There is something quietly fascinating about the human body that most of us rarely stop to notice. It knows how to stop. Drink water when you are thirsty, and at some point your body says “enough.” Not in words, but in feeling. You lose interest. The urge fades. Continuing becomes uncomfortable. Eat fruits or vegetables, and the same thing happens. There is a natural point of satisfaction. You do not need to negotiate with yourself. The body simply signals closure. Sleep works the same way. You cannot sleep indefinitely. At some point, you wake up rested or restless. Either way, the system resets itself. Even movement has limits. You can walk, run, or exercise—but fatigue eventually arrives. The body enforces balance without needing instruction. In many of the things that are good for us, there is a built-in stopping point. But modern life is not built the same way. Some of the most common experiences today do not naturally tell us when to stop. Scrolling does not end. Entert...
There is a disturbing moment in the novel Blindness by José Saramago when a man suddenly loses his sight while waiting at a traffic light. His blindness spreads quickly through the city. Drivers abandon their cars. Streets fall into chaos. Institutions crumble. Society begins to unravel. But the true horror of the novel is not the epidemic. It is the realization that the blindness did not begin with the disease. The blindness was already there. People could see. They navigated their lives, went to work, obeyed rules, and participated in society. Yet they failed to notice the fragile threads that hold a community together—responsibility, empathy, restraint. When those threads finally snapped, the collapse appeared sudden. In truth, it had been forming quietly for years. Sometimes I think about that when I look at everyday life in Kenya. We are remarkably skilled at diagnosing what is wrong with the country. Conversations are filled with sharp observations about corruption, inequ...