KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

We like to imagine that truth is buried deep, hidden away like a secret treasure waiting for the chosen few to uncover it. We search in books, in mysteries, in whispers of what might be. Yet often, the truth is not hidden at all — it comes from visible sources. It is there, plain as daylight, though our eyes and hearts may not always want to recognize it. Think about the people around us. How many times has someone’s behavior told us exactly who they are, but we chose to ignore it? The friend who only calls when they need something. The leader who speaks of service but lives in luxury at the people’s expense. The partner whose actions never match their words. We see these truths in plain sight, but we excuse them, cover them, or tell ourselves a different story. Later, when disappointment comes, we act surprised — yet the truth was always visible. Why then do we miss it? Part of it is human nature. We crave mystery. We want the comfort of believing that the truth is hidden somewhere ...

We all carry around a few maybes —those half-formed ideas and dreams that hover in the background, whispering that maybe one day, we'll take the plunge. Maybe I'll move out. Maybe I'll go back to school. Maybe I'll buy land in that quiet town. Maybe I'll cut ties with that draining friend. These thoughts are not always harmless. Some maybes haunt us for years, quietly costing us peace, time, clarity, or money. This article explores real, grounded examples of Kenyans wrestling with maybes—choices that linger, pull energy, and clutter our decision-making. And how, by eliminating a maybe—either by turning it into a solid yes or a firm no—we make space for clarity and progress. 1. Muthoni – The Maybe of Buying Land in Naivasha The Maybe: Muthoni had her eye on a piece of land in Naivasha for months. She envisioned weekend getaways, a tiny home, maybe even hosting creatives for retreats. The Cost of the Maybe: She spent months obsessively browsing listings, calculating...

There’s a kind of grief we rarely speak about in Kenya—the grief that comes not from loss, but from survival. Many Kenyans know what it’s like to give up entire decades of their lives for the sake of family. We raise children who aren’t ours. We care for ageing, ailing parents when healthcare fails. We build homes from scratch while still repaying loans. We battle court cases over family land, support siblings through school, and somehow still show up to work, church, harambees, and funerals with a smile. We are excellent at pushing through pain. We endure. We provide. We hold everything together. And so we often tell ourselves: “I’ll rest when I’m done.” But what if done never comes? Even after the chaos ends—the illness, the debt, the heartbreak—we don’t rest. We move the goalpost. We chase another opportunity. We dream of new lands and new starts. We keep running, because stillness feels foreign. We are a nation that knows how to hustle, how to survive—but we don’t know how t...