KenyaOnAShoeString

Perhaps one of the most overlooked privileges is not wealth itself, but having enough margin in your life to respond to reality. Over the last few years, we have become fluent in the language of privilege, speaking easily about financial privilege, pretty privilege, racial privilege, passport privilege, educational privilege and social privilege, and in doing so we have become increasingly aware that people do not all start from the same place and that some doors open more easily for some than for others. Yet there is one form of privilege that seems to receive far less attention, and that is the privilege of being able to do something with the information you have, not simply knowing, but acting, because the truth is that information alone changes very little. We like to imagine that if people only knew better, they would do better, and entire industries are built around this assumption, from self-help books and documentaries to podcasts, awareness campaigns, public health initiative...

School fires. Public demonstrations. A growing sense of unrest that is often described in different ways depending on who is speaking. To some, these are signs of discipline breaking down. To others, they are signs of frustration finally finding a voice. To others still, they are simply chaos—things that should not be happening at all. But very little of the conversation seems to pause on a quieter question: what if these are not separate incidents at all? What if they are different expressions of the same underlying tension—one that we rarely name directly? Because there is an assumption that sits beneath much of how we interpret society: That what we survived is what should be survived. And what we endured is what should be endured. People often treat their own endurance of hardship as proof that hardship is normal, necessary, or fair. Once that shift happens, survival stops being just experience and becomes instruction: a silent template for how life should be lived. And in Kenya, t...

If I am always sacrificing my present self for my future self, when does my present self get a turn? It is a question that sounds almost reasonable—until you actually try to live inside it. Because most of us are taught, directly and indirectly, that life is built on sacrifice. Work hard now. Endure now. Save now. Push through now. The promise is always the same: the future self will benefit. A more stable life. Better opportunities. Security. Freedom. Relief. In theory, it makes sense. In practice, it is not always that clean. Recently, I left a job that was financially helpful but physically difficult. It paid well enough. But it came with costs I could not ignore anymore. My body felt it. My energy felt it. My sleep felt it. From a purely financial perspective, the decision did not make sense. I reduced my income in a context where stability is never guaranteed. And yet, something in me felt like I had to leave. Because I could feel my present self becoming sma...

I have been dealing with a problem in my foot for almost two weeks. This might not sound particularly dramatic. It isn't cancer. It isn't an emergency. It isn't even the kind of pain that stops me from going about my day. Which is perhaps why I found myself hesitating. You see, I am a walker. Not the kind of person who takes a stroll every now and then. I walk for two to three hours most days. Walking is how I think, how I clear my head, and how I make sense of the world. If there is one part of my body I should be willing to invest in, it is probably my feet. Yet when I started calling podiatrists in Nairobi, I found myself doing mental gymnastics. The cheapest consultation fee I found was KES 5,000. Consultation. Not treatment. Not scans. Not medication. Just the privilege of finding out what might be wrong. By the time everything was done, the bill could easily reach KES 15,000 or KES 20,000. And suddenly I found myself wondering whether I really needed a podiatrist. May...

If a child grows up to be kind, healthy, responsible, self-sufficient, and decent—but not wealthy—has the sacrifice failed? Most people would instinctively say no. Yet many families behave as though the answer is yes. Not openly, of course. No parent sits their child down and says, "I didn't raise you to be happy. I raised you to be rich." But expectations have a way of revealing themselves. In comparisons with more successful relatives. In questions about promotions, land, and home ownership. In the disappointment that hangs in the air when a child is doing well enough to survive but not well enough to transform the family's fortunes. And perhaps nowhere is this tension more visible than in Kenya, where sacrifice is often treated as the highest form of love. Parents sacrifice for their children. Older siblings sacrifice for younger siblings. Entire generations sacrifice in the hope that the next one will live better. But what happens when sacrifice quietly becomes an...

I was reading The Last Letter by Rebecca Yarros when one of her twins, Maisie, started complaining about a pain in her hip. At first, it did not seem serious. The kind of thing you monitor. The kind of thing you take seriously, but not urgently. Her mother did what any careful parent would do—she took her to the hospital. Then again. And again. Tests were done. Results came back clean. Until they did not. At a bigger hospital, something finally showed up, but even then, it pointed in the wrong direction. The markers looked like leukemia. It fit the pattern doctors were used to seeing. Except it was not leukemia. It was neuroblastoma, a cancer that usually affects children much younger than Maisie. She did not fit the expected profile, so it was not the first thing anyone thought to look for. And when her mother tried to make sense of it all— but we have been here before, they checked everything —the answer she got was simple: They didn’t know what to look for. While reading that scen...