Coming back to Kenya wasn’t a spiritual awakening.
It wasn’t some magical moment where everything suddenly made sense.
No.
Coming home after what I’ve survived feels like stepping onto scorched ground—burnt, bare, and brutally honest.
I’ve been through something most people wouldn’t understand.
What I experienced in Europe wasn’t just trauma—it was something beyond trauma.
My body became a battlefield.
My mind a prison.
Every morning, every evening… I was being played like a puppet by forces I can explain.
And I prayed.
God knows I prayed.
I begged.
I called out to heaven, knocked on every spiritual door I could find.
And this…
This silence.
This hell.
This is what I got in return.
So no, I don’t believe in God anymore.
Not after this.
I’m an atheist now—not by choice, but by survival.
Because belief couldn’t save me.
Faith didn’t hold me.
And hope?
Hope felt like a cruel joke some days.
But you know what’s real?
Pain.
And the lessons it teaches.
I’ve learned more in this past year than I did in all my years before.
Life has beaten me down, but it also forced me to look at everything differently.
At people. T
The world
At myself.
At what it means to keep living when you don’t know if healing is even possible.
Coming back to Kenya isn’t a healing trip.
It’s not a retreat.
It’s just me, trying to find a sliver of peace in a place that still holds some part of me.
Some days I wonder if my body will ever feel like mine again.
If I’ll ever know silence.
If peace is a real thing or just another word people like to throw around.
But I’m here.
And I’m still breathing.
Still walking through it.
Still learning in the school of hard knocks.
So yeah—this isn’t a story of faith.
It’s not a redemption arc.
It’s just me, telling the truth.
And maybe, that’s enough for now.
