KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

Everyone says they want the truth — until it disagrees with them. Then suddenly it’s fake news, bad energy, or “a hater.” We love truth the way we love kale smoothies: in theory. It looks noble from a distance, but up close, it tastes like discomfort. The truth is elusive because it knows where to hide. It’s been studying us for centuries. It knows we get defensive, that we protect our pride like property, that we prefer a comforting lie to an inconvenient fact. So it hides in plain sight — right behind the thing we don’t want to hear. We live in an age where opinions travel faster than facts, where outrage is a national hobby, and where every WhatsApp group has at least one self-declared expert. The internet was supposed to make us wiser, but it just made our arguments louder. You can Google anything now — except humility. Truth has learned to adapt. It used to live in libraries and classrooms, but now it’s forced to rent space between conspiracy theories and motivational reels. It...

  There’s a line I came across that I haven’t been able to forget: " In some ways, wealth simply means paying attention to the prices you pay." It sounds simple, almost obvious. But when you really think about it — it’s quietly revolutionary. Because we Kenyans, like much of the world, are always paying. We pay in shillings, in time, in stress, in sleep, in borrowed peace. And most times, we do it without noticing. The tragedy isn’t that life is expensive — it’s that we don’t realize what it’s truly costing us. The Hidden Prices We Pay We live in a world that constantly tells us what we should want. The right phone. The right shoes. The right wedding. The right image of success. We nod along, swipe the card, take the loan, and promise ourselves we’ll figure it out later. Because everyone else seems to be doing the same. But everything has a price. That phone upgrade may cost you your emergency fund. That flashy lifestyle may cost you your peace of mind. That “soft ...

Inspired by Martin Niemöller’s haunting poem “First They Came…” , this article explores how silence and apathy shape Kenyan society — and why empathy and moral courage matter more than ever. The Poem That Still Speaks There’s a haunting poem that has echoed through decades, written by a German pastor named Martin Niemöller after World War II. It’s a poem about silence — about how people stand by as others suffer, believing that what happens to someone else doesn’t concern them. "First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me." Niemöller’s words were born in a dark time, but they still ring true — even here, even now. Because in many ways, we Kenyans have mastered the art of looking away . ...

Spend a few minutes on Kenyan Reddit and you may walk away with the impression that every Kenyan earns upwards of KES 200,000, invests like a Wall Street trader, and casually thinks in U.S. dollars. Even when the topic is as grounded as rent in Kariobangi or the price of a phone, the responses often come wrapped in financial flexes. Dollars are quoted in a shilling economy, salaries inflated, and investments exaggerated. At first, it seems amusing, but the more you read, the more unsettling it becomes. If this is the digital space that Google increasingly serves us when we search for Kenyan solutions, what does it mean when exaggeration becomes the dominant voice of Kenyan reality online? The Performance of Wealth Kenyan Reddit thrives on a kind of performance. To admit to struggle, ordinary earnings, or living a simple life often attracts derision. For men especially, there is relentless pressure to appear financially successful. To be broke, or even to suggest that relationships m...

There is something strange happening in Kenya’s YouTube world . A creator grows an audience, builds a loyal following, sometimes even becomes a household name—and then they disappear. No goodbye, no explanation, just silence. The channel remains, frozen in time, while subscribers remain subscribed, faithfully waiting. Unsubscribing from a channel takes less than a minute. Yet, somehow, it feels impossible for many Kenyans to press that button. Why? The Illusion of Relationship Part of it is the false sense of relationship we form with creators. In the comments you see it: “Any Kenyans here?” “I’m first today!” “Me coming back from work, dropping everything to watch.” These are not just casual comments. They reveal something deeper: people tying creators into the rhythms of their daily lives. The notification bell becomes a companion. The video becomes an evening ritual. The creator becomes, in some sense, a friend. So when a creator disappears, unsubscribing feels like...

The other day, I read a Kenyan novel titled Sinners by Sarah Haluwa. It’s a bold book, layered with intimate scenes and themes that don’t shy away from the subject of sex. Once I was done, I shared it with two people, one of them my cousin. Both came back with the same verdict: filth. That word struck me. Filth. It’s not the first time I’ve heard Kenyans use such language. For a country where sex is ever-present — in our music, our comedy skits, on TikTok dances, in whispered gossip, and in the quiet confessions of “mpango wa kando” culture — how is it that we also consider it shameful, dirty, and even demonic? The contradiction we live in On one hand, our entertainment industry thrives on sexual innuendo. The most streamed songs are often laced with it. Content creators know that scandal sells; anything suggestive will rack up views. Advertisers slip it in subtly to grab attention. In private conversations, too, sexual humor dominates. Yet when sex is written into literature, wh...

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, ye...

In Kenya , funerals are often not about truth. They are about performance. A drunkard becomes a “ community man .” An absent father becomes “a pillar of the family .” A corrupt politician is mourned as “a servant of the people .” And if someone dies violently, or after a long illness, the script shifts even more dramatically. Suddenly, all sins are erased. It doesn’t matter if they abandoned their children, exploited others, or lived recklessly . Their suffering — or the tragedy of their death — becomes a shield. We act as if pain in death cleanses pain they caused in life. But it doesn’t. How you died does not redeem how you lived. Cancer doesn’t rewrite your cruelty. A fatal accident doesn’t transform a selfish life into a noble one. Even being killed unjustly doesn’t wash away the harm you may have caused when you had power and choices. Suffering in death may make us feel pity, but it does not make you a saint. Why do we do this? Because it’s easier. It’s easier to package ...

“Sometimes the most extraordinary lives are the ones lived most quietly.” – Unknown The other day, I found myself reading the obituary of someone I grew up around. We had gone to the same church, lived in the same neighborhood, but to be honest, I don’t remember him clearly. His face is vague in my memory, his presence faint. And yet, as I read the words written about him — especially the tribute from his two brothers — I was startled. Their words painted a picture of a life lived with meaning: quiet joy, steady love, and the kind of fulfillment that doesn’t always make itself visible to the world. I was shocked, though I didn’t fully understand why at first. Perhaps it’s because I had unconsciously absorbed the belief that a life worth remembering must look a certain way — marked by wealth , prestige , or visible achievements . We often expect fulfillment to carry recognizable markers: a celebrated career, material success , the kind of milestones that people point to with admiratio...

There’s a phrase I once stumbled upon: “A man without peace, money, and confidence will take yours.” At first, it sounded like one of those clever online snippets. But the more I thought about it, the more I saw its truth playing out in everyday life — in matatus , in relationships, in workplaces, and in families. The Man Without Peace Peace is not just the absence of war; it’s the ability to live with yourself without projecting your chaos onto others. A man who has no inner peace will disrupt yours. He will pick fights over small issues, stir unnecessary drama, and leave you feeling drained after every encounter. Think of the man who calls you ten times an hour, accusing you of things you haven’t done. Or the friend who is always restless, never content, constantly pulling you into his unresolved battles. His lack of stillness becomes your storm. The Man Without Money Money doesn’t define a person’s worth, but in its absence, especially where there is entitlement, it often be...

Survival is a word that carries dignity. To survive is to endure. To push through storms, scarcity, and chaos, and still stand. For many of us, it is the baseline of living: paycheck to paycheck , rent to rent , debt to debt . But survival, as noble as it sounds, has a hidden cost. And it is one we rarely calculate because we are too busy moving from one crisis to the next. Survival mode is not free—it drains imagination, steals joy, and shrinks the horizon of what we believe is possible. What Living in Survival Mode Does to the Mind When every day is about making it to the next, the brain rewires itself to focus only on the short term. Tomorrow becomes invisible. Dreams that once felt urgent are folded away in the dusty corners of the mind. Why plan for five years if you aren’t sure how you’ll pay this month’s bills? Why risk starting something new if you can barely hold on to what is in your hands? In this way, survival mode slowly erodes possibility. It convinces us that smal...

Why does doing the right thing feel like a punishment nowadays? You refuse “ chai ” and lose a tender. You return extra change and get a strange look. You speak up at work and become “difficult.” In a world that seems to reward shortcuts, spin, and spectacle, integrity can feel like a tax you pay while others speed past. And yet integrity has its own currency —quiet, slow, and hard to counterfeit. The problem is that most of us don’t keep both ledgers open. We see the immediate costs of being honest and miss the compounding returns. Let’s unpack how we got here, why integrity feels penalized, what its currency actually buys, and how to live it without becoming naïve—or bitter. How We Slid Into “Everything Is a Transaction” This didn’t happen overnight. Three long arcs converged: From community to market: As life monetized—education, healthcare, even celebrations—more decisions became price-tag decisions. When money mediates everything, “what works” often beats “what’s right.” ...