KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

"The limits of my language mean the limits of my world." — Ludwig Wittgenstein In Kenya, we speak English and Kiswahili. Many of us have additional languages in our pockets — Sheng, mother tongues, workplace lingo, church expressions. But for all our speaking, many of us remain language-poor in the most crucial sense: we lack the words to describe our own lives. We grow up learning to speak but not always to name. And when you cannot name something, you cannot confront it. You live it, but you cannot explain it—not to yourself, not to others. This is not just a linguistic failure. It is a social, emotional, and even political danger. We do not lack opinions. We lack precision . We don’t lack feelings. We lack language to name them accurately. And when we don’t know the right word for what is happening, we misinterpret it, mislabel it, or worst of all — normalize it. Why Having the Right Word Matters Language is not just about grammar or vocabulary. It is about being seen a...

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 ...

How do we find peace when our past still follows us around like a shadow? There’s a kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep can fix. It’s the kind that lives in the chest, not the bones. A heaviness born not from long days, but long memories—of what we did, what we didn’t do, what we should have said, what we can’t undo. In Kenya, we speak often about forgiveness in religious spaces. We quote Bible verses, sing worship songs, and talk about letting go. But in real life? We carry regret like it’s a form of atonement. We believe that if we suffer enough under the weight of what we did wrong, we’ll somehow earn peace. But what if real rest is learning to forgive yourself ?  “If I Had Just…” You know the script: If I had gone to visit before they died… If I had stayed in that marriage, maybe the kids would be okay… If I had gone for that job interview, I wouldn’t be struggling this much now… If I hadn’t snapped at my mum that day… Regret sounds like a constant ...