I was ten years old when I found dance, growing up in the ghettos of Eastlands, Nairobi.

There was no studio. No mirror. No promise it would lead anywhere.
Just music in the air and a feeling in my body that said, this matters.

I practiced wherever I could. On concrete. In borrowed spaces.
I learned through dance battles, through repetition, through staying long after everyone else had left. I walked for hours to rehearsals and back again because there was no money for transport. I arrived tired. I left later. I kept going.

At home, there were arguments. My parents wanted safety. I wanted something I couldn’t yet explain. Dance asked for commitment before it offered certainty, and I chose it quietly, over and over again.

My path moved through very different worlds.
I performed traditional African dance at a national level.
I danced contemporary work with the Pamoja Dance Group, alongside people living with disabilities. Those rooms taught me more than technique. They taught me patience, presence, and how deeply dignity lives in the body.

For more than ten years, I was part of the Alabaster Dance Crew. For seven consecutive years, we were nominated as the best dance crew in the country, creating work that went on to receive major recognition across Africa. But the moments that shaped me most were never the awards. They were the long nights, the exhaustion, the devotion — returning to the work when no one was watching.

Dance was never a hobby for me. It was how I stayed alive. It became my language — one that carried me beyond where I started, across borders, and into teaching others the art that once felt impossibly far away. Today, I create movement that holds that same truth. Quiet. Personal. Alive.