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Every Story Matters
The Hydropower Boom in Africa: A Green Energy Revolution Africa is tapping into its immense hydropower potential, ushering in an era of renewable energy. With monumental projects like Ethiopia’s Grand Ethiopian Renaissance Dam (GERD) and the Inga Dams in the Democratic Republic of Congo, the continent is gearing up to address its energy demands sustainably while driving economic growth.
Northern Kenya is a region rich in resources, cultural diversity, and strategic trade potential, yet it remains underutilized in the national development agenda.
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I’m sitting in church again, pretending I belong here. The organ hums like a heartbeat I can’t silence, and every hymn feels like an accusation. The pastor is talking about grace, but the word sounds thin — like something that was never meant for men like me. I keep my eyes open while others pray. I’m scared of what I’ll see if I close them.
There’s always a girl in the choir who looks like her — same eyes, same way of folding her hands when she sings. My throat tightens when I look too long. I can’t tell if it’s guilt, fear, or something darker that I haven’t learned how to name. People think I’m just reserved. They call me “quiet brother,” not knowing that silence is the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
They said I touched her once — my own daughter. The word defiled still echoes in my skull. I don’t even know if it’s true anymore. I’ve told myself so many versions of that night that I’ve lost track of which one I believe. I remember her crying. I remember shouting. I remember the church elders arriving before dawn, faces pale and voices steady, whispering let’s keep this quiet.
And they did. They sent her away, to a home they called “safe.” I never saw her again. I told people she was studying somewhere far. No one questioned it — not out loud, at least. The church has a way of wrapping sin in scripture and pretending it’s been forgiven. But forgiveness feels hollow when the person you need it from is still alive and silent.
She’s grown now. I’ve seen pictures. Her face has sharpened with time, but her eyes — her eyes still carry that night. Sometimes I think she might walk into this church one Sunday, stand in the aisle, and look straight at me. I rehearse what I’ll say if she does. My child, I’m sorry. Or maybe I didn’t do it. But I’m not sure either would sound convincing.
Every Sunday, when the pastor says, “If anyone has hidden sin, confess and be free,” I feel my chest tighten. My palms start sweating. I think of standing up. I think of walking to the front. But my legs never move. Freedom, I tell myself, is for the brave. I am not brave. I am surviving on borrowed silence.
The elders still nod at me politely, pretending not to remember what we buried. Their sons grew up in the same choir she once sang in. Their wives still call me “Brother.” Sometimes I catch them watching me too long. Maybe they’re wondering if I’ll ever break. Maybe they’re praying I won’t.
I can’t pray properly anymore. My words stumble out, dry and tired. I say Lord have mercy and mean Lord don’t expose me. I sit through the sermons, through the songs, through the trembling of my own bones, waiting for her name to slip into the air like judgment.
The service ends. The congregation laughs, shakes hands, cleanses itself with small talk. I stay behind, pretending to pray, staring at the stained-glass Jesus who won’t meet my eyes. My reflection in the glass looks like a man who’s been forgiven — but I know better.
I can feel it — the tension between memory and denial tightening around my throat. She’s out there somewhere, grown, watching, maybe remembering. And I am here, waiting, terrified of the day she decides to speak.
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