There is a question we rarely ask ourselves with complete honesty: What do you believe—and what habits does your belief produce? Most people can answer the first part easily. They can describe their beliefs, their values, their philosophies. They know what they stand for. They can explain the principles they claim guide their lives. But the second question is much harder. Because beliefs are easy to claim. Habits are harder to hide. And it is in our habits—especially the small, ordinary ones—that our true philosophy quietly reveals itself. A belief system means very little if it does not shape the smallest habits of everyday life. Not the grand gestures. Not the moments when others are watching. But the quiet decisions that happen in ordinary settings—shared spaces, everyday responsibilities, small interactions with the people around us. How we manage inconvenience. How we treat people who cannot benefit us. How we handle situations where restraint, fairness, or consideration...
What happens to a people who believe they should keep receiving without ever renewing? I’ve been house hunting lately, and it’s been a brutal mirror. Not just of Nairobi’s inflated rental prices or neglected plumbing, but of something much deeper and much more disturbing—our collective tolerance for decay, and our strange belief that once something starts giving, it should never stop… even if we do. You walk into a house in Kileleshwa or Karen going for 150K a month. The gates creak. The tiles are chipped. The kitchen cabinets look like they’ve survived three regimes. You mention a leaky sink and the caretaker shrugs. You’re expected to be grateful to live in a postcode, even if the house itself is crumbling. And this is not just about houses. It’s about us. This habit of milking without mending. Of expecting fruit from trees we never water. Of choosing inheritance over investment. It’s a quiet kind of national rot—and we’ve all played our part. Our strange national comfort with dec...