Chapter One: The Silence That Burned
The morning sun filtered through the threadbare curtains of the two-bedroom apartment in Umoja. A rooster crowed in the distance — though Wanjiku was already up. She had been up since 4:45 a.m., like every other day for the past ten years. The silence of the house at that hour had always been comforting, almost sacred. Her small daily ritual: boil water for tea, warm last night’s ugali for Mwikali’s lunch, and fold laundry that had dried overnight.
She moved like clockwork, without complaint, without thought — just motion. It was what mothers did. What wives were raised to do.
But today, something was off.
Her daughter Mwikali, eight years old and sharp as a tack, was unusually quiet as she sat at the table swinging her legs, watching her mother with those big, observant eyes. The gas had run out halfway through heating tea, so Wanjiku handed her a slice of bread and a banana instead.
“Eat up, baby. We’re late already.”
“Is Dad coming today?” Mwikali asked, her voice small.
Wanjiku froze mid-motion. The question was innocent, but it lodged itself in her chest like a stone.
“I don’t know,” she said softly, forcing a smile. “Let’s focus on school, hmm?”
Mwikali nodded and packed her things. As Wanjiku tied her daughter’s shoes, she noticed the fraying laces and promised herself she’d buy new ones — as soon as she figured out where the next hundred shillings would come from.
She walked Mwikali to the gate and handed her exact fare. “Straight to school. No stopping at Mama Achieng’s for sweets, sawa?”
“Sawa,” Mwikali giggled, then skipped off toward the matatu stage.
Wanjiku turned back toward the flat. That’s when she saw it — a white paper slapped against the brown front door with masking tape and an official stamp.
Her footsteps slowed. Her stomach clenched.
She tore the notice off.
NOTICE OF EVICTION
Tenant: W. Njuguna
Due to unpaid rent for three consecutive months, you are hereby given 7 DAYS to vacate the premises.
Signed,
Umoja Heights Management
Her knees weakened, and she leaned against the wall.
She hadn’t known.
Patrick had told her rent was “sorted.” He had assured her, even just last week, when she’d asked why the caretaker kept stopping her to “remind” her. Patrick had laughed it off, kissed her forehead, and said, “Women worry too much.”
Three months. Three.
She felt something hot rise in her throat — not tears. Not fear.
Anger.
Hot and unfamiliar.
Her phone vibrated. She had two bob of airtime left. M-PESA balance: Ksh 46. She opened her M-PESA statements. The last deposit was over a week ago. From her cousin in Murang’a — not Patrick.
She called his number.
Switched off.
She tried his best friend — no answer. She texted: “Do you know where Patrick is?”
No reply.
She opened the fridge — empty, save for a tomato and a sachet of Royco. The power token meter blinked: 3.21 units.
Everything felt like it was closing in.
Wanjiku sat on the plastic chair in the living room. Their cheap sofa had a spring poking out. A crack ran across the wall. She looked around. This was not the life she imagined at 22 when she married Patrick. He was charming then — ambitious, smooth-talking, full of “big dreams.”
She had one dream: to feel safe. To be loved.
But safety doesn’t live in houses with unpaid rent. Love doesn’t hide when bills come due.
The weight of all those years of staying silent — through his disappearances, his broken promises, his emotional distance — pressed down on her chest.
She had always thought that if she just stayed patient, loyal, and “submissive” as her mother taught her, things would eventually get better.
Now, staring at the eviction notice in her trembling hands, she realized:
Silence had cost her everything.
She stood up slowly.
Her knees were still shaky, but her back? It was straight.
She walked into the bedroom, pulled out the old metal trunk at the bottom of the wardrobe. The one she hadn’t touched in years. The one that held her past life — before marriage.
Inside were her college certificates, sketchbooks, and an old laptop, dusty but intact. She wiped it down, plugged it in, and waited for it to boot.
Then, for the first time in almost a decade, Wanjiku logged back into LinkedIn.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
“I’m Wanjiku Njuguna, a passionate and skilled graphic designer. I’m currently looking for freelance opportunities. I’m reliable, creative, and ready to work.”
She clicked Post.
Then sat back.
And waited.
But for once… she didn’t feel powerless.
She felt awake.
Chapter Two: The Woman in the Mirror
The apartment was quiet again — but not the comforting kind of quiet. It was the kind that pressed against Wanjiku’s ears, loud with thoughts she’d spent years silencing.
Her daughter Mwikali was at school. Patrick hadn’t called. The eviction notice lay on the table, now folded neatly in half — like it would hurt less if it took up less space.
Wanjiku stood in front of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand, staring.
She hadn’t really looked at herself in years.
Not like this.
Her reflection startled her. She was… older. Not in a bad way. Just different. The soft girl who once wore bright lipstick and hoop earrings on Kenyatta University’s campus was gone. In her place stood a woman with tired eyes, faint wrinkles at the corners of her mouth, and a neck that tensed even in rest.
But there was something else.
Behind the exhaustion. Behind the disappointment.
A flicker.
A whisper.
A woman waiting to rise.
She finished brushing, tied her scarf tighter, and returned to the living room where the laptop buzzed faintly on the table. It was slow — painfully slow — but still alive.
She opened her email:
Inbox (2) — one spam, one titled “RE: Graphic Design Work?”
Her heart skipped. She clicked.
“Hi Wanjiku,
We saw your LinkedIn post. We sometimes need freelance designers for small projects — posters, social media cards, logos. Are you available for something this week?
Regards,
Anita – RedDot Creatives.”
Her breath caught.
Someone had seen her. Not as someone’s wife. Not as someone’s mother. Not as a burden. But as her.
Wanjiku Njuguna.
A woman with skills. With something to offer.
She typed back quickly:
Yes, I am available. Please send the brief.
Looking forward.
Warm regards,
Wanjiku
She hit send before she could overthink it. Then immediately panicked.
She hadn’t touched design work in years. She didn’t even have Photoshop anymore. She didn’t have a fancy portfolio. She had one tool left — her will.
That afternoon, she walked to an old cyber café down the road.
“Do you install design software?” she asked the fundi at the counter.
The man looked up from his phone. “Photoshop? Illustrator? For your machine?”
“Yes.”
“Old laptop like this,” he chuckled, inspecting it. “Wewe uko na roho safi. But I can try.”
She waited for two hours, watching as he worked, the whir of the tiny fan blowing warm air onto her legs. He charged her Ksh 300. She only had Ksh 400 left — but she paid without blinking.
Somehow, she knew this was worth it.
Back home, she boiled maize and beans — githeri for dinner. As the food cooked, she opened a blank canvas on her screen.
At first, her hands trembled.
She stared at the mouse.
She didn’t remember the shortcuts.
She didn’t know what design trends had changed.
But then she started sketching.
Slowly.
Like someone remembering a language they hadn’t spoken in years.
By the time Mwikali returned home, Wanjiku had a poster mockup on the screen.
“Is that you who drew that?” Mwikali asked, wide-eyed.
“Yes,” Wanjiku said, with a small smile. “I used to do this before… before everything.”
Mwikali stared in awe. “It’s so cool. Can you teach me?”
Wanjiku paused.
For years, she had taught her daughter how to survive. How to endure. How to obey.
But maybe it was time to teach her how to create. How to fight. How to dream.
“Yes, I can teach you,” she said. “But first, I need to remind myself.”
That night, after her daughter had fallen asleep, Wanjiku sat again in front of the mirror.
She looked at herself. Hard.
And this time… she smiled.
She didn’t have it all figured out.
But she had made one small move — and that was enough.
Because sometimes, change doesn’t come like a fire.
It comes like a whisper.
And that whisper was growing louder.
Chapter Three: Rewriting the Script
Wanjiku barely slept.
She lay on her thin mattress, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as thoughts circled like restless birds.
What if she couldn’t deliver?
What if she’d forgotten everything?
What if this woman — Anita — regretted ever messaging her?
By 5:30 a.m., she gave up trying to sleep.
She lit the jiko on the balcony to warm water for bathing, careful not to wake Mwikali. The Nairobi sky was still a deep blue, the kind of color that reminded her of childhood, of mornings in Murang’a, of chasing goats barefoot and laughing before life grew heavy.
As steam rose from the sufuria, so did something inside her — a quiet resolve.
She wouldn’t go back to who she was. Not after this.
The brief came through on email at 8:15 a.m. sharp.
“Hi Wanjiku,
We need a funeral program designed urgently. Just a simple 4-page layout for printing. Can you send it by end of day?”
Attached: Word document + photos.
Budget: Ksh 3,000.
It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t exciting.
But it was a start.
She whispered a thank you to the universe.
And then, she got to work.
Wanjiku worked from the floor — legs crossed, laptop balancing on a stool, one hand on the mouse, the other scrolling through fonts and layouts. The laptop heated up quickly, and so did her nerves.
But the designs started taking shape.
A flower motif here. A border there. Carefully edited photos, soft but clear. She chose muted blues, respectful but elegant. She wrote in the late man’s name with reverence — even though she didn’t know him. She imagined his family receiving the program and feeling comforted.
At noon, she paused to boil rice for Mwikali, then returned to work while her daughter did homework beside her.
“Why are you smiling like that?” Mwikali asked.
“I’m designing something for someone,” Wanjiku said. “And they’re paying me.”
Her daughter’s eyes widened. “Like a job?”
Wanjiku nodded.
“Does that mean we won’t have to move?”
Wanjiku hesitated — but only for a second.
“No,” she said gently. “It means… we’re learning how to stand up.”
By 5:30 p.m., the file was ready. She proofread it twice. Then three times. Her hands shook slightly as she attached the PDF to the reply email.
“Hi Anita,
Please find the final design attached. Let me know if any revisions are needed.”
Warmly,
Wanjiku Njuguna
She hovered over send for almost thirty seconds.
Then clicked.
Her chest tightened.
It was done.
Twenty minutes later, the reply came:
“Hi Wanjiku,
This is perfect. Clean, respectful, and well thought out. Thank you for the quick turnaround.
Kindly send your number so we can send payment. Looking forward to more projects with you.”
— Anita
Wanjiku gasped. Then clutched her chest and laughed.
Not a quiet, polite laugh — but a full one. Loud. Giddy. Free.
She hadn’t laughed like that in years.
She received the M-PESA notification a few minutes later: Ksh 3,000 received from RedDot Creatives.
It was more than money.
It was proof.
That she still had it.
That she could be something beyond Patrick’s wife.
That she could earn, create, and exist on her own terms.
That night, she cooked pilau from scratch.
Even splurged on a packet of yoghurt for Mwikali.
Her daughter hugged her extra tight before bed. “I’m proud of you, Mum.”
Wanjiku blinked fast. “I’m proud of me too.”
Later, she sat alone on the small balcony with a blanket and cup of tea.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed movement at the gate.
A tall figure, leaning on the wall, swiping his phone.
Patrick.
Her heart stopped.
He hadn’t called. Hadn’t texted. Just appeared, like always.
She didn’t move. Didn’t wave. Just watched.
And this time — for the first time — she didn’t rush to let him in.
She let him stand there, uncertain.
She sipped her tea.
And smiled.
Chapter Four: Becoming Shiku Again
It had rained the night before.
Nairobi was still slick with morning mist, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel just a little heavier.
Wanjiku stirred her uji slowly, letting the wooden spoon circle the sufuria without rushing. She could hear Mwikali in the bedroom, humming as she put on her socks. Life, for once, felt calm.
But she knew it wouldn’t last.
Because he was back.
Patrick had shown up last night at the gate like a ghost that never stayed buried.
She hadn’t let him in.
She hadn’t even gone down to greet him.
He had paced outside for nearly an hour, called once — and then left.
Now it was morning, and her phone buzzed again.
Patrick (2 missed calls)
New SMS: “Shiku, open the gate. We need to talk.”
She stared at the message, unmoved.
Not Shiku.
Not anymore.
That name — the soft version of Wanjiku — had become a chain. A way to make her smaller, more palatable. A name he only used when he needed something.
But she was done being needed. She wanted to be known.
By 8:30 a.m., there was a knock at the door.
Not loud. Just… familiar.
She opened it — not because she was ready, but because she wasn’t afraid anymore.
Patrick stood there in jeans and a faded Arsenal jersey, phone in one hand, plastic bag of bread in the other. He smiled like nothing had happened.
“Shiku,” he said, stepping forward. “You won’t even ask me in?”
She didn’t move.
“You disappeared,” she said. “Three weeks. Rent unpaid. Phone off. And now you want tea?”
He shrugged. “I was sorting some things. Job stress. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I would have, if you talked to me,” she said, arms folded. “But you didn’t. You let us get nearly evicted.”
He chuckled, brushing it off. “You’re overreacting. This place? I was going to fix it. Just got… delayed.”
That’s when she realized it.
He really believed she’d wait forever.
That she’d stay soft.
Stay small.
Stay “Shiku.”
She stepped aside from the doorway, but not to let him in.
To pick up the eviction notice, still folded neatly on the table. She held it out to him.
“You left us with this,” she said. “I had forty-six shillings in my M-PESA. You left your daughter asking questions I couldn’t answer.”
He took it and looked down — finally — but didn’t say anything.
“I got a job,” she said suddenly, like a confession and a declaration all in one. “Design work. Freelance. Paid in full. I’m moving us soon.”
His eyebrows rose. “Job? Since when?”
“Since the day you left,” she replied. “And it’s not just a job. It’s mine.”
Patrick scoffed. “So now you’re what — boss lady? You think this little gig will feed you forever?”
“No,” she said, voice calm. “But it’ll feed me today. And tomorrow. And more than you have in months.”
He stepped closer. “Don’t let pride break this family.”
Wanjiku’s laugh was soft — not bitter. Almost kind.
“You broke this family the moment you taught me silence was safer than speaking,” she said. “But I’ve remembered who I am. I’m not here to save what’s already gone.”
He blinked. For the first time, Patrick didn’t have something smooth to say.
And that was enough.
She closed the door.
Locked it.
Leaned against it and exhaled.
Not a sigh of fear or confusion — but release.
Later that day, she opened an old photo album from campus days. There was one photo she lingered on — her in a yellow sundress, laughing at a tree planting event. Her hair was short, her earrings loud, her joy unfiltered.
She’d almost forgotten that girl.
Almost.
But not anymore.
She picked up a pen and wrote in her notebook:
“To become again is not weakness.
It is strength.
It is resurrection.”
That night, as Mwikali fell asleep beside her, Wanjiku opened her laptop and created something just for herself: a digital poster that read:
Wanjiku Njuguna
Designer. Mother. Reborn.
Not waiting to be saved.
Becoming, boldly.
She uploaded it as her new LinkedIn banner.
She wasn’t hiding anymore.
Chapter Five: For the Girls Who Stay Silent
The inbox was filling up again.
Not with job offers — but messages from women.
Some from her LinkedIn post, some from the design group she’d quietly joined on WhatsApp, and one from a cousin she hadn’t heard from in years.
They all had one thing in common.
“Hi Wanjiku, I saw your banner. I’m not a designer, but I want to start over too. How did you do it?”
“I dropped out in second year. I think I’m ready to go back, but I’m scared.”
“How did you find the courage to say no?”
Wanjiku stared at the screen, heart heavy.
They weren’t asking her for money. Or jobs. Or shortcuts.
They were asking for permission.
To rise.
To speak.
To be.
She closed her laptop and stared out the window at the dusty afternoon sky. Somewhere, a child was crying. A mama mboga’s radio played a gospel song. Mwikali sat cross-legged on the carpet, drawing a sun with a smiling face.
And that’s when Wanjiku knew:
Her story wasn’t hers alone anymore.
That Saturday, she booked the community hall near Umoja Market for two hours. Ksh 500. She paid in full.
She texted the few women who had messaged her, and added a simple flyer on Facebook:
✨ Rise, Girl: A Creative Sisterhood Meetup
✅ You don’t need a degree.
✅ You don’t need to speak perfect English.
✅ You just need a dream.
Let’s talk design, confidence, and bouncing back.
Come as you are. Leave louder.
No RSVP. No pressure.
She expected maybe three women.
Seven came.
They sat on cheap plastic chairs, shy at first, arms crossed, eyes down.
There was Beatrice, who had studied computer science but now sold second-hand clothes in Gikomba. Njeri, a soft-spoken 19-year-old who wanted to leave an abusive house. Tabitha, a mother of four who hadn’t touched her tailoring machine in years.
Wanjiku stood in front of them with nothing but her laptop and a flipchart.
Her hands trembled a little.
But her voice?
Clear.
“I am Wanjiku Njuguna,” she said. “I once believed silence was strength. That if I stayed small, I’d be loved. But silence didn’t protect me. It erased me. Until I refused.”
She looked around the room, eyes locking with each woman.
“I’m not here to inspire you. I’m here to remind you: you are allowed to begin again.”
A stillness filled the room — the kind that happens right before something sacred.
Then Beatrice raised her hand.
“What if you’re already broken?”
Wanjiku smiled, soft but steady.
“Then we start with the pieces.”
The next two hours were filled with laughter, soft tears, awkward honesty, and borrowed pens. Wanjiku taught them how to open Canva. How to pitch your work. How to set boundaries with clients — and partners.
They left with more than tips.
They left with each other.
The next week, Wanjiku got a call from RedDot Creatives.
“We’re looking for someone to lead a three-week community design workshop. Small stipend, mentorship role. You’re the first person I thought of.”
Wanjiku blinked.
“You sure?” she asked, almost on reflex.
“I’ve seen your work, Wanjiku. And now I’ve seen your voice.”
That evening, she bought a notebook and titled it: Rise, Girl Curriculum.
Then wrote the first line:
Lesson 1: Silence is not humility. It’s hunger in disguise. Speak. Eat. Rise.
Later, Mwikali curled beside her on the couch.
“Mum, can I come to your next class?”
Wanjiku smiled.
“Of course, baby.”
“Can I also be a designer like you?”
She kissed her daughter’s forehead.
“You can be anything. But first, you must know your worth. That’s your real power.”
Chapter Six: Tested in the Light
The classroom at RedDot’s community center in Kilimani was painted in soft blue and smelled faintly of fresh paint and paper. Light filtered through wide windows. Ten women sat in a semi-circle around Wanjiku, some with babies on their laps, others with quiet fire in their eyes.
Wanjiku stood at the front of the room, dry-erase marker in hand. Her voice had grown stronger. Her posture straighter. She’d learned to command attention not by raising her voice, but by believing in her own.
“Today’s lesson,” she said, scribbling on the whiteboard:
‘Owning the Room: Confidence Without Permission’
Beatrice, now one of the most vocal in the group, raised her hand.
“How do you own a room where everyone thinks you don’t belong?”
Wanjiku smiled. “You don’t wait for them to invite you in. You walk in, plant your feet, and act like you were born there. Because you were.”
The women clapped softly. Heads nodded. Eyes lit up.
But at the back of the room, the door creaked open.
A tall figure stood there.
Wanjiku turned.
Patrick.
Again.
He walked in like he’d been invited. Jeans, button-down shirt, that same careless confidence that used to unravel her.
She froze. Her hand gripped the marker tighter.
“Shiku,” he said, with that familiar tilt of the head. “Can we talk?”
Murmurs rose among the women. Some exchanged glances. A few pulled their bags closer.
Wanjiku stepped forward. Calm. But her heart pounded.
“I’m in the middle of a class, Patrick.”
He looked around, half-laughing. “This? You call this a class?”
Something in the air shifted.
Not fear.
But fury.
From the women. From Wanjiku. From the silence he was trying to reclaim.
“I call this purpose,” Wanjiku said slowly. “You’re not welcome here.”
He scoffed. “What’s this really about? You have your little hobby now and suddenly you’re Oprah?”
A pause.
Then Tabitha — the mother of four — stood up.
“No, she’s not Oprah,” she said sharply. “She’s Wanjiku. And she helped me believe I still have a voice.”
Another voice joined. “She helped me open my first email account.”
“I was going to give up until I sat in this room,” another added.
Patrick blinked. Taken aback.
Wanjiku raised her hand gently, silencing the room.
“Patrick,” she said. “You had your chance to support me. You chose silence. You chose absence. Now, I choose peace. You no longer get to decide where I go or who I become.”
He looked at her one last time — almost like seeing her for the first time.
Then turned. And left.
Just like that.
The door clicked shut behind him.
A beat of stillness.
Then someone clapped.
Then another.
Then the whole room erupted.
Not just in applause — but in release.
Wanjiku exhaled. Smiled. Swallowed back tears.
She wasn’t the only one he had disrespected in that room — and by standing up, she had stood up for them all.
That night, she walked Mwikali home through dusk and laughter.
“Mum,” Mwikali said, looking up at her, “what happens when someone tries to shrink you again?”
Wanjiku knelt beside her, brushed a strand of hair from her daughter’s cheek.
“Then you stretch wider,” she said. “Until there’s no space for shrinking left.”
Later, she added a new quote to her Rise, Girl notebook:
“Your voice is not a weapon — it’s a bridge.
And once you cross it, you never go back.”
Chapter Seven: The Cost of the Spotlight
Two weeks later, Wanjiku stood in front of the mirror again — but not the cracked one in her Umoja apartment.
This time, it was a glowing full-length mirror inside a glass office in Kilimani, the kind that reflected not just your face, but your potential.
She wore a borrowed blazer, navy-blue with clean lines, and a pair of heels she had only worn once — for her wedding.
The interview had gone well. Surprisingly well.
RedDot Creatives had just offered her a full-time position:
Creative Projects Assistant.
Salary: Ksh 65,000 per month.
Benefits.
Laptop.
Health cover.
A real desk. A name tag.
A real life.
She should have been dancing.
But her stomach twisted.
Because the offer came with one clause — just one.
“You’ll need to relocate to Westlands in a month. The job is onsite. Full-time. 9 to 6.”
It sounded simple.
But for Wanjiku, it was a storm.
That night, she sat in her dim kitchen, staring at the offer letter.
Mwikali was asleep on the couch, math book still open on her lap.
Relocate?
Leave Umoja?
Leave the Rise, Girl classes?
Who would run the community sessions? What would happen to Beatrice, Tabitha, and the others?
And what about Mwikali’s school?
Wanjiku had fought so hard to build something of her own — not just for herself, but with the women around her. She didn’t want to become the kind of woman who climbed out of the pit and then sealed it shut behind her.
But the money…
The stability…
The chance to finally breathe…
She wanted this. She deserved it.
And yet, something in her chest whispered: Not everything that looks like freedom is yours.
The next morning, she walked to the community center early. Alone. She unlocked the hall. Sat in the silence.
She imagined life in Westlands — glass elevators, deadlines, coffee on the go.
And then she imagined Beatrice, proudly presenting her first logo.
Tabitha, selling custom-made kitenge laptop sleeves.
Njeri, finally free from her toxic home.
Wanjiku looked around.
This dusty hall didn’t have air conditioning.
But it had fire.
It had women who believed in her because she believed in them.
She took out her notebook and scribbled something furiously:
“Not all elevation is upward.
Sometimes the highest thing you can do…
is stay where you’re needed most.”
Later that day, she emailed RedDot:
Thank you so much for the offer. I’m honored. But at this time, I’d prefer to remain a freelance partner.
I’ve discovered my purpose lives among the women still finding their voices — and for now, that’s where I belong.
She hit send.
And instead of fear…
She felt relief.
That Saturday, she returned to the hall. Same plastic chairs. Same women.
But something had shifted.
She stood before them not as someone still rising — but as someone anchored.
“Ladies,” she said, holding up a plain brown envelope, “I was offered a big job. With a desk. A title. Good money.”
The women leaned in.
“And I said no.”
A hush fell.
Wanjiku continued, voice calm and proud.
“I said no because this—” she gestured around them — “isn’t a stepping stone. It’s the whole staircase. And I’d rather climb it with you than run ahead and leave you behind.”
Beatrice clapped first. Then Tabitha. Then all of them, some tearing up, some laughing.
Wanjiku smiled.
She hadn’t lost anything.
She had chosen.
And there is power in choosing.
That night, as the city lights blinked in the distance, Wanjiku held Mwikali close and whispered:
“When they offer you the world, baby girl, ask yourself: does it match your purpose?”
Chapter Eight: Filtered Fame
It started with a message on Instagram.
Short. Polished.
Hi Wanjiku, I’m a producer at Dada Nation TV. We’ve seen the incredible work you’re doing with Rise, Girl. We’d love to feature your story on our Women Who Build segment. National TV. Prime Time. Let’s talk?
Wanjiku blinked.
National TV?
For a moment, she just sat there, staring at the message.
She had watched Dada Nation for years — a sleek, glamorous women’s talk show with shiny makeup, curated conversations, and the kind of studio where everyone wore heels and spoke in accents.
She had always admired it… from a distance.
And now they wanted her.
She reread the message five times before replying.
Thank you! I’d love to hear more.
The phone call came the next morning.
“Wanjiku, you’re a gem!” the producer gushed. “You represent the authentic Kenyan woman. The woman who rebuilds. We want to tell your story — your work with single mothers, survivors, designers. We think it’ll inspire the nation.”
Wanjiku smiled, cautious.
“I appreciate that,” she said.
“Of course, we’ll need to simplify some parts,” the producer added quickly. “You know, for the audience. Focus less on the tough parts — no mention of the eviction, or your ex. And maybe tone down the raw empowerment language — our viewers prefer lighter inspiration.”
That last part stung.
“‘Tone down’?” Wanjiku echoed.
“Just a little polish,” the producer said sweetly. “Think motivation, not activism. It’s TV — we want relatable and safe.”
Wanjiku was quiet for a moment.
She thought of Tabitha, who cried during her first Rise, Girl session because her husband had called her “a waste of air.”
She thought of Njeri, who stitched handbags during lunch breaks to save up and run away.
She thought of herself, barefoot on a cold Umoja floor, reading an eviction notice with 46 bob in her phone.
There was nothing “safe” about any of it.
It was messy. Raw. Real.
And that was the power.
She hung up the call with a polite “I’ll think about it.”
Then sat in silence.
That evening, during their community meeting, she told the women about the TV offer.
The room erupted.
“You’ll be on TV?!”
“Eeh, girl! Imagine seeing you on Citizen!”
“You’ll wear your Ankara blazer, right?”
She laughed with them — but inside, a war waged.
Could she trade authenticity for applause?
Was her story still hers if it was edited for mass comfort?
Three days later, the producer texted again.
Just checking in! Ready to share your magic with Kenya? We’ll film Thursday!
Wanjiku typed, paused.
Then deleted her draft.
Then typed again.
Thank you for the opportunity. But Rise, Girl was born in truth. I’d rather stay rooted in that than shine in fiction. Kindly consider someone else.
She hit send.
And closed her eyes.
The next Saturday, she stood before the Rise, Girl circle — this time with two new women who had found them through word of mouth.
She shared what happened.
The room went still. Then a slow ripple of applause.
Beatrice leaned forward, her voice thick with emotion.
“You didn’t just teach us how to speak, Wanjiku. You showed us how to say no to anything that asks us to shrink.”
That night, Wanjiku wrote on the last page of her notebook:
“Visibility means nothing if it costs your voice.
I wasn’t born to be filtered.
I was born to be felt.”
Chapter Nine: The Big Money Mirror
It came in the form of a man in a crisp grey suit.
Martin Ndegwa.
CEO of Brava Futures, one of Kenya’s biggest social impact investment firms. A man who’d made millions turning passion projects into scalable brands. The kind of man who was always ten minutes early and smelled like imported cologne.
Wanjiku met him at a conference on grassroots innovation. She had been invited last minute to speak on a panel. No slides. Just truth.
She didn’t speak like the others — no buzzwords, no vision decks. Just:
“We don’t need more saviors. We need space. And tools. Give women power, not pity — and watch what they build.”
When she stepped off the stage, he was waiting.
“You’re bold,” he said, handing her his card. “Let’s talk.”
Three weeks later, Wanjiku sat across from him in a private boardroom on the 18th floor of an office in Upper Hill.
He slid a folder across the table. She opened it slowly.
A proposal.
A Ksh 3.5 million grant.
A new space in South B.
Equipment. A brand team.
Salaries for ten team members.
“Rise, Girl” — as a national program.
Wanjiku stared at the numbers.
Her heartbeat quickened.
“You can impact thousands,” Martin said. “Not just Umoja. Not just Nairobi. Nationally. Think training centers in Kisumu, Mombasa, Eldoret.”
She looked at him.
“What’s the catch?”
He smiled.
“I like you, Wanjiku. So I’ll be direct. Brava needs visibility too. You’d partner under our banner. We help shape the messaging. Refine the narrative. Highlight the wins — leave out the messy stuff.”
The messy stuff.
The truth.
She swallowed hard.
That night, she sat on the floor of her tiny apartment, staring at the folder.
Mwikali sat beside her, braiding her doll’s hair.
“Are you gonna be a boss now?” she asked innocently.
Wanjiku smiled faintly. “I’m already a boss, baby.”
The next morning, Wanjiku walked into the Rise, Girl hall — the dusty one, with mismatched chairs and walls that needed paint — and saw it differently.
She saw potential.
Not just in the bricks.
But in Beatrice, who had just gotten her first online customer.
In Njeri, who now walked with her head high.
In every woman who had fought to rewrite her story — one scar at a time.
She imagined all of them being told to hide their mess.
To water down their survival.
To clean up their pain for TV, for funding, for “partnerships.”
And she knew.
She couldn’t build a platform that required women to wear masks in order to be funded.
So she drafted a letter.
Dear Brava Futures,
Thank you for your generous offer. I respectfully decline. Rise, Girl isn’t just a program. It’s a promise. And I won’t let money rewrite its soul.
Warm regards,
Wanjiku Muthoni
She folded it with steady hands.
Days later, during their Saturday session, she stood before the women.
“I was offered big money,” she said, simply. “A chance to scale Rise, Girl. Turn us into a brand.”
Gasps. Whispers.
“But it came with strings. They wanted our power, without our pain.”
Beatrice shook her head.
“Again?” someone muttered. “Always the same story.”
“I said no,” Wanjiku said.
Silence. Then: cheers. Fierce, loud, unapologetic.
Later that day, as the sun dipped behind Umoja’s rooftops, Beatrice found her.
“You could’ve taken it,” she said quietly. “None of us would’ve blamed you.”
“I know,” Wanjiku said. “But this isn’t just about me anymore.”
She looked around at the space — and smiled.
“This hall… it’s the truth. And I’ll take a thousand cracks in truth over one perfect lie.
Chapter Ten: The Day She Rose
It was a simple event. No red carpet. No cameras. No flashy sponsors.
Just plastic chairs under a tent outside Umoja Primary, a dusty banner that read:
“Rise, Girl – Graduation Day.”
Twenty-three women sat at the front. Braids neat. Faces glowing. Eyes full of disbelief.
Behind them sat friends, children, neighbors — some with newborns on their backs, others with notebooks in hand.
Wanjiku stood to speak.
The microphone cracked once. She didn’t flinch.
“Three years ago,” she began, “I sat in a one-room bedsitter with nothing but shame, a daughter, and a dream. I had no money, no followers, no plan.”
She looked out at the crowd.
“But I had my voice. And that voice said: ‘Wanjiku, rise.'”
The crowd was silent.
“Today, it’s not just about me. It’s about all of us. Every woman here who said: ‘I will not let what broke me define me.'”
Murmurs. Then claps. Then tears.
“You’re not just graduates. You’re founders, creators, rebirths. You’ve taken your pain and turned it into power. And nobody — no man, no system, no shame — can take that from you.”
Beatrice came up next. Her voice trembled at first, then steadied.
“I used to hide,” she said. “Now I design bags worn by women in four counties. I’ve hired two girls from my neighborhood. I’m building more than a business. I’m building a door.”
Applause.
Njeri followed.
“I thought I was too old. Too broken. But at Rise, Girl, I learned there’s no expiry date on healing. I’ve opened a tailoring shop. I teach girls on Saturdays. And I wake up happy.”
Cheers.
Mwikali, now eight, stood shyly next to her mother and whispered:
“Can I talk, Mum?”
Wanjiku smiled. Nodded.
Mwikali held the mic with two hands.
“I love my mum. She helps other mums. And I want to be just like her. But also a pilot.”
The crowd roared.
After the speeches, they danced. Ate chapati and kuku. Took photos with shaky phones. Laughed until the sun dipped.
Wanjiku stood to the side, hands folded, just watching.
Noticed a woman she didn’t recognize at the edge of the crowd. Younger. Nervous. Clutching a tattered handbag.
Wanjiku walked over.
“Hi,” she said warmly. “You’re new?”
The woman nodded. Eyes watery. Voice low.
“I heard about you. From Beatrice. I… I need help. I left my marriage last week. I have nowhere to go.”
Wanjiku didn’t hesitate.
“You’ve come to the right place. We rise together.”
She hugged her. Long. Fierce. Like a sister.
That night, Wanjiku sat on the same Umoja rooftop where it had all started. Feet dangling. Air cool.
She opened her journal and wrote:
This is the day I rose.
Not because I made it.
But because I helped others stand.
That’s the power of a woman who remembers her fire.
She lights others without losing her flame.
Then she closed the book.
And watched the stars come out.