KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

In a country where the economy is as uneven as the Nairobi skyline—shiny towers next to aging flats—finding a personal money philosophy isn’t just helpful, it’s essential. Whether you’re single, dating, or married, how you interact with money shapes everything from your peace of mind to your future options. This article explores how to find your money philosophy through real Kenyan examples, the trade-offs involved, and how this philosophy can (and should) evolve over time. What Is a Money Philosophy—and Why Does It Matter? A money philosophy is your deeply personal belief about the role of money in your life. It answers the question: what is money for, to me? For some, money means safety—never going hungry again. For others, it’s about options, power, peace, or pleasure. Some want status, others want legacy. And many people, unknowingly, live out philosophies shaped by fear, scarcity, or childhood patterns. A money philosophy is not a budget. It’s not a plan. It’s the emotional and ps...

We all carry around a few maybes —those half-formed ideas and dreams that hover in the background, whispering that maybe one day, we'll take the plunge. Maybe I'll move out. Maybe I'll go back to school. Maybe I'll buy land in that quiet town. Maybe I'll cut ties with that draining friend. These thoughts are not always harmless. Some maybes haunt us for years, quietly costing us peace, time, clarity, or money. This article explores real, grounded examples of Kenyans wrestling with maybes—choices that linger, pull energy, and clutter our decision-making. And how, by eliminating a maybe—either by turning it into a solid yes or a firm no—we make space for clarity and progress. 1. Muthoni – The Maybe of Buying Land in Naivasha The Maybe: Muthoni had her eye on a piece of land in Naivasha for months. She envisioned weekend getaways, a tiny home, maybe even hosting creatives for retreats. The Cost of the Maybe: She spent months obsessively browsing listings, calculating...

We are surrounded by wealth. Expensive cars on the road, packed cafes with KES 1,200 bills for chips, chicken and a drink, yoga and Pilates studios charging KES 30,000/month for 12 sessions, iPhones and high-end Samsung's on every table, people going on holiday every few months, apartments going for KES 22 million plastered across billboards — and somehow, everyone seems to be affording it. And yet, if you're earning over KES 100,000/month, statistically, you're in the top 2% of Kenyan earners. You're doing everything right: budgeting, saving, avoiding debt, maybe even running a side hustle. But at the end of the month, you feel broke. You feel stuck. You feel like you can't move forward. This article explores the observed reality vs the lived reality . We peel back the image of wealth that surrounds us to show what life really looks like for salaried Kenyans earning "well." Through three detailed profiles, we break down exactly where the money goes — an...

I’m writing this because I’m angry — not the kind of anger that passes, but the kind that grows. The kind that keeps you up at night. I look at Nairobi today and I don’t recognize it. Not because of development. Not because of traffic. But because this city, this country — my home — is being bought up, piece by piece, by people who don’t love it the way we do . And the rest of us? We're being priced out, pushed aside, and told to be quiet. Studio apartments in Westlands are going for 9 million shillings. Who are they for? Certainly not for the ordinary Kenyan. And yet foreigners — many of them — are buying two, three, four houses like it’s a shopping spree, while the people who grew up in these neighborhoods are priced out, forced to the outskirts, or locked into eternal renting. And when we speak up, we’re told, “Hii nchi si yetu?” I see the face of this country changing — and it’s not just cultural. It’s ownership. It’s power. It’s the future slipping out of our hands. To Those...

When the rains began around April, I did something small but game-changing—I bought myself a pair of gumboots. Not the cute, trendy ones from Instagram ads. Just plain, functional boots. Every time the clouds threatened, I put them on, slipped my umbrella into my bag, and left the house without a second thought. Walking through puddles in the CBD while everyone else tiptoed around, I noticed the stares. Especially when the rain had stopped by midday and the sun was blazing, people would glance at me like I had missed the memo. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t worried about wet feet, slipping on pavements, or ruined shoes. I was dry, steady, and calm—ready for the season I was in. And that got me thinking: how many of us are fighting life’s rainstorms in sandals? How many of us are too focused on appearances, trends, or the opinions of others to gear up properly for our current season? The Right Tools Change Everything Having the right tools doesn’t just make life easier—it gives you con...

Kenyans are some of the most “hardworking” people you’ll ever meet—at least by our own standards. We open early. We close late. We stay on our feet for 10 hours. We invest in stalls, shop decor, uniforms. We show up. But are we really working hard , or just working long ? It’s a difficult question, but an important one. Because the real measure of hard work isn’t just effort—it’s care. It’s curiosity. It’s the willingness to understand your customer, stretch your thinking, and go beyond routine. Scenario 1: The Liquor Store That Never Asks In Nairobi’s estates, liquor stores are everywhere. Picture one in Kinoo. A man walks in, clearly about to host people—he buys multiple bottles, some mixers, maybe even ice. The shopkeeper packs his items and tells him the total. Transaction over. But what if the conversation went differently? “Mnaenda out ama kuna bash?” “Ah, kuna bash kwa nyumba.” “Uko sawa na ice ama unahitaji zingine? Na maybe ka-vape ama soft drinks kwa wasee hawatumii?”_ Inst...

A neighbor once told me, “Si unajua tu I’m grateful?” And I remember standing there, trying to make sense of that sentence. Yes, I had done something for him. A small gesture. Ordered breakfast when he was having a rough time. But no message. No call. No proper acknowledgment. Nothing. He assumed I knew. I didn’t. And that relationship slowly died—because silence, even when coated with good intentions, can feel like neglect. The Kenyan Gratitude Gap I’ve lived here most of my life. I know how kind we can be. But I also know how emotionally lazy we’ve become when it comes to expressing thanks. We think gratitude is a formality. Or maybe a weakness. Or maybe we just never learned. We assume: Saying "thank you" is enough. People should know we appreciate them. Kindness doesn't need follow-up. But here's the truth: not all thank-yous are created equal . You can't say “thanks” for a life raft the same way you do for a bottle of water. Scenario ...