We Are Willing to Risk Almost Everything for Money. We Are Just Unwilling to Risk Money for Almost Everything Else.

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...

We Are Willing to Risk Almost Everything for Money. We Are Just Unwilling to Risk Money for Almost Everything Else.

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.

Maybe I should just rest it.

Maybe it would go away on its own.

Maybe I was overreacting.

The strange thing is that none of those thoughts came from a place of logic.

They came from a place of money.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that my hesitation had very little to do with my foot.

It had everything to do with the way many of us think about money.

Because if someone offered me KES 20,000 to spend a week standing on an injured foot, I suspect most people would understand the temptation.

We routinely accept discomfort, exhaustion, and even physical harm in exchange for income.

What felt difficult was spending money to avoid those things.

And that is when a thought occurred to me:

We are willing to risk almost everything for money.

We are just unwilling to risk money for almost everything else.

Not long ago, I worked at a tile factory.

The money was decent.

The dust was not.

My eyes were constantly tearing. The noise was relentless. Sleep became difficult.

I heard stories of people in their twenties already struggling with back problems.

The consequences were not hypothetical. They were happening in real time.

Yet very few people talked about leaving.

Again, I understood why.

Rent still needed to be paid.

Food still needed to be bought.

Life in Kenya does not pause simply because a job is taking a toll on your body.

The paycheck made the sacrifice feel reasonable.

Necessary, even.

And perhaps that is what fascinates me.

We think of ourselves as risk-averse.

But are we?

Because risking your eyesight for a salary is a risk.

Risking your hearing for a salary is a risk.

Risking your sleep for a salary is a risk.

Risking your health for a salary is a risk.

We take those risks every day.

The question is why those risks feel responsible while spending money to protect ourselves feels extravagant.

Take mattresses.

Most people spend roughly a third of their lives in bed.

Yet many of us will sleep on a worn-out mattress for years.

We complain about neck pain, back pain, poor sleep, and constant fatigue.

We tell ourselves we will replace it next year.

Then the year after that.

A good mattress feels expensive.

The pain somehow feels affordable.

Or shoes.

Or pillows.

Or bras.

Or underwear.

Items we use every single day.

Items that directly affect our comfort, posture, sleep, mobility, and wellbeing.

People will tolerate years of discomfort rather than spend money replacing them.

Not because they do not matter.

Because spending money on them feels wasteful.

At least compared to the countless other things we convince ourselves are necessities.

To be fair, this mindset does not come from nowhere.

Kenya can be an unforgiving place.

Jobs disappear.

Businesses fail.

Medical emergencies wipe out savings.

A single financial setback can undo years of hard work.

People learn to be cautious because caution often keeps them afloat.

Money becomes more than money.

It becomes safety.

Protection.

Security.

Proof that you will be okay.

I understand that fear because I am living with it myself.

I recently left a job without another one lined up.

The anxiety is real.

The temptation to prioritize income above everything else is real.

Which is why I understand exactly why a KES 5,000 consultation fee can feel harder than walking around with an injured foot.

But perhaps that is the contradiction we do not talk about enough.

Money is supposed to be a tool.

A tool for protecting our health.

A tool for improving our quality of life.

A tool for preserving the things we value.

Yet somewhere along the way, many of us started treating the tool as more important than the things it was meant to protect.

We hesitate to spend money on our bodies.

We hesitate to spend money on our comfort.

We hesitate to spend money on prevention.

We hesitate to spend money on maintenance.

And then we spend years paying for the consequences.

The older I get, the more I think that value is revealed less by what we say and more by what we are willing to sacrifice.

Most people would tell you that their health is important.

I certainly would.

Yet there I was, trying to convince myself that an aching foot could wait because spending money on it felt uncomfortable.

That realization has stayed with me.

Because perhaps the real question is not what we value.

The real question is what we are willing to pay to protect it.

And whether we have become so accustomed to sacrificing ourselves for money that spending money on ourselves now feels like the greater risk.

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 ...

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The Great Kenyan Home Ownership Madness: Dreams vs. Reality

Owning a home is a big dream for many Kenyans, but somewhere along the way, practicality has been thrown out the window. Too many people, driven by childhood aspirations or societal expectations, are constructing massive houses only to end up living like misers within them. Let’s break down why this trend makes little sense and what smarter, more sustainable homeownership looks like. The Harsh Reality of Owning a Big House in Kenya Many Kenyans, especially those who grew up in humble backgrounds, grew up being told to “dream big.” Unfortunately, this has translated into building unnecessarily large houses, often with rooms that remain unused, multiple verandahs gathering dust, and massive balconies that no one actually sits on. These houses cost millions to build, yet within a few years, the owners are struggling to maintain them, regretting their choices as they pour more money into renovations. If you need proof, just look at how many old houses in Nairobi remain unsold. No one wants...

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