Our attention is finite, yet we spend it everywhere but where it matters. This is not a moral failure. It is a structural one. Attention economics is the idea that in a world overflowing with information, human attention becomes the scarce resource. Whoever captures it, holds power. Over time, this has reshaped not just markets, but inner lives. What we notice. What we ignore. What we can tolerate. What we can no longer sit with. For a long time, people warned that television would rot our brains. In hindsight, television looks almost generous. A show required you to stay for forty minutes. A film asked for two hours. A detective story invited you to notice details, to remember names, to hold multiple threads in your mind at once. You watched. You followed. You waited. Listening to music meant staying long enough to learn lyrics. Reading meant sitting with confusion until meaning arrived. Writing a poem meant wrestling with language, not skimming it. Even boredom had a purpose—it ...
I am seated at a restaurant tucked away in one of Kikuyu's serene corners. The kind of place that feels like a well-kept secret: quiet, clean, surrounded by trees, reasonably priced, and with genuinely good food. It checks all the boxes—except one. It is empty. And not just today. Most times I visit, I find it like this. Empty tables. Attentive but idle staff. A space waiting for energy, for life, for people. Why is it so quiet? Marketing? Maybe. Location? Could be. But maybe the real issue is this: When was the last time you indulged in a so-called “luxury” in Kenya? Let’s pause. Because this question isn't just about this restaurant. It's about the guitar class you dropped out of. The cozy coffee house you haven’t returned to. The art studio that shut down last month. The new hiking company that’s struggling to get bookings. The language school with amazing reviews but dwindling enrolments. We keep asking: “Why are small businesses in Kenya suffering?” But the harder, mor...