I start from the middle because this is the beginning to the end.
I’m tired.
Tired that you see my face but miss the smile.
See my smile but miss the glint in my eye.
I.. I miss the glint in my eye.
Now to balance this meniscus like I tried to do at the grave.
I don’t think the writing is even helping.
Words upon words that are not worthy of licking dust off the feeling.
I don’t know. I really don’t know.
Here lies my truths.
Give me one last look to see me turn the corner.
Give me one last listen so you don’t miss me here.
Give me one last taste so you can tell I’m no longer bitter.
Give me one last touch before I turn cold.
Give me one last breath to show that my flaws were perfect.
I am a millennial—I can’t deny it. I was born in 1992, right in the middle of the millennial generation range. I grew up in a world where children were showered with praise and everyone was a winner on Sports Day. I’ve lived in the shadow of September 11th and repeated recessions. Oh, and I love Pokémon Go, hash tags, and taking a good selfie! If you ask the people around me, they’ll probably tell you I have some of the stereotypical attributes of a millennial: entitled; easily sidetracked by technology; and wanting a better balance between my work life, my family life, and my hobbies.
Ms Fatuma Ibrahim at Wajir Airport, shortly before her medical evacuation on January 7, 2016. Photo/Eunice Kilonzo

