The Roads We Refuse to Learn

When I do take an Uber or Bolt, I’m always struck by how different the experiences can be. Same direction, sometimes even the same time of day — yet never the same ride. Some drivers are masters of the road. They anticipate traffic before it builds, weave through shortcuts with ease, and carry an almost instinctive knowledge of the city. Others, though, seem completely lost. They rely entirely on Google Maps, miss obvious turns, and sometimes admit they’re not familiar with the area at all.

One driver once told me he had just dropped a passenger nearby and was simply hoping to catch another fare before heading back to his side of town. Another revealed something surprising: the app itself often works against them. Sometimes a ride request goes to drivers far away while those parked just around the corner never get it — or see it too late. He even insisted that the type of phone a driver owns can determine how quickly requests appear.

So here we are: the same job, the same cars, yet such different outcomes. And it made me wonder — why choose a profession that depends on knowing the roads yet never invest in learning them?

Maybe part of the answer lies in convenience. These apps, and the ever-present Google Maps, have made it easy to assume you don’t need to know much. After all, why memorize when your phone will tell you? Why master when you can follow instructions? But there’s a hidden cost. Reliance on convenience has made many of us lazy. It has dulled the curiosity to explore, the discipline to study, and the confidence that comes from knowing your craft inside out.

Take the old-school taxi drivers, for example — the ones who used to park at designated stages before Uber and Bolt came along. Those men were encyclopedias of the city. They knew not just the main roads, but the backstreets, the traffic rhythms, even which corners got flooded after heavy rain. No Google Maps. Just years of attention, practice, and pride in their skill. Riding with them, you felt safe because they were masters, not just operators.

In contrast, many modern app-based drivers are simply moving cars. The app tells them where to go, and they obey. The knowledge of the city — once a badge of honor for any driver — has become optional, even irrelevant. And maybe that’s what unsettles me: the very tool designed to make us better is instead making us dependent.

But perhaps this is bigger than just driving. In life too, we are leaning on shortcuts, systems, and gadgets to do the work we once took pride in doing ourselves. We confuse showing up with being skilled, activity with mastery. We take comfort in the idea that we can “get by” without digging deeper, without learning our roads.

We like to say Kenyans are hardworking. But maybe we need to question what “hardworking” means. Is it just hours on the job, or is it the discipline of learning, practicing, and improving until you’re excellent at what you do?

Every time I ride in those cars, I can’t help but ask myself: in how many areas of my own life am I like the Uber driver who won’t learn the city because Google Maps will do the work for him? How often am I relying on convenience instead of striving for mastery?

Because in the end, the real work — in driving, and in life — is not just keeping the car moving. It’s choosing to learn our roads.

Daniel Arap Moi — The Shadow and the Shepherd: A Deep Dive into Kenya’s Second President

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 ...

Not All Disabilities Are Visible

Some pain does not leave a mark. Some exhaustion does not show in the face. Some people are carrying weights that have no name, no diagnosis, and no outward sign. We are used to recognizing suffering only when it can be pointed to — a bandage, a crutch, a cast, a wound. Something we can see. But the human interior is its own world, and often, the heaviest struggles live there. The Quiet Work of Holding Yourself Together There are those who walk into a room smiling, contributing, present — and yet they are holding themselves together one breath at a time. Not because they are pretending, but because they have learned to live with what would overwhelm another person. Some battles are fought inside the mind: The slow grey of depression The relentless hum of anxiety The sudden, unbidden memory that takes the body back to a place it never wants to return The deep fatigue that sleep does not cure And yet, life continues. The world moves. The dishes still need to be wa...

Know Thyself: The Quiet Power of Naming Your Nature

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” — Carl Jung We live in a culture that equates good intentions with goodness, and ambition with ability. But very few people in Kenya—or anywhere—truly know what they are made of. We can name our qualifications and our dreams. But ask someone their vices or virtues, and they hesitate. Worse, they lie. The Danger of Self-Unawareness In Kenya today, many of us are wandering through life making choices—big, small, and irreversible—without truly understanding who we are. We end up in jobs we despise, relationships we shouldn’t be in, or positions of influence we aren’t emotionally or ethically equipped for. And at the root of this dysfunction is a simple truth: we don’t know ourselves. This is not a spiritual or abstract dilemma. It’s a deeply practical one. To know oneself is to understand your vices, your virtues, your weaknesses, and your strengths—not in a vague sense, but in detail. Let’s ge...

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