Breaking The Mold

Breaking the Mold

Everyone harbors a dream—a vision to transform their life, to rise above circumstances, and to redefine their identity beyond societal expectations.

My twin sister, Aliche, and I were raised in the serene village of Litein, nestled in the lush highlands of Kericho County. Our days were filled with the melodies of birds, the rustling of tea leaves, and the distant hum of cowbells from neighboring farms. Despite our identical appearances, our personalities diverged like two roads that split in opposite directions. Aliche was the embodiment of discipline and conformity, while I was the free spirit, often lost in daydreams and the rhythm of dance.

From an early age, I found joy in movement. I would twirl barefoot on the dewy grass, pretending the wind was my orchestra. My favorite place was under the old jacaranda tree behind our house. It was there that I choreographed my first dance at age seven, using nothing but instinct and a heart full of emotion.

Our father, a devout pastor, held a sacred place in our community. His life was a rigid script of prayer, discipline, and upholding tradition. He envisioned a future for us that mirrored his values—respectable, predictable, and within the confines of societal norms. For Aliche, this path was seamless; she aspired to become a doctor, a profession that aligned perfectly with his expectations and earned her admiration.

But for me, the idea of becoming a doctor felt like wearing a dress that never quite fit. I tried, I truly did, to be the daughter he wanted me to be—attending youth fellowships, reciting verses, even volunteering at the local clinic. But inside me lived a rhythm I could not silence. I saw beauty in movement, freedom in performance, and healing in art.

When we graduated from high school, I enrolled in a teacher training college, not out of passion, but to satisfy my father’s dreams. It was during my first semester that I met Eis, a boy from the southern part of the country. He was warm-hearted, full of laughter, and deeply curious about the world. His eyes had the depth of someone who had seen pain but chose joy anyway.

Eis and I became inseparable. He understood me in a way no one else had. With him, I could speak freely—about dance, my fears, and the burden of pretending. Our connection blossomed quickly into love. His laughter was the light in my gloom, and being around him made me feel safe. For the first time in my life, I felt whole.

But love doesn’t always wait for the perfect timing. I became pregnant during our second semester. I remember staring at the two red lines on the test kit, my hands trembling, my heart pounding. The joy of carrying a new life was immediately shadowed by the fear of how my family—especially my father—would react.

When I finally told him, he didn’t speak. His silence was a thunderstorm louder than words. The next morning, he summoned the church elders. I sat in the living room, shoulders hunched, while they discussed my future like I wasn’t even there. Terms like “shame,” “disgrace,” and “discipline” were thrown around. My mother wept quietly in the corner. Aliche sat still, her eyes downcast. No one asked what I wanted.

The following week, I ran away from home.

Eis took me in, and together we moved to Nairobi. We lived in a single-room bedsitter on the outskirts of the city. The city was overwhelming—its chaos, its movement, its anonymity. It was everything Litein wasn’t. We had no stable income, and as my belly grew, so did the pressure. Eis tried—he really did. He worked at construction sites, ran errands, even sold secondhand clothes. But eventually, the strain became too much. We began arguing. And one rainy morning, he left. Just like that.

There I was. Nineteen, heavily pregnant, broke, and alone.

But sometimes, rock bottom becomes the foundation for something unshakable.

After giving birth to my son, Hope, I found myself at a community center in Kibera that offered free dance therapy classes. I walked in one day, just to watch. The instructor noticed me swaying to the rhythm and invited me to join. That hour changed my life. I cried, I laughed, I moved—unapologetically.

I began attending every session, bringing Hope along, tying him on my back as I danced. With time, I started assisting the instructor, then teaching small sessions. Dance gave me back my voice, my identity, and my strength. I learned traditional dances like Chakacha, Isikuti, and Adumu—each carrying stories of joy, resistance, and resilience. I even began blending them with modern forms like contemporary and Afro-fusion.

One day, after teaching a class for a group of teenage girls, a twelve-year-old girl named Zawadi hugged me and said, “When I grow up, I want to be like you.”

That night, I cried. Not from sadness—but from a long-overdue sense of purpose.

Despite my growing joy, a part of my heart longed for home. I missed the smell of my mother’s pilau, the warmth of my sister’s hugs, and even the sound of my father’s early morning prayers.

So, three years later, I returned.

I didn’t expect a hero’s welcome, and I didn’t get one. My father didn’t speak a word to me. My mother welcomed me quietly, holding Hope in her arms for the first time. Aliche, now a doctor at the county hospital, came home that evening with tears in her eyes. We embraced for a long time, both of us changed women.

I didn’t try to defend myself. I simply lived.

Over time, villagers began to see that I hadn’t come back to disrupt peace. I began teaching local girls dance in our backyard. My students were the curious, the shy, and the misfits. The rhythm began to fill the village. On Sundays, after service, some of the church youth would sneak into our compound to learn a few steps. They laughed. They let go. They danced.

Eventually, even the elders took notice. They invited me to teach at a youth convention in Kisumu. I stood before a crowd of over 300 teenagers, most of whom had never seen a traditional Kenyan dance outside of textbooks. And there, in my flowing green skirt, I danced—not for approval, but for freedom.

Aliche came to watch. My father didn’t. But that evening, he left a note on my bed:

“You chose a path I couldn’t understand. But today I see the fruit of your bravery. Forgive me for trying to clip your wings.”

That was the closest thing to an apology I’d ever get, and it was enough.

I later established a small foundation called “The Rhythm Within,” offering dance and emotional healing programs for girls across the Rift Valley. Many of them were survivors of abuse, teenage mothers, or girls battling depression. We danced not to impress, but to heal.

Today, when I look back, I no longer see a story of shame or failure—I see a journey of rebirth. I was the first in my village to break the chains of silent expectation, the first to fall publicly and rise anyway.

I may not wear a stethoscope or walk in white coats like my sister. But when I take the stage, when I see my students find their rhythm, I know I am healing too.

And perhaps, in a world full of molds we’re told to fit into, the bravest thing one can do… is to break them.