Don't sell people an incomplete map and then blame them for getting lost. I've been sitting with that thought for weeks because the more I look around, the more I realize that many of the frustrations we carry as a society are not simply about unemployment, corruption, inequality or even money. They are about the stories we tell one another. From the time we are children, we are handed maps for how life is supposed to work. Study hard and life will work out. Get a degree and you'll find a good job. Work hard and success will follow. Save consistently and you'll become financially secure. Find your passion and the money will come. Marry the right person and everything else will fall into place. Believe in yourself. Think positively. Stay disciplined. None of these statements is entirely false. But none of them is entirely true either. The problem is rarely what they say. The problem is what they leave unsaid. Because what is omitted from a story is often just as powerful...
For many Kenyans, Daniel Arap Moi is a memory more than a leader. He is a face on television, a Bible in hand, a finger raised in proclamation. For some, he is the Nyayo milk — handed out after Friday classes, warm and sweet in its tiny pyramid-shaped packet. For others, he is the man who built schools, opened roads, attended harambees. And for many, he is the shadow behind the door, the reason voices were lowered, books banned, and dissent disappeared into Nyayo House. This is the paradox of the Moi era. We remember the milk, but not the manifesto. We remember the rituals, but not the roadmap. We remember the president — not the policies. A Leadership of Presence, Not Vision Moi’s leadership style was deeply personal. He traveled widely across the country. He touched hands. He attended funerals. He held rallies in remote villages. He was seen — and in being seen, he governed. But while his presence was deeply felt, his policy intentions often were not. He rarely spoke of a national vi...