth.

The truth is, we all write. Every day. Maybe not with pens and paper, but with our lives, our choices, our victories.

Tomorrow, I’m opening this notebook. Not because I’ve suddenly become Kenya’s next great writer.

But because fear just left, ordered a takeaway strong tea, and disappeared.

And me? I’m staying right here, with my bitter coffee and blank pages.

Your turn—what’s stopping you from writing?