KenyaOnAShoeString

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 ...

When Mwai Kibaki swept into power in 2002 under the NARC coalition, Kenyans believed they were witnessing the end of an era — the closing of a dark chapter defined by Moi’s authoritarianism and entrenched corruption. The promise was clear: zero tolerance on corruption. The optimism was real. Kenya was ready to turn the page. And for a moment, it looked like we had. Kibaki’s administration took bold first steps — reviving key institutions, appointing reformists, and increasing transparency in public finance. But soon, familiar shadows crept back. The Anglo Leasing scandal broke, key whistleblowers were silenced, and the dream of a clean government dimmed. This is the story of a president who tried to fight corruption — and of the system that resisted, reshaped, and ultimately compromised that fight. The Reformist Promise Upon taking office, Kibaki created the Kenya Anti-Corruption Commission (KACC) and appointed respected legal mind Justice Aaron Ringera as its head. For the first time...

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...

What do you do when you’re told you’re dying—but you’re still needed? What do you say when the world tells you to ‘fight’ but your body is asking you to rest? In Kenya, death is still taboo. We bury it in jokes, euphemisms, and silence. We don’t prepare for it, even though it’s coming—for all of us. And for those who are sick—especially with terminal or chronic illnesses—it’s even harder to talk about. There’s pressure to "fight," to "be strong," to be a “cancer warrior.” But what if the bravest thing isn't fighting, but making peace? And yet, for a parent with young children, a single mother, a man providing for generations, how do you begin to make peace with death when you know the world may not be kind to those you leave behind? This is the emotional tension we must speak to. What Is Life, Really? The Kenyan Understanding vs. the Deeper Reality In Kenya, life is often defined by activity—movement, breath, work, hustle. That’s why we love the phrase “bor...