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Our Attention Is Finite

Our attention is finite, yet we spend it everywhere but where it matters. This is not a moral failure. It is a structural one. Attention economics is the idea that in a world overflowing with information, human attention becomes the scarce resource. Whoever captures it, holds power. Over time, this has reshaped not just markets, but inner lives. What we notice. What we ignore. What we can tolerate. What we can no longer sit with. For a long time, people warned that television would rot our brains. In hindsight, television looks almost generous. A show required you to stay for forty minutes. A film asked for two hours. A detective story invited you to notice details, to remember names, to hold multiple threads in your mind at once. You watched. You followed. You waited. Listening to music meant staying long enough to learn lyrics. Reading meant sitting with confusion until meaning arrived. Writing a poem meant wrestling with language, not skimming it. Even boredom had a purpose—it ...

Going Home for Christmas, or Staying Away from What We’ve Redefined

Words shape perception. And perception shapes experience. When we misuse words, we misinterpret our lives. In recent years, one word has been quietly overused, stretched thin, and emptied of nuance: burden . We use it casually — to describe family obligations, shared living, hosting relatives, contributing to a household, showing up when resources are limited. But what if some of what we call burdens are not burdens at all, but moments misread through the wrong lens? Perhaps the problem is not the situation, but the definition we bring to it. Nowhere is this more evident than in the slowly fading tradition of going home for Christmas . Increasingly, people choose not to go. Not because they do not love their families, but because home has become associated with expectation, financial strain, judgment, and quiet measurement. Who has made it. Who hasn’t. Who is contributing enough. Who is costing too much. Family, once anchored in presence, protection, and shared life, has gradually...

Learning to Love Out Loud: Gently Exposing Ourselves to Love in a Culture That Hides It

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, ...

Legacy Denied: Why We Don’t Pass the Baton in Kenyan Families

We marvel at the wealth of dynasties abroad and wonder how empires are built. Yet right here in Kenya, we bury thriving businesses with our parents. From duka za mtaa to five-acre farms, from mitumba stalls to successful mjengo supply chains—legacies are abandoned, forgotten, or intentionally shut out. Why? “In Kenya, we hustle hard for our children—then leave them out of the very thing we built for them.” Walk through Gikomba, Toi Market, or any roadside vibanda and you’ll see stories of Kenyan resilience stitched into every tarp, stall, and sack of waru. Businesses started out of desperation became lifelines. A woman begins selling mutumba clothes under a tree, and twenty years later, she owns three stalls. A man starts farming in Eldoret on inherited land and now supplies a local supermarket. A couple opens a kiosk in Umoja and expands into a mini wholesale outlet. The narrative is inspiring—until it ends abruptly. Not because the business wasn’t viable. Not because there wasn’t po...

Life After Survival: When the Struggle Ends, and You Don’t Know What to Do With Peace

In Kenya, survival is not just a phase—it becomes a personality. A way of life. We know how to stretch a coin, how to skip meals, how to walk instead of board, how to delay joy in service of something bigger. We know how to sacrifice . But no one ever teaches us how to stop . You fight to build a life. You give up weekends, comfort, health, joy— even yourself —so your child can finish school, so you can buy that plot, build that house, survive that disease, leave that bad marriage, or finally be free of the debt that has followed you like a shadow. Then the fight ends. The child graduates. The house is done. The cancer is in remission. The toxic relationship is over. The money finally makes sense. You made it. But now, you find yourself staring into the quiet… and you don’t know what to do with it. What Does It Mean to Live After You’ve Been in Survival Mode? A man once said, “I sacrificed everything so my children would have a better life. I don’t even know what I like anymor...

When the Storm Passes and We Keep Running: Why Kenyans Struggle to Be Still

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...

What Success Looks Like In Kenya VS. What It Actually Is

If you ask most Kenyans what success looks like, you’ll get a variety of answers, but somehow, they always boil down to three things: money, cars, and land. A Toyota Prado, a ka-small ka-mansion in the village, and the ability to pepper conversations with "I was in Dubai last week"—that’s success, right? But is it really? Here’s a breakdown of what many Kenyans think success is and what real success looks like in different aspects of life. 1. SUCCESS IN FAMILY & COMMUNITY What Kenyans Think: Hosting a big wedding where people eat for three days. Being called "Baba/Mama Nani" even when your kids don’t know what you do for a living. Your family showing up at every funeral, wedding, and hospital harambee just to be seen. What It Really Is: Being present for your kids—not just paying their fees but actually knowing their teachers. Raising children who don’t just wait for your burial to start fighting over land. Being that relative people can actually call when the...

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Daniel Arap Moi — The Shadow and the Shepherd: A Deep Dive into Kenya’s Second President

If Jomo Kenyatta was the founding father, Daniel Toroitich Arap Moi was the long-reigning stepfather — sometimes protective, often punitive, and almost always enigmatic. He ruled Kenya for 24 years, the longest of any president to date. To some, he was the gentle teacher, Mwalimu , who kept the nation from tearing apart. To others, he was the architect of a surveillance state, a master of patronage and fear, the man who perfected repression through calm. This is a portrait of Daniel Arap Moi — not just as a ruler, but as a man shaped by modest beginnings, colonial violence, and the hunger for order in a chaotic time. Early Life: The Boy from Sacho Daniel Arap Moi was born on September 2, 1924, in Kurieng’wo, Baringo, in Kenya’s Rift Valley. He came from the Tugen sub-group of the Kalenjin community. His father died when he was just four. Raised by his uncle, Moi’s early life was marked by hardship, discipline, and deep Christian missionary influence. He trained as a teacher at Tambach ...

Not All Disabilities Are Visible

Some pain does not leave a mark. Some exhaustion does not show in the face. Some people are carrying weights that have no name, no diagnosis, and no outward sign. We are used to recognizing suffering only when it can be pointed to — a bandage, a crutch, a cast, a wound. Something we can see. But the human interior is its own world, and often, the heaviest struggles live there. The Quiet Work of Holding Yourself Together There are those who walk into a room smiling, contributing, present — and yet they are holding themselves together one breath at a time. Not because they are pretending, but because they have learned to live with what would overwhelm another person. Some battles are fought inside the mind: The slow grey of depression The relentless hum of anxiety The sudden, unbidden memory that takes the body back to a place it never wants to return The deep fatigue that sleep does not cure And yet, life continues. The world moves. The dishes still need to be wa...

Know Thyself: The Quiet Power of Naming Your Nature

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” — Carl Jung We live in a culture that equates good intentions with goodness, and ambition with ability. But very few people in Kenya—or anywhere—truly know what they are made of. We can name our qualifications and our dreams. But ask someone their vices or virtues, and they hesitate. Worse, they lie. The Danger of Self-Unawareness In Kenya today, many of us are wandering through life making choices—big, small, and irreversible—without truly understanding who we are. We end up in jobs we despise, relationships we shouldn’t be in, or positions of influence we aren’t emotionally or ethically equipped for. And at the root of this dysfunction is a simple truth: we don’t know ourselves. This is not a spiritual or abstract dilemma. It’s a deeply practical one. To know oneself is to understand your vices, your virtues, your weaknesses, and your strengths—not in a vague sense, but in detail. Let’s ge...