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...
I came across a line recently that felt almost rude in its honesty: “The future doesn’t wait for permission.” My first thought was immediate and unfiltered — ain’t that the truth. We like to imagine the future as something that arrives when we are ready. When we have figured things out. When we feel brave enough, healed enough, secure enough. We negotiate with it silently: just give me a little more time . But the future does not listen. It does not pause for clarity or courtesy. It keeps coming, indifferent to our readiness. We often behave as though life is waiting on us — waiting for the right decision, the right confidence, the right moment. As though there is a holding pattern somewhere, a pause button we can press while we gather ourselves. But days pass. Seasons change. Bodies age. Situations evolve. The future takes shape regardless of our hesitation. This is not always dramatic. Most of the time, it is quiet. It looks like routines continuing while dissatisfaction grows ...