One of the easiest things in the world is to mistake an outcome for a story. A beautiful home. A thriving business. A failed marriage. A child in an expensive school. A forty-year-old with no savings. Someone who seems to have it all. Someone who appears to have fallen behind. We see the destination and instinctively begin filling in the journey. Hardworking. Lazy. Disciplined. Irresponsible. Lucky. Entitled. Deserving. Wasteful. Perhaps the most dangerous thing about human beings is not that we judge one another. It is how quickly we become certain that our judgment is correct. Because every life has invisible expenses. Not just financial ones. The kind that never appear on a bank statement or a résumé. Some are chosen. Some are imposed. Some are wise. Some are costly mistakes. Most are a complicated mixture of both. One person reaches middle age with very little savings because they spent years paying school fees for younger siblings. Another because they repeatedly made poor financi...
For many Kenyans, Daniel Arap Moi is a memory more than a leader. He is a face on television, a Bible in hand, a finger raised in proclamation. For some, he is the Nyayo milk — handed out after Friday classes, warm and sweet in its tiny pyramid-shaped packet. For others, he is the man who built schools, opened roads, attended harambees. And for many, he is the shadow behind the door, the reason voices were lowered, books banned, and dissent disappeared into Nyayo House. This is the paradox of the Moi era. We remember the milk, but not the manifesto. We remember the rituals, but not the roadmap. We remember the president — not the policies. A Leadership of Presence, Not Vision Moi’s leadership style was deeply personal. He traveled widely across the country. He touched hands. He attended funerals. He held rallies in remote villages. He was seen — and in being seen, he governed. But while his presence was deeply felt, his policy intentions often were not. He rarely spoke of a national vi...