I have been dealing with a problem in my foot for almost two weeks. This might not sound particularly dramatic. It isn't cancer. It isn't an emergency. It isn't even the kind of pain that stops me from going about my day. Which is perhaps why I found myself hesitating. You see, I am a walker. Not the kind of person who takes a stroll every now and then. I walk for two to three hours most days. Walking is how I think, how I clear my head, and how I make sense of the world. If there is one part of my body I should be willing to invest in, it is probably my feet. Yet when I started calling podiatrists in Nairobi, I found myself doing mental gymnastics. The cheapest consultation fee I found was KES 5,000. Consultation. Not treatment. Not scans. Not medication. Just the privilege of finding out what might be wrong. By the time everything was done, the bill could easily reach KES 15,000 or KES 20,000. And suddenly I found myself wondering whether I really needed a podiatrist. May...
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...