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 ...
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...