Please, never do that with people you aim to interview or
negotiate with. Since most of life requires some form of negotiation, it helps
to do your homework first.
Tongue in cheek, I’ve been learning the art of impromptu
interviewing for a skill I’m developing. So, this time, I went in with only
what he had shared with me—no online digging, no assumptions.
A Saturday of Silence and Slow Hearts
The event had just started. The three scheduled speakers
were running late. He—David Kimani—was supposed to speak second, yet he
was the earliest to arrive.
It was a quiet Saturday. We were still reeling from the
state funeral of Rt. Hon. Raila Odinga—a man I deeply respected, whose life had
become a mirror for our society’s fractures and resilience. Everything seemed
to move in slow motion that day.
I had asked the men to assemble for our session. Moments
before the first speaker was to begin, I met David in person for the first
time.
He had a shy disposition, but a warm and loving aura. I was
immediately drawn to him. I smiled and ushered him to a seat.
At our men’s event, five chairs surround each table to create a sense of connection. As introductions began, I noticed something: most men struggle to
talk to strangers. Forget women for a moment—even with fellow men, conversation
doesn’t come easy.
We lack the social valiance to strike new connections, the
emotional courage to move from acquaintance to friend. Many men have no one
they can truly call when life hits hard. It’s not just a lack of
opportunity—it’s a lack of practice.
But given the right environment and encouragement, that can
change. It’s never too late to build lifelong brotherhood.
David was a natural. As the icebreaker extended to 20
minutes, the room warmed with laughter and confessions. By the time it ended,
you could sense something sacred forming.
The Lion and the Thorn
Then it was David’s turn. And to say that he blew my mind
would be an understatement.
This man has been given grace—and the heart—to handle the
most fractured issues ailing men today. Beneath every layer of success or
silence, he said, lies a wound.
He spoke of anger that has no name, irritation that hides
exhaustion, and pride masking shame. The withdrawal. The sarcasm. The guilt.
He told us of a lion that stepped on a thorn. The thorn
lodged deep, unremoved. Over time, it grew slower, weaker, left behind by its
pride. Eventually, it starved.
“If only someone had removed the thorn,” David said quietly,
“the lion would have healed.”
That thorn, he explained, is what many men carry—hidden
wounds that fester over time until they cripple everything else.
The Wounds of Adversity
These are the scars left when a man faces hardship without
healing. They come from rejection, failure, or trauma carried in silence.
They whisper: You’re only as good as your last win.
They grow from childhood neglect, harsh criticism, or the
absence of affirmation. They teach men to perform for love rather than rest in
it.
Performance wounds. Silence wounds. Abandonment wounds.
Approval wounds. Identity wounds.
Every man carries at least one.
Healing begins when he names it—admits what hurt him, feels
it safely, and finds brotherhood in his struggle. Redemption begins when he
forgives himself for needing to be strong all the time.
“Every man carries wounds of adversity—but healing begins
the moment he stops hiding them and starts transforming them into wisdom.”
The Wounds of Loss
A wound of loss is what’s left when someone significant
disappears—through death, betrayal, or absence—and a part of you goes missing
with them.
For men, grief often disguises itself as silence or
busyness. The world calls it strength, but inside, it’s disconnection.
Healing begins when we acknowledge the depth—when we
understand that grief isn’t weakness; it’s love that has nowhere to go.
“Loss doesn’t just take someone away—it invites you to meet
parts of yourself you didn’t know existed.”
The Wounds of Betrayal
Few things cut deeper than betrayal by a friend, brother, or
confidant.
It says: I thought I was safe with you—and now I don’t
know who I can trust.
This wound distorts how a man sees others—and himself. He
questions his judgment, withdraws from intimacy, and builds walls he calls
boundaries.
But betrayal, David said, is a mirror. It reveals not your
weakness but your capacity to trust deeply. And that is still your superpower.
Healing comes when a man realizes the betrayal was about the
other person’s integrity, not his worth.
“Betrayal doesn’t just break trust—it tempts you to stop
trusting altogether. Healing begins when you refuse to let one broken
friendship define how deeply you love again.”
The Self-Inflicted Wound
Some wounds come from within—the pain we cause ourselves by
ignoring truth, betraying our values, or refusing to forgive our past.
It’s the quietest form of suffering—when you’re both the
prisoner and the guard.
Men carry this silently: overworking to avoid guilt, joking
to hide shame, refusing rest because they “should know better.”
Healing starts when a man chooses radical honesty—naming
what he did, not to condemn himself, but to understand.
“Some wounds are not inflicted by others—they are echoes of
battles we fought within ourselves and lost. Healing begins when we forgive the
man in the mirror and start fighting for him, not against him.”
The Mother Wound
This is not about blame—it’s about understanding.
The mother wound forms when a man’s early need for nurture,
affirmation, or independence wasn’t met in balance. Maybe love felt
conditional. Maybe protection felt controlling. Maybe warmth was absent.
Men with this wound often live in tension—craving closeness
but fearing it, over-giving or over-guarding.
Healing begins when he acknowledges what was missing,
releases resentment, and learns to reparent himself—to give his inner child the
validation he never received.
“Healing the mother wound allows a man to stop performing
for love and start receiving it.”
The Father Wound
Then David stepped into the topic of the day—the wound of
the father.
“Our fathers,” he said softly, “give us our identity. They
tell us who we are. And they protect us, so we feel safe.”
The room grew quiet. Every man, at some point in life, must
wrestle with his father’s shadow—either to reconcile with it or to outgrow it.
Some fathers were physically present but emotionally
distant. Some were loving yet overbearing, others absent altogether—through
separation, work, silence, or death. And for many men, the result is the same:
an ache, unnamed and unresolved.
This wound doesn’t always appear as pain. Sometimes it looks
like overachievement, perfectionism, or control. Sometimes it shows up as
withdrawal, insecurity, or rebellion.
David said something that struck deep:
“When a father’s voice is missing, a man spends his life
searching for it—in success, in approval, in applause.”
He then shared what he called the Five Ps of a Father—five
pillars that hold the architecture of a son’s identity. When any one of them
crumbles, a wound forms.
1. Presence
Presence is not just physical proximity—it is emotional
availability. It is the father who looks his child in the eye and says, “I
see you.”
A father’s time is a child’s proof of worth. Children spell
love as T-I-M-E. When presence is missing, a boy learns early to live unseen.
He becomes the man who doesn’t expect to be noticed unless he performs.
Healing begins when a man chooses to show up—for
himself, for others, and for the family he now leads.
2. Protection
Protection is not control. It is not shielding a child from
all pain.
It is creating a safe environment for growth—for making mistakes without fear,
for being guided without judgment.
When protection becomes domination, it births fear instead
of safety.
When it is absent, a child learns that the world cannot be trusted—and neither
can his own instincts.
Healing comes when a man learns to rebuild safety within
himself, to be both strong and gentle, protector and nurturer.
3. Provision
Provision goes beyond material supply. It’s not just bread
on the table—it’s wisdom, guidance, and example.
A father who only provides things but not values raises a
child who has possessions but no direction.
Yet when a father offers vision and discipline, he equips his child for life.
The absence of provision can make a man hustle
endlessly—trying to fill a void that money cannot heal.
Healing begins when he realizes true provision flows from
purpose, not pressure.
4. Priesthood
Priesthood is perhaps the most forgotten pillar. It is the
father’s spiritual role—to intercede, to bless, to speak life over his
household. When this is missing, confusion sets in. Boys grow into men without
a spiritual compass. They search for meaning in performance, or numbness, or
noise.
A father’s prayer can become a shield for generations. His
silence, too, can echo through them.
Healing begins when a man reclaims his priesthood—when he
stands before God not as a victim of his father’s failures but as a vessel of
new grace.
5. Purpose
Purpose is the father’s greatest legacy. It’s the whisper
that says, “You were born for something sacred.”
When a father names his son’s strengths and speaks destiny
into him, he anchors him against the storms of doubt. But when that voice is
absent, the son spends years chasing meaning in every direction—career,
conquest, even chaos—to hear the words: “I’m proud of you.”
A father’s purpose births identity; his silence breeds
confusion.
Healing begins when a man finds his purpose not from lineage
but from divine design—when he realizes that even if his earthly father failed
him, his heavenly Father still calls him by name.
David paused and looked around the room.
“You see,” he said, “many men are not broken because of what their fathers
did—but because of what they never said.”
That silence—more than any blow or absence—becomes a
haunting echo in a man’s soul. But when he chooses forgiveness, the echo fades.
He stops demanding from his father what the man could not
give. He begins to receive from the Source what no human can withhold.
And in that moment, the father wound becomes a doorway—not
into bitterness, but into blessing.
A father’s voice can bless—or break. Many men, David said,
have spent their entire lives trying to hear words their fathers never spoke: “I’m
proud of you.”
The Power of Forgiveness
Then David paused.
He said something I will never forget:
“Forgiveness is the most selfish thing you can do.”
At first, that sounded strange. But as he explained, it made
perfect sense. Forgiveness is not for the other—it’s for you. It
releases you from the heavy luggage you’ve carried for years.
From his own story—fractured relationship with his father,
years of silence, and eventual reconciliation—David found his voice. He became
a father to others who were broken. He rebuilt what was lost.
“For men, forgiveness is the ultimate move forward.”
A Closing Reflection
As the event ended, I sat quietly, letting it all sink in.
In a world where men are taught to fight, fix, and forge
ahead, David reminded us of something sacred: sometimes, the bravest act is
to feel.
Healing doesn’t make us weak—it makes us whole.
Every thorn removed, every wound named, every tear
acknowledged becomes a testimony.
We heal not by hiding the thorn, but by allowing the Great
Healer—the one who once bore His own thorns—to touch the places we’ve long
protected.
And in that healing, men find something far greater than
strength.
They find peace.
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