KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

A neighbor once told me, “Si unajua tu I’m grateful?” And I remember standing there, trying to make sense of that sentence. Yes, I had done something for him. A small gesture. Ordered breakfast when he was having a rough time. But no message. No call. No proper acknowledgment. Nothing. He assumed I knew. I didn’t. And that relationship slowly died—because silence, even when coated with good intentions, can feel like neglect. The Kenyan Gratitude Gap I’ve lived here most of my life. I know how kind we can be. But I also know how emotionally lazy we’ve become when it comes to expressing thanks. We think gratitude is a formality. Or maybe a weakness. Or maybe we just never learned. We assume: Saying "thank you" is enough. People should know we appreciate them. Kindness doesn't need follow-up. But here's the truth: not all thank-yous are created equal . You can't say “thanks” for a life raft the same way you do for a bottle of water. Scenario ...

I am seated at a restaurant tucked away in one of Kikuyu's serene corners. The kind of place that feels like a well-kept secret: quiet, clean, surrounded by trees, reasonably priced, and with genuinely good food. It checks all the boxes—except one. It is empty. And not just today. Most times I visit, I find it like this. Empty tables. Attentive but idle staff. A space waiting for energy, for life, for people. Why is it so quiet? Marketing? Maybe. Location? Could be. But maybe the real issue is this: When was the last time you indulged in a so-called “luxury” in Kenya? Let’s pause. Because this question isn't just about this restaurant. It's about the guitar class you dropped out of. The cozy coffee house you haven’t returned to. The art studio that shut down last month. The new hiking company that’s struggling to get bookings. The language school with amazing reviews but dwindling enrolments. We keep asking: “Why are small businesses in Kenya suffering?” But the harder, mor...

There’s a quote that says: "To understand something deeply human, you need to immerse yourself in the human experience." In Kenya today, many of us are detached from this experience—not only from others but also from ourselves. We perform life instead of living it. We chase survival or success but forget to feel. We go through heartbreak, loss, joy, and struggle without stopping to ask, _"What is this teaching me about being human?" What Is the Human Experience? The human experience is not just being alive. It is the full range of what it means to live with emotion, memory, choice, culture, struggle, and connection. It’s the smell of githeri on a cold day, the grief of burying a parent, the weight of regret, the joy of first love, the frustration of Nairobi traffic, the laughter at a matatu joke, the panic of a rent deadline, or the hope of a new chama cycle. It is pain, pleasure, confusion, beauty, ordinary moments, and deep resilience. To become a student of the ...

Behind every bare, fenced plot lies a story of a forest felled, a community displaced, or a species exiled. This is land speculation in Kenya. In Kenya, owning land is more than a milestone—it’s a rite of passage. Advertisements promise “affordable plots with ready title deeds,” targeting salaried urbanites and diaspora Kenyans. Entire WhatsApp groups are dedicated to the dream of landownership. But beneath the aspiration lies an uncomfortable truth: the booming land market is one of the most ethically neglected sectors in the country. 1. The Anatomy of Land Speculation in Kenya Land speculation refers to buying land not for use, but to hold it until the price appreciates. It's widespread in areas like: Nanyuki: Once a pastoralist haven, now a checkerboard of idle gated plots. Kitengela and Joska: Transformed from community settlements into dusty subdivisions. Laikipia: Where wild animals are losing corridors to migration and survival. The Diaspora Factor Foreign ...

"It is not only what we do, but also what we do not do, for which we are accountable." — Molière I. The Promise of Profit Everywhere you turn in Kenya today, someone is encouraging you to invest. From financial influencers on TikTok to WhatsApp investment groups to that uncle who now owns three plots in Nanyuki — the message is loud and clear: "Don’t let your money sleep. Put it to work." We are living in the age of the investor. From TikTok to Telegram groups, from SACCO WhatsApp circles to finance podcasts, everyone seems to be an expert on how to grow your money. Bonds. Land. Money market funds. Buy shares. High yield apps. Crypto. Build apartments. Flip land.  And it sounds harmless. Who doesn’t want financial freedom, passive income, or generational wealth? But in our race to grow money, a hard question lurks in the shadows: Do we know where our money goes once we invest it? Do we care who or what it hurts on its way back to us as profit? II. A Brief H...

“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...

"The limits of my language mean the limits of my world." — Ludwig Wittgenstein In Kenya, we speak English and Kiswahili. Many of us have additional languages in our pockets — Sheng, mother tongues, workplace lingo, church expressions. But for all our speaking, many of us remain language-poor in the most crucial sense: we lack the words to describe our own lives. We grow up learning to speak but not always to name. And when you cannot name something, you cannot confront it. You live it, but you cannot explain it—not to yourself, not to others. This is not just a linguistic failure. It is a social, emotional, and even political danger. We do not lack opinions. We lack precision . We don’t lack feelings. We lack language to name them accurately. And when we don’t know the right word for what is happening, we misinterpret it, mislabel it, or worst of all — normalize it. Why Having the Right Word Matters Language is not just about grammar or vocabulary. It is about being seen a...