KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

When a child says they want to be a teacher, a mother, a secretary, and then a singer — all in one lifetime — we smile. We find it adorable. Imaginative. But somewhere along the way, we stop smiling. We start demanding clarity, cohesion, a single label. We forget how expansive it is to be alive. In a world obsessed with consistency, we have made change look like betrayal. We question those who shift — in career, in belief, in appearance, in voice. Influencers are called sellouts. Politicians are labelled flip-floppers. Everyday people feel ashamed for outgrowing dreams that no longer fit. But what if we honored change as a natural part of being human? Why We Struggle With Change From a young age, we are taught to specialize, to narrow down, to “figure it out.” The Kenyan education system reinforces this with its early sorting into career tracks. Society praises clarity — the student who knew they wanted to be a doctor since they were six, the entrepreneur who never wavered. And yet, ve...

To understand Kenya’s modern state, one must begin with Jomo Kenyatta. A towering figure — both in memory and myth — Kenyatta remains one of Africa’s most enigmatic founding fathers. Celebrated as a nationalist hero and decried as an architect of elite rule, his story is both a mirror and blueprint of the nation he helped shape. But who was Jomo Kenyatta, really? Not the statue on Kenyatta Avenue. Not the name on currency or airports. But the man — Kamau wa Muigai — who lived through cultural dislocation, colonial violence, exile, and nation-making. What shaped his beliefs? What did he dream, fear, protect — and betray? This is not just his biography. It is an inquiry into the psychology, contradictions, and legacies of a man who became both a father of a nation and a guardian of a system. A Boy Without a Father, A Nation Without a Future Kenyatta was born as Kamau wa Ngengi around 1897 in Gatundu, in the heart of Kikuyu country. His father died early, and this absence would remain a ...

Some long for fame, others for quiet praise — but most of us, in some way or another, want to be seen. Not just acknowledged, but witnessed. Validated. Held in the awareness of others. It shows up in the photos we take, the statuses we draft, even in how we frame our experiences: “If no one knows I did it, did it really matter?” In today’s world — even here in Kenya, where not everyone lives online — the urge to live for the gaze of others is quietly embedded in everyday life. We plan, curate, and sometimes even feel experiences more intensely when we imagine someone else is watching. But what would life feel like if no one was? Can we truly exist without performing ourselves? 1. From Childhood Applause to Adult Validation It’s tempting to blame the usual suspects — Instagram, YouTube, influencer culture. But the craving to be seen started long before platforms. It’s planted in childhood. The child who is applauded for being clever, articulate, or entertaining. The student who shines a...

Most of us are performing. Not just online — but in our clothes, our conversations, our spending, our silence. We perform for our families, our neighbors, our peers. We perform for strangers on Instagram and for classmates we haven’t spoken to in years. We perform to say, “I made it,” even when we haven’t. We perform to hide the hustle, the loans, the grief, the shame. In Kenya, to look like you’re struggling is often worse than to actually struggle. So we signal. With shoes, with weddings, with cars, with captions. Because dignity — here — is something you must display to be allowed to keep. We borrowed the car, we leased the house, Took the loan, wore the lace, smiled for the photos. Just to whisper to the world — I am not the struggle I came from. When Dignity Must Be Displayed In Kenya, poverty is more than economic — it is a social stigma, a public shame. Many of us are not just trying to escape hardship, we are trying to escape the look of it. In a society where ...