You may go to university, but they still whisper that your true worth will be measured in your home. You may earn your own money, but you are still expected to keep the fire burning in the hearth. You may rise in the boardroom, but when the weight becomes too heavy, they still expect you to step back and let the men lead.
And so I ask you, is the door truly open, or is it just painted to look like the sky?
Look around you. The world is shifting beneath your feet.
The dhows that once carried spices across the Indian Ocean now sail alongside
steel giants.
The ancient alleys of Lamu hum with the voices of tourists, their cameras capturing your culture like a collectible.
The old Swahili homes, their coral walls thick with history, are being repainted and renamed. Everything changes, yet nothing does.
You, daughter of the wind and tide, stand in the eye of this storm.
But hear me: you are not bound to this cycle.
You are writing new verses into the old songs. You are the journalist telling the stories that were never told, the artist painting the faces that history forgot.
You are the lawyer standing in courtrooms where your mother’s voice was never heard. You are the entrepreneur, the scientist, the professor shaping young minds.
You are the daughter who refuses to lower her voice, the wife who builds beside her husband, not behind him. You are the mother who teaches her son that respect is not a gift but a foundation.
Yet I know, it is not easy. They ask you to be everything and more. They expect you to hold tradition in one hand and ambition in the other, never letting either slip.
They tell you that you must be independent, yet they judge you if you do not marry. They say you must chase your dreams, but they remind you not to run too far.
They praise your strength yet they still believe a man must carry your heaviest burdens.
But listen. The ocean does not ask permission before it reshapes the shore. The baobab does not apologise for growing tall. The monsoon does not seek approval before it moves.
You are the tide rising. You are the wind shaking the old trees. You are not here to wait for permission. You are here to build, to lead, to dream beyond the limits they have drawn for you.
Your ancestors dreamed of this moment. They prayed for your freedom, for your choices, for your voice. But the road ahead is still long. You must carve your path with fire, with ink, with steel, with love.
You must demand more than what is given. You must refuse
to be boxed, to be softened, to be silenced.
Mwana Kupona wrote for her daughter, but no one wrote for you.
Write your own story. Let it echo through time. Let it be sung on the lips of the wind, carried by the waves and carved into the stones of this land.
With the ink of the ancestors and the fire of the new dawn.
***
As the world marks International Women’s Month, a time dedicated to celebrating the achievements, resilience and progress of women across generations, the message of this letter resonates even more profoundly.
It is a reminder that while strides have been made in education, leadership and economic empowerment, cultural expectations still shape the realities of many women, especially in Kenya and the broader African context.
This month calls for reflection, not only on how far we have come but also on the invisible barriers that persist. It is a moment to amplify voices that challenge outdated norms, to honour the women who have broken barriers, and to encourage the next generation to forge ahead with courage.
The struggle for true equality is ongoing, and this letter serves as a rallying cry: That Kenyan women, like their global sisters, must not only celebrate progress but also continue to dismantle the subtle, lingering chains that hold them back.
The ocean does not wait for permission to rise; neither should women.
