KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

"Growing up, I saw everybody else fall in love. I saw Europeans fall in love. I saw Americans continuously fall in love. But I never saw Africans fall in love. I saw Africans procreate. I saw Africans affected by HIV and AIDS, but those weren't love stories." — Wanuri Kahiu, director of Rafiki Scene from Life: A couple walks down Moi Avenue. Their clothes match—both wearing bright Ankara prints, perfectly coordinated for Instagram. But their hands do not touch. Their eyes do not meet. Their bodies move parallel but emotionally distant. A child greets their father after school with a formal handshake. A teenage boy stiffens when his mother tries to hug him in public. A man buries his wife and never cries, because "men don't cry." We see the motions of love—weddings, gifts, romantic holidays—but rarely the soul of it. Rarely the warmth, the gentleness, the pause. We see couples. We don't see connection. The Myth of Taboo Somehow, we have come to believe ...

What happens when the people who once held our hands let go—not because we no longer need love or guidance, but because we’ve been labeled “grown”? In Kenya, like in many places, turning 18 often marks an emotional cutoff. Parents, weary from years of sacrifice, begin to emotionally and practically withdraw. Culturally, there is a sense that once you hit adulthood, you must figure things out on your own. The phrase "Umeshafika miaka kumi na nane, sasa ujipange" (you’re 18 now, figure it out) is spoken half-jokingly but reflects a serious truth. But what if the work of growing up isn’t about becoming completely independent, but about learning to become your own parent? The Great Withdrawal For many Kenyan adults, parental support is replaced with silence, judgement, or pressure to "perform adulthood" successfully. Struggling? You must be lazy. Confused? You must have taken the wrong course. Depressed? You must be ungrateful. Many parents are tired. Emotionally, finan...

  “Beware the bareness of a busy life,” Socrates once said. But what about the loudness of a distracted one? From matatus blaring vulgar music, to church keshas echoing through residential estates, to restaurants where conversation is a fight against speakers—it seems Kenya has made noise the background of everyday life. But what is this obsession with sound? What is all this noise trying to drown out? Noise as Culture, But Also as Coping Let’s be clear: noise has always had a place in Kenyan culture. Luo benga, Kikuyu folk tunes, Luhya drumming, Swahili taarab… music and sound are part of celebration, spirituality, and storytelling. But what we’re experiencing now is different. What we’re hearing now is not cultural expression—it’s emotional avoidance. The Psychology of Noise: What Are We Running From? 1. Noise and Loneliness We live in a time of increasing isolation. Nairobi apartments are filled with single occupants. Friendships are transactional. Family members drift emo...

They said time is money, So we sold our days To desks, deadlines, and duty. Now the clock ticks softer. The pace slows down. And we wonder— Can we afford to buy back What we gave so freely? Not to earn. Not to win. But just to live again. 1. The Paradox of Retirement in Kenya Retirement, in theory, is supposed to be a season of rest. A time to exhale. To spend mornings slowly, reconnect with loved ones, and revisit the parts of yourself that got lost in the hustle. But for many Kenyans, retirement looks like another job. We see people starting businesses immediately after leaving employment, becoming consultants, jumping into family obligations, or even relocating to their rural homes only to pick up farming or new responsibilities. Rest doesn’t feel earned—it feels guilty. Instead of enjoying time with grandkids, learning something new, or simply sitting with the self, many continue running. But what if retirement—and seasons like it—were not a signal to do more, but an invitation to ...

If you ask most Kenyans what success looks like, you’ll get a variety of answers, but somehow, they always boil down to three things: money, cars, and land. A Toyota Prado, a ka-small ka-mansion in the village, and the ability to pepper conversations with "I was in Dubai last week"—that’s success, right? But is it really? Here’s a breakdown of what many Kenyans think success is and what real success looks like in different aspects of life. 1. SUCCESS IN FAMILY & COMMUNITY What Kenyans Think: Hosting a big wedding where people eat for three days. Being called "Baba/Mama Nani" even when your kids don’t know what you do for a living. Your family showing up at every funeral, wedding, and hospital harambee just to be seen. What It Really Is: Being present for your kids—not just paying their fees but actually knowing their teachers. Raising children who don’t just wait for your burial to start fighting over land. Being that relative people can actually call when the...

Saturday is not just a day; it’s an institution, a sacred ritual, a non-negotiable asset in the life of every Kenyan. It’s the one day you get to reclaim your time, your peace, your sanity, and most importantly, your future. Yet, some of you are out here trading it away like sugarcane in a traffic jam. Let’s break it down, activity by activity, and show you why sacrificing this day is a robbery—committed by either your employer or by your own bad decisions. 1. Weddings: Where Futures Are Built (Or Broken) Saturday is for weddings, and in Kenya, a wedding is not just a wedding—it’s a financial networking seminar in disguise. You’re not just eating pilau and pretending to like the bride’s gown; you’re rubbing shoulders with people who might hire you, invest in your side hustle, or introduce you to a golden opportunity. Moral of the story: That salary your employer gives you? A single handshake at a wedding could bring you a contract that triples it. But you’re here working on a Saturday...