KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

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...

In Kenya , funerals are often not about truth. They are about performance. A drunkard becomes a “ community man .” An absent father becomes “a pillar of the family .” A corrupt politician is mourned as “a servant of the people .” And if someone dies violently, or after a long illness, the script shifts even more dramatically. Suddenly, all sins are erased. It doesn’t matter if they abandoned their children, exploited others, or lived recklessly . Their suffering — or the tragedy of their death — becomes a shield. We act as if pain in death cleanses pain they caused in life. But it doesn’t. How you died does not redeem how you lived. Cancer doesn’t rewrite your cruelty. A fatal accident doesn’t transform a selfish life into a noble one. Even being killed unjustly doesn’t wash away the harm you may have caused when you had power and choices. Suffering in death may make us feel pity, but it does not make you a saint. Why do we do this? Because it’s easier. It’s easier to package ...