KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

To watch a ballerina rise to principal dancer, a gymnast bend physics to her will, study a polyglot perfecting pronunciation across languages, or an academician write with generational clarity is to witness not just talent — but years of intentional sacrifice. These are not casual efforts. These are lives shaped by years — sometimes decades — of repetition, refinement, and surrender to the process. Mastery is a long road. It demands humility, sacrifice, obsession, and discipline. In many parts of the world, this is understood and honored. In contrast, many Kenyans seem to struggle with the idea of pursuing excellence for its own sake. We prize quick wins, virality, and visibility, often mistaking them for mastery. There is a growing entitlement, especially among creators, professionals, and young entrepreneurs. We want to be paid for mediocrity, compensated for showing up, and crowned for effort. This isn’t just a personal failure — it’s a cultural crisis. The Myth of Instant Geniu...

The Grand Coalition Government of 2008 was born out of national crisis — a desperate answer to a contested election and a country teetering on the edge of civil war. It was not a triumph, but a truce. And while it succeeded in restoring calm, the scars it left behind run deep and remain largely unhealed. For many, this was a turning point not just in politics, but in the national psyche. The choices made in that era continue to shape how Kenya governs, how it spends, how it reconciles — or fails to — and how we as individuals have come to fear conflict more than we demand accountability. A Deal That Changed Everything Brokered under international pressure after the disputed 2007 elections and the horrific post-election violence that followed, the Grand Coalition Government brought together political rivals Mwai Kibaki and Raila Odinga in an uneasy power-sharing agreement. On paper, it was a masterstroke of diplomacy. In practice, it was a bloated compromise that planted the idea that p...

When Mwai Kibaki swept into power in 2002 under the NARC coalition, Kenyans believed they were witnessing the end of an era — the closing of a dark chapter defined by Moi’s authoritarianism and entrenched corruption. The promise was clear: zero tolerance on corruption. The optimism was real. Kenya was ready to turn the page. And for a moment, it looked like we had. Kibaki’s administration took bold first steps — reviving key institutions, appointing reformists, and increasing transparency in public finance. But soon, familiar shadows crept back. The Anglo Leasing scandal broke, key whistleblowers were silenced, and the dream of a clean government dimmed. This is the story of a president who tried to fight corruption — and of the system that resisted, reshaped, and ultimately compromised that fight. The Reformist Promise Upon taking office, Kibaki created the Kenya Anti-Corruption Commission (KACC) and appointed respected legal mind Justice Aaron Ringera as its head. For the first time...

Mwai Kibaki often slips through the cracks of memory — not because he was invisible, but because his style was quiet, measured, and academic. A sharp contrast to the paternalism of Moi or the revolutionary tone of Kenyatta, Kibaki led like a man doing his job rather than building a legacy. But his impact on Kenya’s economic and institutional life is profound — and deeply complicated. This article explores Mwai Kibaki the man, the economist, the accidental reformer, and the reluctant politician — and how his presidency became a study in paradox: technocratic success shadowed by political violence. Early Life and Education: The Makerere Economist Born on November 15, 1931, in Gatuyaini, Othaya, Kibaki was raised in a devout Kikuyu family. Unlike Kenyatta or Moi, Kibaki didn’t carry the wounds of early loss or deep poverty — though his upbringing was modest. He attended Mang’u High School and later Makerere University in Uganda, where he studied economics, political science, and history. ...

We are living in an era where the loudest anthem is: "I’m doing me.” It’s on our timelines, in our music, in our conversations. We’re constantly told: “Do what makes you happy,” “Protect your peace,” “Cut them off,” “No one owes anyone anything,” and “I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.” It sounds liberating — and in some ways, it is. For generations burdened by shame, tradition, and repression, choosing yourself can feel like rebellion, even survival. But something else is happening. A creeping culture of emotional detachment, hyper-individualism, and social numbness is taking root. And while it’s easy to chant “IDGAF” as a form of empowerment, it’s much harder to see when this same ideology begins to fracture communities, normalize selfishness, and erode our shared humanity. When Individualism Stops Being Empowering We’ve long been taught to conform — to the family name, to religion, to the community’s expectations. So when the pendulum swung and people started reclai...

For many Kenyans, Daniel Arap Moi is a memory more than a leader. He is a face on television, a Bible in hand, a finger raised in proclamation. For some, he is the Nyayo milk — handed out after Friday classes, warm and sweet in its tiny pyramid-shaped packet. For others, he is the man who built schools, opened roads, attended harambees. And for many, he is the shadow behind the door, the reason voices were lowered, books banned, and dissent disappeared into Nyayo House. This is the paradox of the Moi era. We remember the milk, but not the manifesto. We remember the rituals, but not the roadmap. We remember the president — not the policies. A Leadership of Presence, Not Vision Moi’s leadership style was deeply personal. He traveled widely across the country. He touched hands. He attended funerals. He held rallies in remote villages. He was seen — and in being seen, he governed. But while his presence was deeply felt, his policy intentions often were not. He rarely spoke of a national vi...

If Jomo Kenyatta was the founding father, Daniel Toroitich Arap Moi was the long-reigning stepfather — sometimes protective, often punitive, and almost always enigmatic. He ruled Kenya for 24 years, the longest of any president to date. To some, he was the gentle teacher, Mwalimu , who kept the nation from tearing apart. To others, he was the architect of a surveillance state, a master of patronage and fear, the man who perfected repression through calm. This is a portrait of Daniel Arap Moi — not just as a ruler, but as a man shaped by modest beginnings, colonial violence, and the hunger for order in a chaotic time. Early Life: The Boy from Sacho Daniel Arap Moi was born on September 2, 1924, in Kurieng’wo, Baringo, in Kenya’s Rift Valley. He came from the Tugen sub-group of the Kalenjin community. His father died when he was just four. Raised by his uncle, Moi’s early life was marked by hardship, discipline, and deep Christian missionary influence. He trained as a teacher at Tambach ...

When a child says they want to be a teacher, a mother, a secretary, and then a singer — all in one lifetime — we smile. We find it adorable. Imaginative. But somewhere along the way, we stop smiling. We start demanding clarity, cohesion, a single label. We forget how expansive it is to be alive. In a world obsessed with consistency, we have made change look like betrayal. We question those who shift — in career, in belief, in appearance, in voice. Influencers are called sellouts. Politicians are labelled flip-floppers. Everyday people feel ashamed for outgrowing dreams that no longer fit. But what if we honored change as a natural part of being human? Why We Struggle With Change From a young age, we are taught to specialize, to narrow down, to “figure it out.” The Kenyan education system reinforces this with its early sorting into career tracks. Society praises clarity — the student who knew they wanted to be a doctor since they were six, the entrepreneur who never wavered. And yet, ve...

To understand Kenya’s modern state, one must begin with Jomo Kenyatta. A towering figure — both in memory and myth — Kenyatta remains one of Africa’s most enigmatic founding fathers. Celebrated as a nationalist hero and decried as an architect of elite rule, his story is both a mirror and blueprint of the nation he helped shape. But who was Jomo Kenyatta, really? Not the statue on Kenyatta Avenue. Not the name on currency or airports. But the man — Kamau wa Muigai — who lived through cultural dislocation, colonial violence, exile, and nation-making. What shaped his beliefs? What did he dream, fear, protect — and betray? This is not just his biography. It is an inquiry into the psychology, contradictions, and legacies of a man who became both a father of a nation and a guardian of a system. A Boy Without a Father, A Nation Without a Future Kenyatta was born as Kamau wa Ngengi around 1897 in Gatundu, in the heart of Kikuyu country. His father died early, and this absence would remain a ...

Every five years, Kenyans line up to vote. Some do so out of hope, others out of habit, and many out of resignation. We listen to speeches, wear campaign colors, chant slogans — and yet, we often know so little about the people we hand our future to. This isn’t just about ignorance. It’s about a missing culture of inquiry. Many Kenyans can name the latest scandal, meme, or insult traded between politicians. But ask what shaped our presidents — their upbringing, education, ideologies, patterns of power — and we draw blanks. We know of them, but we don’t know them . That’s not a small oversight. It’s a national vulnerability. Why This Series Matters Now We are in a crucial moment in Kenya’s story. The economy is fragile. Public trust is eroding. Youth unemployment is high. Tribal divisions linger. Corruption festers. And yet — the same types of leaders keep emerging. Why? Because we don’t truly scrutinize the roots of power. We focus on the surface: accents, slogans, tribe, party. But ...

In many Kenyan homes, love is rarely spoken. It is implied, assumed, or buried under layers of duty, discipline, sacrifice, or silence. Parents love their children, partners love each other, friends care deeply — but few say it, fewer show it boldly, and even fewer know how to receive it. Love, in this context, often feels like a secret: important but unspoken, present but repressed. It comes with caveats — be obedient, be strong, be quiet. For many, this upbringing makes the language of love feel foreign, even embarrassing. But what happens to a people who are never taught to name, receive, or offer love freely? And more importantly — how do we begin to change that? 1. The Emotional Landscape We Inherited Our cultural and generational inheritance around love is complicated. Colonial violence, economic hardship, patriarchal norms, and religious rigidity shaped how love was expressed — or not. Many parents focused on survival, not softness. Love was food on the table, school fees paid, ...

We live in a world that prizes exclusivity — not just in material goods, but in matters of the heart. From romantic relationships to best friends, we’ve built emotional territories: this one is mine, that one is yours. But what if this idea is flawed? What if human beings are wired not for emotional possession, but for layered, plural, and dynamic connections? This article explores the tension between emotional connection and exclusivity — and questions whether our current cultural expectations align with how humans actually experience closeness. 1. The Roots of Emotional Exclusivity Many of us grow up learning that love, loyalty, and intimacy must be contained. We hear things like: “You can only have one best friend.” “If you love someone, you shouldn’t need anyone else.” “Emotional cheating is still cheating.” These statements reflect a belief that deep connection is a zero-sum game: that love given elsewhere is love taken away. But the heart doesn’t function like a bank account. Con...

Some long for fame, others for quiet praise — but most of us, in some way or another, want to be seen. Not just acknowledged, but witnessed. Validated. Held in the awareness of others. It shows up in the photos we take, the statuses we draft, even in how we frame our experiences: “If no one knows I did it, did it really matter?” In today’s world — even here in Kenya, where not everyone lives online — the urge to live for the gaze of others is quietly embedded in everyday life. We plan, curate, and sometimes even feel experiences more intensely when we imagine someone else is watching. But what would life feel like if no one was? Can we truly exist without performing ourselves? 1. From Childhood Applause to Adult Validation It’s tempting to blame the usual suspects — Instagram, YouTube, influencer culture. But the craving to be seen started long before platforms. It’s planted in childhood. The child who is applauded for being clever, articulate, or entertaining. The student who shines a...

Somewhere along the way, friendship lost its place in our hierarchy of love. Once revered as one of life’s most sacred bonds — full of laughter, trust, grief, and growth — friendship has now become, in many people’s eyes, a placeholder. A liminal space. A waiting room for romance, or a fallback option if romantic attraction doesn’t materialize. We are overdue for a return — to honoring friendship as a complete, beautiful, and fulfilling connection in its own right. One that does not need to lead anywhere to matter. 1. What Happened to Friendship? In many cultures, including Kenya’s increasingly digital and performative spaces, emotional intimacy is now tightly bound to romance. If you're close to someone, especially of the opposite sex, it’s assumed there’s something more . We don’t trust people to love without agenda anymore. This confusion is not accidental. A few cultural and technological forces have shifted the way we view connection: Media saturation : Almost every movie, sho...