Photo by iprostocks (

Photo by iprostocks (

Even as my eyes cautioned my feet and the light revealed my erring ways, I couldn’t bear to hear the truth; the call to repentance. For my heart was drunk with the need of approval.

My heart ached all day long. I begged my pride to let me go.

But pride flexed up and held on tighter.

How I longed for a ray of hope; for sunlight to warm my face once again. But repentance was the only way to salvation.

I brought my plea to heaven and my knees bowed low before His throne. His arms reached out and pulled me out. His light pierced through my darkness and brought me home.

He touched my eyes so I could see His treasure.

The life of Christ is the light of all men.

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photo courtesy of digitalart (

photo courtesy of digitalart (

Even before I spoke, the answer was on my lips; a confirmation of His love and a seal of His faithfulness
Even before I stepped up, His grace was on my very step; a mark of His path and an oath of His faithful word.
He is light to my path and fullness in my soul; my shelter and an anchor in the stormy days.
My heart cannot contain His praise inside, for my God is too big for mere words. Every eye must see and every tongue confess that God compares to no other.
For I searched high and low looking for something; something big enough to fill my empty heart. I started on a journey and found the highest treasure; the very darling of heaven Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
A name so sweet it is music to my heart. Every star in the sky reveals His marv glory; and my bright star must lead the world to His beautiful presence.

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Photo by Stuart Miles(

Photo by Stuart Miles(

The sound of the rain upon my window reminded me of the vow I had made before. A vow I had intended to keep but found myself weak to fulfill it at the right time.
A time unlike any other; a time of gnashing teeth and trembling.
A wave passed through my being without consent. Whether pain or fear it did not matter. For the time had arrived for me to give an account.
A fire arose from deep within and I knew that the hour was upon me. An awakening quickened my steps and stirred in my soul; for the hour of greatness had come and I intended to be faithful.

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Photo by David Castillo Dominici (

Photo by David Castillo Dominici (

The cold reality sank in her slippery heart. For the night she saw the shadowy figure was the night she discovered fear. Right there embedded at the core of her very soul sat hopelessness. The looming figure overwhelmed her senses; clouding her judgement and instilling dark thoughts.

She had thought herself safe; locked behind the solid gates of her heavily guarded heart. But terror lay in wait and the nightmares threatened to consume her.

Her heart throbbed against her chest and her breath came in short bursts; for her world was falling apart and the pieces were scattered in disarray.

Oh my soul why are you so troubled? From the end to beginning your path is engraved in His palm.

But her soul wouldn’t yield for her consciousness wouldn’t let her forget. The guilt and the shame were like a throbbing that wouldn’t cease and a thorn in her very flesh.

Like a field overtaken by wild foxes was her mind; never to be hers again.

Oh how her cries deafened her ears and her tears filled like a river. A river so wide no one could reach her.

For the sun in its bright glory couldn’t warm her frozen heart; and the song in its sweet melody couldn’t chase that evil spirit.

She smiled and she acted; reassured the worried faces that all was well. Her eyes forever locking the pain she hid well within her soul. Every calculated move steered the curious gaze away from her madness.But help wouldn’t come soon enough. And every next thought promised relief lay in the grave.

Lost in a living nightmare that broke her into pieces; her hands grasped desperately for solace. Her eyes roamed wildly to find a resting place.

But in the thickness of darkness; in the very darkest of clouds He veils His approach. The heavens shake and fire pours from His mouth. He mounted the cherubim and flew; He soared on the wings of the wind and came to her rescue.

Her gaze rose up for her chariot had come. He shot His arrows and scattered the enemy. He reached down from on high and took hold of her; He drew her out of deep waters.

He put her together again and applied the balm of Gilead. He raised her and trained her hands for war. He caused her to chase her enemy; yeah that foul spirit of destruction and she pursued until she conquered it.


2 Samuel 22:8-18

Psalm 18:37

Blessings n much love,

Abby Ngina.

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Watch “The Encounter (2010) (FULL MOVIE)” on YouTube

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Spilled Water (Fictional)

photo by Danilo Rizzuti (

photo by Danilo Rizzuti (

It all began on a cold Sunday morning; the moment I met my neighbor’s relative from America. I had never heard of the land before but to my uttermost amazement, I discovered that not all places spoke the same languages I spoke.

She was short and pretty and different. I couldn’t quite describe why she seemed so peculiar but her walk, and the way she expressed herself provoked my curiosity.

“Sasa?” I said hoping to spark a conversation.

She looked at me oddly then went back inside.

“How rude” I thought. She couldn’t even respond to a simple greeting.

My neighbor Kat revealed that she couldn’t speak any other language except English.

“What? Why?” my mind tried to recall stuff I had learned from school. What country spoke only English?

“What’s her name?” I asked

“Nicole. She goes by Nicky though and she’s a bit quiet”

As the days went by, I discovered that I quite liked what I heard about it and I decided to go to America one day.


Break time at school was always a high point in the day because it was the only time that we could freely be ourselves and let loose. It was also the perfect time for me to show everyone what I brought for my break. I unpacked my sandwich and waited for everyone to notice the new spread between my bread.

After a few minutes, I couldn’t wait anymore!

“Guess what I’m eating?” I asked everyone.

The group of five girls turned to look at my bread.

“It’s peanut butter!!!” I said excitedly. “This is what they eat in America,” I explained in response to their curious gazes.

“How do you know?” Hannah asked in disbelief.

I went on to share the details of all that I knew about America with slight interruptions for questions and answers.

I couldn’t believe it! All eyes were glued on me as though I was the most interesting person in the world. I knew this had definitely upped my popularity.

“We should go to America!” I said as though the idea had just popped into my head.

“We can’t go. We need money and tickets and we don’t have that,” said Jolie. She was slightly annoyed to see I had all the attention.

“We can save our money and get the tickets,” I said feeling provoked.

Jolie was the self-made leader of the group. She thought she could control what everyone did but I wasn’t having it. This was my moment and she wasn’t ruining it.

“Oh yeah? Then who’s going to keep the money? And how much do we need to save anyway? I say this is stupid!” Jolie continued undaunted.

“Shula can keep the money because she’s quiet and we trust her,” Hannah broke in as though to ease the tension.

“When we are in America then we’ll see who’s stupid” I yelled passionately.

The girls seemed surprised to see me stand against Jolie. Not a lot of people argued with Jolie without facing dire consequences. Well I didn’t care. I had connections that she didn’t and therefore was more interesting than her for the moment.

“I don’t have money now but I might get some for Christmas” Shula said, accepting my proposal.

“We can all give when we get some” I reasonably responded.

The other girls except Jolie joined the agreement and we made a pact to go to America someday. To seal the deal, I gave a hundred dollar bill that my uncle had given me during the weekend he came to visit.


A broken vase was only a big deal if it was your mom’s favorite vase and also happened to hold the flowers that were placed in the middle of the table. My sister and I had been fighting again like we always did. This time we knew we’d both be in trouble because there was evidence.

We tried to put our little minds together to determine how to fix the problem but after a few minutes, we decided to ask the housemaid for help. She laughed at our attempts and foreshadowed our doom.

“Just wait until mom comes home,” she said a little too happily.“You’ll both be crying by the end of the night.”

We decided to ask Kat for help. “Can’t you just replace it? Find another vase and switch it out. If your mom asks, tell her you wanted to do something different.”

It was the most perfect solution to our problem. The only problem was that we didn’t have another vase in the house.

“Can’t you just borrow money from your housemaid to buy a new vase? “ Kat responded immediately.

“No. she’s mean. But…” I said slowly fading off.

It was too perfect I just couldn’t believe how easy it was. I could borrow back my money from the pact then pay it back later!

I decided to pay Shula a visit since she lived a few minutes from me. When I got at her place, she seemed surprised and a little nervous to see me. But then she welcomed me in we went to her room.

“Shula, I need the money I gave you. I’m going to use some of it then I’ll give the rest and keep adding on to it later.” I said

She averted her gaze and moved to the door. “I gave the money to Jolie,” she said.

A cold feeling spread all over me once I heard Jolie’s name.

“Why would you give Jolie the money? I trusted you!” I cried.

Shula started tearing up and her voice shook as she fought to explain that Jolie had gotten mean and almost got in a physical fight with her for the money.

“I had no choice I swear.” Shula begged. ”I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I couldn’t speak. My breath came in short bursts and I grabbed hold of the bed railing to steady myself. I hated how naïve and simple minded I was. But most of all, I hated how much I trusted people. I walked out, vaguely aware of Shula’s voice pleading and begging for me to understand.

I didn’t want to go to America anymore.


I wrote this story to encourage anyone with a dream that seems impossible. All things are possible with God. Sometimes our resources might be limited but all we need is child-like faith in a great big God who can make all things – even impossible things – work for us. Don’t be discouraged by the Jolie’s of this world but know that if you guard your dream, it will manifest and embrace you right back. Blessings.

Abby Ngina.

Categories: FICTION | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

Mrs. Pain and the Disk( Fictional)

The days always seemed longer in my younger years. I couldn’t wait to grow up and become someone independent. My days were filled with people telling me what to do and how to do it. The routines were too much for my adventurous soul and yet the values instilled in me during those years are the same ones I carry today. I have learned to take the productive and toss away the lingering effect of the negative.
Growing up in Kenya was very different than what my little sister and brother have experienced in their American experience. Everything from who cooks your daily meals to how the school disciplines its students.
The culture is vibrant and the people are unique. The clothing stands out and grabs attention from the top of the head to the distinctively designed sandals. The traditions are rich and the experiences unrivaled.
This fictional story gives insight into the daily experience of a young girl growing up in Kenya.

photo by stockimages (courtesy of

photo by stockimages (courtesy of


The sound of approaching footsteps was enough indication for me to wake up and get ready for school. I hated early mornings but knew that procrastination only resulted in pain. My younger sister slept in the same bed with me and we usually walked to school together. Over the years, we had developed a morning routine that worked for both of us.

Mom would come into our bedroom to wake us up and we would each quickly dress up before heading to the dining room. The house maid would have prepared our tea and bread for breakfast and we would both fight for the best part of the bread.

The reason it was the best part is because it was thick and almost twice as big as a toast of bread. Since we had a butter and jam sandwich every school morning, getting the fat piece meant eating almost three pieces of bread.
This morning was no different, except for the fact that I tried to grab my sister’s bread away from her. She was the first to come to the table but I refused to acknowledge defeat. I was determined to grab the fat piece away from her greedy little fingers. Why did she have to eat the best piece twice in a row?

My mom’s voice cut through the chaos and stopped us in our tracks. My hands were tight around my sister’s and her loud cries were the reason we both were in trouble. Mom grabbed hold of my ear and walked me over to my seat. “sit down” she said, her voice exposing a hint of annoyance. She took the piece of bread we were both fighting for and demanded we finish up eating.

After breakfast we both headed to the bathroom to brush our teeth. My sister’s face wouldn’t stop twitching and her tongue kept sticking out in all these weird directions. Her eyes rolled approximately every two seconds and her attitude simply pestered at me. I stuck out my tongue and crossed my eyes at her. “ne ne nene ne, you didn’t eat your bre-ad.”

“Hey, finish up what you are doing,” mom called out.

We got our school bags and went to my parent’s bedroom. Dad was sound asleep and the radio was playing some music. It was common practice for us to pray with mom before heading out to school. She always prayed long but then everyone knew she was the prayer warrior in the family.

It was days like this that I wished we had a ride to school. There were no school buses for students like in movies. We lived thirty to forty minutes away from school depending on whether we walked or ran to school.

This morning required that we run to school. Our neighbor Kat had already gone ahead of us, but her mom said that if we ran, we could catch her.
We started running the moment we reached the gate and started competing. My sister pulled at my school bag but I squirmed out of her reach. If there was one thing I was good at, it was running.

Pretty soon we realized that Kat’s mom had lied. Kat was not anywhere visibly close. We had been running for ten minutes straight and we couldn’t catch her.
We slowed down and decided to walk for a bit. The morning was somewhat quiet and the only sounds audible were of birds chirping, people carrying on conversations and cars zooming on the streets. The path was mostly filled with other students from other schools walking to school in groups or individually.
Our school was one of the highest rated in the region. We usually got higher scores compared to other schools and our students got send into more highly acclaimed universities after passing KCPE (which was the last exam before leaving primary school).

Our uniforms differed only in color from other primary schools. We wore dark blue dresses with white shirts and a maroon sweater. Our hair had to be braided or cut short, but the boys couldn’t have long hair or braids. The shoes had to be black and the socks could not be dirty.
Failure to adhere to the dress code of the school resulted in pain. The thought of punishment jolted me.

“We better run sis. I think Mrs. Pain is on duty this week” I told my sister.

Every student in the entire school was afraid of Mrs. Pain. She was nicknamed after her favorite term just before she beat up a student. She would tell her victims to lie on the table and taste her pain. She would then proceed to beat them up until they cried.
She always found the best bamboo sticks; fresh, supple and painful. The boys got beaten on their butts but the girls were beaten on their hands.
This specific week we tried to make it on time to school. The horrific stories of latecomers being made to walk to their classes on their knees filled us with fear. One student got her hair chopped off in the middle because she didn’t have it braided.

We got to the last street before reaching the school gate and turned. Students ahead of us were running like they had seen something. We started asking around what was going on and realized that Mrs. Pain was a few steps ahead of us.
My sister and I picked up pace, intending to pass the teacher. We joined another group of students who were walking fast but then started running.
Mrs. Pain seemed undeterred by all the commotion around her. She kept walking at a steady pace until she finally got near the school gate. A flood of students rushed in to beat her to the gate and got inside.

Once inside the school, we looked back to see that the teacher had stopped at the gate to ask a student to take her purse and belongings to the staffroom. She seemed to be holding back all the latecomers at the gate’s entrance. We turned back and ran to our classrooms before things turned ugly.

It was moments like this that I hated being so small. A sense of dread would rush over me when I thought of all I was expected to do. Helplessness would almost overwhelm me because I knew that I wasn’t as strong or as smart as everyone thought. But every day I managed to perfectly say my lines and play my part in this grand scheme of life. A tension was a constant friend, never allowing me to freely enjoy my life.

Today was a good day though, and my heart was strangely vibrant. A song escaped my lips and I couldn’t help but dance and twirl around during break time. My friends and I went to check on our kale project to determine if the kales were growing well. We found little holes on the leafy part of the kales and decided to ask for help from our teacher. Agriculture was a required course in primary school and the kale project was a way for us to get hands on experience in the actual planting and taking care of vegetables.

The sound of the bell ringing signaled the end of break and we went back to the classroom.


“Good morning madam. How are you,” the sound of young voices drifted across the large classroom.

“I’m fine, thank you. You may all sit down”

It was customary for us to greet our teachers the moment they walked in.
“Kus, Kus, Kus,” a warning voice would signal the approaching steps of a teacher.

Rushing feet would scatter about and we would hurriedly get back to our assigned seats.

Mrs. Masala was our homeroom teacher and also our English teacher. One hand held her teaching material while the other grasped a bamboo stick, warning us of impending trouble.

“Who has the disk?” she asked.

Everyone looked around, trying to determine who the unfortunate person was. The disk was a thick block of wood that had the inscription “disk” on it. The class monitor was given the disk to pass along to any person who spoke in any other language than English.

A shy hand rose up amongst the third row and all eyes turned to Kevin. He had received the disk for the fourth time this week!

The disk was intended to train us in speaking good English while on school grounds. Any other language was not permissible during regular school hours.
Mrs. Masala motioned for him to come over.

“Who did you receive the disk from,” the petite teacher asked him.

“Paul gave it to me, “Kevin responded, pointing to a tall skinny boy seated in front.

Paul rose up and came forward to reveal the next victim. All the students who had received the unwanted wooden object came forward to receive their punishment.

Mrs. Masala took her bamboo stick and lined up the students in a single straight line. The girls were to be given five strokes on their hands while the boys received the same on their backsides.

Female teachers were mostly harder on the boys. This is because most boys would tough out any beating they got from them. The girls usually cried and rubbed their hands together for relief.

My friend Karyse couldn’t bear it after the fourth stroke. She rubbed her hands vigorously and turned around in a pained little dance. The girls behind her were beginning to cry even before their turn.

“Give me your hands,” the teacher said.

Mrs. Masala impatiently hit her upper arm repeatedly to get her to stretch out her hands.

Karyse rubbed her hands together and slowly stretched her hands for the final stroke. The teacher brought down her stick but Karyse moved her hands quickly away.

“You are wasting my time, you hear. Stop wasting my time.” Mrs. Masala said. “I’m going to give you two more strokes and you better not move those hands again, because I’ll keep adding,”

After the last two strokes, Karyse ran to her seat sobbing. Her throbbing hands were red and swollen from the hits.

The classroom was so quiet; we could hear the sound of a male teacher lecturing in the adjacent room.

Mrs. Masala pulled out her chalk and wrote the words ENGLISH on the black board.

It was mind-boggling how such a tiny teacher could bring an entire class to its knees. Her voice was almost childish and her appearance made one think of a starved magazine model.

“Pull out your assignments and exchange them with your neighbors, “Mrs. Masala said. “And neighbors, check to make sure everyone has completed the assigned work.”

I took out my homework and scanned it over before passing it to the person beside me. Having assigned seats made cheating a bit tough but not impossible.
We would grade each other’s assignment and then turn over our writing books to the teacher at the end of the class period. The teacher would then check if our notes were up-to date and place a tick at the corner of each entry.

“Who did not complete their assignment?” the teacher asked. “Neighbors, check to see if your bench mate has done every question.”

We gazed around the room to see if anyone had failed to do their homework.
It was times like these that I wished I was grown. Being in standard eight was a load of burden to bear. Teachers found countless reasons to punish us in the name of discipline, and the work load kept getting heavier.

To make matters worse, my test scores proved that I wasn’t ready for the KCPE exam. The pressure to perform well was building with every passing day.

After completing the review of the assigned material, Mrs. Masala gave one student the responsibility of writing notes on the blackboard. Usually, the teacher stayed a bit to make sure we were all copying down the notes then she would leave and go to the staff room. I waited until the teacher left then scooted closer to see the blackboard…

(I’m not sure if I’ll continue the story and make it a series. Hope you enjoyed it though. Comments, personal stories and questions are all welcomed below.)

Abby Ngina

Categories: FICTION | 4 Comments


Photo Courtesy of pakorn

Photo Courtesy of pakorn

Clothed in red with a pretty bow around it
Held in chains with a heavy yoke surrounding
Deep longings never satisfied nor fulfilled
Never diving in but always beside the river

A river so pure, a river so blessed
It gently flows drawing me near
Oh let me fall sweep me away
But these chains will never let me dive

Fascinated, enthralled simply captivated
Gleaming from afar – a ray of hope
Won’t something break me through and pierce my darkness?
Then a river so pure, a river so blessed
Chanced a glance at me for a spell

Deep down I saw and yearned for its promise
A healing river that makes the heart glad
I drew close and moved beside its banks
Looking for a way in, a place to belong

Photo Courtesy of koratmember

Photo Courtesy of koratmember

The sun refused to shine and I missed my step
The moon also tricked me and I fell inside
A miry and slippery pit it was
The earth also gave way and held me in a cage
Until my cry reached the heavens and His hands reached out.

My heart surrendered and my soul said yes.
Mercy came running and broke me out of the pit.
Compassion wiped my tears and hope led the way.
His Spirit flowed as a river within my heart and His love cast religion into the pit.

Categories: ECLECTIC | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment


courtesy of scottchan (

courtesy of scottchan (

A man went to the shop to buy his beloved daughter a gift. He searched all over until he found the right gift that would make his girl smile. When he came home, he put it in a box then wrapped it up as a surprise for his daughter.

His daughter couldn’t hold back her excitement. She was confident that her father had gotten her what she had wanted for a long time. She took the gift and tore up the wrapper in eagerness. Her expectant heart stuttered in doubt when she saw the box. It was too bland and not the right shape.

Surely her father wouldn’t have gotten her something else. But as she shook the box and turned it around, her hope deflated and she made peace with herself. Whatever her father had bought her she would accept graciously.

She pulled at the corners and uncovered one end of the box. Her eyes caught a glimpse and her heart jumped . Hope rose up and embraced her soaring heart. It was perfect, just right and beautifully crafted. She pulled out the gift and couldn’t believe it.

It was here, and it was all her’s. All she had ever wanted was in her possession. He had given his girl her hearts desire.

Psalm 37:4
Take delight in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart. (NIV Version)

May the Father give you the desires of your heart as you delight yourself in Him.

Abby Ngina

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Vision of Many Books (Prophetic)

I saw books on a table displayed for sale, but no one would pick them up to see what was inside because of the busy world we live in. So i felt (knew) in my spirit that there had to be a better way to get the people to read the material inside the books

Suddenly i remembered of graves, and how there’s no life in the tombs. A living person on the other hand can touch lives and interact with other people. Then i understood the meaning of the vision.

It simply shows that God is building us up in such a way we become living epistles. People might not have time to read a book but as they interact with the people of God, they will read God’s word in a living breathing form and receive the message.

Jesus himself was the greatest word made flesh. We too must allow God to mold us so that we may be just like Jesus.

Abby M

Categories: UPLIFTING WORD | 3 Comments

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