I am always late for work. There. I've said it. And the frustrating thing is that my lateness isn't caused by traffic or some unpredictable morning disaster. Most of the time, it is entirely my own doing. I wake up and make my coffee. Then I get back into bed, which is right by the window, cross my feet, face the window and slowly sip my coffee. And when I say slowly, I mean slowly. I look at the trees. I watch the birds. I feel the morning sun on my skin. Sometimes I just sit there with my thoughts. I really love these mornings. I've also noticed something else. When I give myself enough time in the morning, my body usually does what it needs to do. A slow morning often leads to a bowel movement, which, as far as I'm concerned, is one of the must-haves of starting my day. And so I find myself wishing for more time. More time to sit. More time to drink my coffee. More time to maybe get outside and do some yoga or mat Pilates on the grass while the sun is stil...
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...