KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

What do you do when you’re told you’re dying—but you’re still needed? What do you say when the world tells you to ‘fight’ but your body is asking you to rest? In Kenya, death is still taboo. We bury it in jokes, euphemisms, and silence. We don’t prepare for it, even though it’s coming—for all of us. And for those who are sick—especially with terminal or chronic illnesses—it’s even harder to talk about. There’s pressure to "fight," to "be strong," to be a “cancer warrior.” But what if the bravest thing isn't fighting, but making peace? And yet, for a parent with young children, a single mother, a man providing for generations, how do you begin to make peace with death when you know the world may not be kind to those you leave behind? This is the emotional tension we must speak to. What Is Life, Really? The Kenyan Understanding vs. the Deeper Reality In Kenya, life is often defined by activity—movement, breath, work, hustle. That’s why we love the phrase “bor...

They said time is money, So we sold our days To desks, deadlines, and duty. Now the clock ticks softer. The pace slows down. And we wonder— Can we afford to buy back What we gave so freely? Not to earn. Not to win. But just to live again. 1. The Paradox of Retirement in Kenya Retirement, in theory, is supposed to be a season of rest. A time to exhale. To spend mornings slowly, reconnect with loved ones, and revisit the parts of yourself that got lost in the hustle. But for many Kenyans, retirement looks like another job. We see people starting businesses immediately after leaving employment, becoming consultants, jumping into family obligations, or even relocating to their rural homes only to pick up farming or new responsibilities. Rest doesn’t feel earned—it feels guilty. Instead of enjoying time with grandkids, learning something new, or simply sitting with the self, many continue running. But what if retirement—and seasons like it—were not a signal to do more, but an invitation to ...

There’s something sobering about how life ushers us into new seasons—quietly at first, then all at once. Recently, I got braces. What I thought would just be a cosmetic fix quickly turned into a full lifestyle shift. Suddenly, I couldn’t eat the way I used to. The crunchy samosas from that butchery on my way home? Out. Roasted maize from the street corner? Forget it. Even brushing my teeth became a 10-minute routine involving special brushes, floss, mouthwash, and caution. But the hardest part wasn’t even the food. It was the little joys I used to give myself: grabbing an iced Americano and some chips after a long day, taking myself for nyama choma on a solo date. Now I have to think twice. What if that crunchy bite breaks a wire? What if I end up spending more at the dentist? And then there’s the constant dryness. I now carry Vaseline everywhere because my lips are always cracked. Between the bruises on my cheeks, the ache in my jaw, and the sacrifices in my diet—it’s not glamorous...

There’s a strange ache that creeps in when you’re doing your best, struggling to make ends meet, yet everywhere you look, people are going on weekend getaways, attending international concerts, upgrading their cars, and living what appears to be their best life. You’re not jealous. You’re just tired. You’re not bitter. You’re just exhausted from constantly feeling like you’re playing catch-up. You’re not ungrateful. You’re just wondering when your turn will come—and if it ever will. We’re in a season where “everyone is struggling” is the common language, yet the matatus are still full, the roads are still jammed with cars, and even midweek concerts are packed. The malls aren’t empty, and data bundles are still being bought. So what gives? The truth is, Kenya is a country of multiple realities. Some people have always had money. Some people finally got lucky. Some people are in debt. Some people are silently drowning. Some people genuinely don’t have responsibilities right now and...

Most Kenyans know someone who has been scammed. A fake job abroad. A non-existent tender. A rogue Sacco. A phony pastor. A “friend” who knew just the right words. Some lose KES 2,000 . Some lose KES 2 million . But all of them lose something far deeper than money — they lose a part of themselves. Let’s talk about what happens when you’re the one who got played. Who Gets Targeted? Scammers don’t just pick anyone. They pick: The hustler who’s tired. Someone trying everything and just looking for a break. The helper. That kind-hearted parent, uncle, or older sibling who wants to help others get ahead. The unemployed graduate. Smart, skilled, and desperate for dignity. The dreamer. Someone who has waited too long for life to make sense and now just wants to feel something move . The overachiever under pressure. That person who can’t afford to “fail” in the eyes of family and society. Scammers are trained psychologists. They look for soft spots — then sell the fant...

This isn’t just a story about fake job offers in Qatar or Thailand. Or about that woman who just got arrested after conning people with promises of work abroad. It’s bigger. This is about us. The Kenyan public. The crowd that claps when a scammer makes it. The society that praises the hustle—no matter how dirty it is—because we all want to believe that wealth is within reach, if only we try hard enough. Or cheat cleverly enough. You’ve seen the headlines: “Suspected fraudster flaunted luxury lifestyle on TikTok” “Victims paid up to KES 500,000 each in fake visa fees” “Exposed: Scam kingpin now turned motivational speaker” And what’s wild? People still follow them. People still clap. Because we love a redemption story. Even if the “redemption” is just rebranding the scam. What It Takes to Be a Scammer in Kenya To scam in Kenya, you need three things: A deep understanding of desperation. A smooth tongue. And a society that rewards shortcuts. Scammers don’t create ho...

When the dream finally comes true, but you don’t feel happy. A few days ago, I got braces. Not the kind where you just wake up and decide to get them—but the kind I’ve wanted since I was young. My mum, doing the best she could, got me braces for my upper jaw. We couldn't afford the full treatment then. But that desire to complete what was started? It never left me. So I saved. For months. Quietly, diligently. And when the day finally came, I got them. Full braces. A dream finally realized. But almost immediately, I noticed something strange. I wasn’t excited. I wasn’t proud. I wasn’t even relieved. I just felt… tired. Drained. From day one, I started wondering why I wasn’t happy. Why couldn’t I enjoy the moment? I had worked for this. I had saved for this. I had made peace with the cost. So why couldn’t I smile—beyond the metal wires? Instead, I found myself worrying. “Will I ever get to enjoy my tiny home someday—or will I just feel like this again?” You see, that tiny home ...

How do we find peace when our past still follows us around like a shadow? There’s a kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep can fix. It’s the kind that lives in the chest, not the bones. A heaviness born not from long days, but long memories—of what we did, what we didn’t do, what we should have said, what we can’t undo. In Kenya, we speak often about forgiveness in religious spaces. We quote Bible verses, sing worship songs, and talk about letting go. But in real life? We carry regret like it’s a form of atonement. We believe that if we suffer enough under the weight of what we did wrong, we’ll somehow earn peace. But what if real rest is learning to forgive yourself ?  “If I Had Just…” You know the script: If I had gone to visit before they died… If I had stayed in that marriage, maybe the kids would be okay… If I had gone for that job interview, I wouldn’t be struggling this much now… If I hadn’t snapped at my mum that day… Regret sounds like a constant ...

You attend a hike. Everyone’s laughing, taking selfies, posting about how amazing the trail is. But somehow, you feel lonelier than ever. Not because you’re shy or antisocial—but because everything feels… transactional. You join a book club. You go to an event. You reply to an ad. The energy is promising, the first few conversations hopeful—but eventually, it becomes a performance. Everyone wants to seem interesting, deep, well-read. Few want to simply be known. We live in a society that talks about the loneliness epidemic—but rarely admits the role we play in it. In Nairobi and beyond, Kenyans are struggling to make real friendships. Not surface-level connections. Not social capital. Real, mutual, honest-to-God friendships. So what’s going on? We’ve Turned Friendship into a Transaction Let’s be honest: Many of us are looking for connections that “make sense.” We scan the room and instinctively filter people: Can they help me get a job? Are they well-connected? Do they look like someon...