KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

There are days when I wonder whether the writer of Ecclesiastes was onto something when he sighed that there is nothing new under the sun . At the time, it must have sounded like resignation. A philosophical shrug. But lately, it feels less like an ancient lament and more like a modern diagnosis. I keep finding myself suspended in a haze of déjà vu — not in the mystical, life-has-a-hidden-meaning way, but in the weary, haven’t I seen this before? way. Books that once thrilled me now feel like rewritten copies of each other. Music releases sound like echoes of echoes. Cinema has become a carousel of remakes, sequels, and universes. Even ordinary experiences — a restaurant, a holiday, a new trend — seem to come prepackaged in familiar shapes. It’s not that people have stopped creating. It’s that everything is arriving so quickly, and so often, that our senses no longer have time to recover. We are being fed variety in form but sameness in spirit. Modern life accelerates experience ...

For the past month, I’ve been watching Netflix — something I rarely do. I don’t subscribe to entertainment platforms; I don’t binge shows; I don’t keep up. But this month, I scrolled, sampled, and let myself be carried through the endless conveyor belt of content. And somewhere between dating shows, scripted drama, and predictable plots, I realized something unsettling: so much of what we call “entertainment” isn’t reflecting life — it’s scripting it. The stories may look different, but the messaging is the same. A dating show in Los Angeles echoes one in Brazil, which mirrors one filmed in South Africa. And the formula hardly shifts: alcohol, tension, betrayal, temptation, chaos. Reality TV is not reality — it’s a machine of engineered dysfunction dressed as modern love. What surprised me wasn’t the drama. It was the consistency. Why do all these shows rely on the same emotional ingredients? Why is alcohol a permanent character? Why is infidelity an expectation rather than a...

Everyone says they want the truth — until it disagrees with them. Then suddenly it’s fake news, bad energy, or “a hater.” We love truth the way we love kale smoothies: in theory. It looks noble from a distance, but up close, it tastes like discomfort. The truth is elusive because it knows where to hide. It’s been studying us for centuries. It knows we get defensive, that we protect our pride like property, that we prefer a comforting lie to an inconvenient fact. So it hides in plain sight — right behind the thing we don’t want to hear. We live in an age where opinions travel faster than facts, where outrage is a national hobby, and where every WhatsApp group has at least one self-declared expert. The internet was supposed to make us wiser, but it just made our arguments louder. You can Google anything now — except humility. Truth has learned to adapt. It used to live in libraries and classrooms, but now it’s forced to rent space between conspiracy theories and motivational reels. It...

The other day, I read a Kenyan novel titled Sinners by Sarah Haluwa. It’s a bold book, layered with intimate scenes and themes that don’t shy away from the subject of sex. Once I was done, I shared it with two people, one of them my cousin. Both came back with the same verdict: filth. That word struck me. Filth. It’s not the first time I’ve heard Kenyans use such language. For a country where sex is ever-present — in our music, our comedy skits, on TikTok dances, in whispered gossip, and in the quiet confessions of “mpango wa kando” culture — how is it that we also consider it shameful, dirty, and even demonic? The contradiction we live in On one hand, our entertainment industry thrives on sexual innuendo. The most streamed songs are often laced with it. Content creators know that scandal sells; anything suggestive will rack up views. Advertisers slip it in subtly to grab attention. In private conversations, too, sexual humor dominates. Yet when sex is written into literature, wh...

“Sometimes the most extraordinary lives are the ones lived most quietly.” – Unknown The other day, I found myself reading the obituary of someone I grew up around. We had gone to the same church, lived in the same neighborhood, but to be honest, I don’t remember him clearly. His face is vague in my memory, his presence faint. And yet, as I read the words written about him — especially the tribute from his two brothers — I was startled. Their words painted a picture of a life lived with meaning: quiet joy, steady love, and the kind of fulfillment that doesn’t always make itself visible to the world. I was shocked, though I didn’t fully understand why at first. Perhaps it’s because I had unconsciously absorbed the belief that a life worth remembering must look a certain way — marked by wealth , prestige , or visible achievements . We often expect fulfillment to carry recognizable markers: a celebrated career, material success , the kind of milestones that people point to with admiratio...

We are living in an era where the loudest anthem is: "I’m doing me.” It’s on our timelines, in our music, in our conversations. We’re constantly told: “Do what makes you happy,” “Protect your peace,” “Cut them off,” “No one owes anyone anything,” and “I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.” It sounds liberating — and in some ways, it is. For generations burdened by shame, tradition, and repression, choosing yourself can feel like rebellion, even survival. But something else is happening. A creeping culture of emotional detachment, hyper-individualism, and social numbness is taking root. And while it’s easy to chant “IDGAF” as a form of empowerment, it’s much harder to see when this same ideology begins to fracture communities, normalize selfishness, and erode our shared humanity. When Individualism Stops Being Empowering We’ve long been taught to conform — to the family name, to religion, to the community’s expectations. So when the pendulum swung and people started reclai...

In many Kenyan homes, love is rarely spoken. It is implied, assumed, or buried under layers of duty, discipline, sacrifice, or silence. Parents love their children, partners love each other, friends care deeply — but few say it, fewer show it boldly, and even fewer know how to receive it. Love, in this context, often feels like a secret: important but unspoken, present but repressed. It comes with caveats — be obedient, be strong, be quiet. For many, this upbringing makes the language of love feel foreign, even embarrassing. But what happens to a people who are never taught to name, receive, or offer love freely? And more importantly — how do we begin to change that? 1. The Emotional Landscape We Inherited Our cultural and generational inheritance around love is complicated. Colonial violence, economic hardship, patriarchal norms, and religious rigidity shaped how love was expressed — or not. Many parents focused on survival, not softness. Love was food on the table, school fees paid, ...

Somewhere along the way, friendship lost its place in our hierarchy of love. Once revered as one of life’s most sacred bonds — full of laughter, trust, grief, and growth — friendship has now become, in many people’s eyes, a placeholder. A liminal space. A waiting room for romance, or a fallback option if romantic attraction doesn’t materialize. We are overdue for a return — to honoring friendship as a complete, beautiful, and fulfilling connection in its own right. One that does not need to lead anywhere to matter. 1. What Happened to Friendship? In many cultures, including Kenya’s increasingly digital and performative spaces, emotional intimacy is now tightly bound to romance. If you're close to someone, especially of the opposite sex, it’s assumed there’s something more . We don’t trust people to love without agenda anymore. This confusion is not accidental. A few cultural and technological forces have shifted the way we view connection: Media saturation : Almost every movie, sho...

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 ...