KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

There is a line I heard in a song that has been following me around: “But even lies come dressed in effort sometimes.” At first, I thought it was about other people — the obvious place to start. The relationships that felt convincing because someone tried. The situations that lasted longer than they should have because effort was being expended. But the longer the line stayed with me, the more it turned inward. Because the most exhausting lies are not always the ones we tell others. They are the ones we keep up with ourselves. There are versions of our lives that require constant upkeep. Narratives we repeat so often they begin to sound like truth. Not because they are, but because abandoning them would mean admitting something uncomfortable: that we settled, that we stayed too long, that we chose safety over honesty, or familiarity over alignment. Those admissions cost more than the effort of maintaining the lie. So we try. We show up. We perform consistency. We add small acts o...

Today I went thrift shopping. Anyone who thrifts knows the small, private ritual of it: racks too full, mirrors too honest, time moving differently. As I tried on different outfits, something familiar struck me — not for the first time, but with unusual clarity. How important it is to know what you like. And, equally, how important it is to know what does not work for you. There are colours I reach for instinctively, silhouettes I trust. There are fabrics I already know will irritate me, cuts that have betrayed me before. Knowing these things saves time. It spares frustration. It narrows the field in a place designed to overwhelm. And yet. Every so often, something unexpected catches my eye. Something I would never normally pick. Different colour. Different shape. Slightly uncomfortable, conceptually. I try it on anyway — not because I expect it to work, but because curiosity feels safer than certainty in that moment. Sometimes it’s awful. Sometimes it’s quietly perfect. That sm...

We are obsessed with imagining what we would do if we were told we had only months to live. The bucket lists, the tearful confessions, the reckless adventures, the sudden confessions of love — they are everywhere in books, movies, and online articles. The message is clear: if death were imminent, our lives would transform in an instant. And yet, I have started to wonder: would they? I suspect that, for most people, life would continue much as it always has. Morning would come. Coffee would be poured. We would get dressed, commute, answer emails, check phones, scroll feeds, and repeat the familiar rituals of our days. Work would still demand attention. Laundry would still pile up. Small obligations would quietly persist, demanding their share of our attention. Even when faced with mortality, human life — mundane, ordinary, patterned — is astonishingly resilient. We have been told, so insistently, that our lives are miserable, boring, incomplete, that we are going about living “all wr...

Elif Shafak writes, “human beings exhibit a profound impatience with the milestones of their existence.” The words struck me immediately, not because they were new, but because they were painfully familiar. We live lives measured in moments we can’t wait to leave behind — rushing through what should be the very chapters that make us who we are. We rush past childhood longing to be grown. We rush past adolescence, eager to claim adulthood. We hurry through young adulthood, anxious to “settle down,” to earn, to succeed, to arrive. Even in the middle of life, we chase the next milestone: promotion, recognition, wealth, recognition again. And when we reach the later years, we wish away the in-between, mourning what we should have noticed along the way. Milestones are meant to be markers, not destinations. They are pauses in the flow of life, signposts meant to help us orient ourselves, not finish lines to sprint toward. Yet we have cultivated a culture in which patience is undervalu...

There are days when I wonder whether the writer of Ecclesiastes was onto something when he sighed that there is nothing new under the sun . At the time, it must have sounded like resignation. A philosophical shrug. But lately, it feels less like an ancient lament and more like a modern diagnosis. I keep finding myself suspended in a haze of déjà vu — not in the mystical, life-has-a-hidden-meaning way, but in the weary, haven’t I seen this before? way. Books that once thrilled me now feel like rewritten copies of each other. Music releases sound like echoes of echoes. Cinema has become a carousel of remakes, sequels, and universes. Even ordinary experiences — a restaurant, a holiday, a new trend — seem to come prepackaged in familiar shapes. It’s not that people have stopped creating. It’s that everything is arriving so quickly, and so often, that our senses no longer have time to recover. We are being fed variety in form but sameness in spirit. Modern life accelerates experience ...

For the past month, I’ve been watching Netflix — something I rarely do. I don’t subscribe to entertainment platforms; I don’t binge shows; I don’t keep up. But this month, I scrolled, sampled, and let myself be carried through the endless conveyor belt of content. And somewhere between dating shows, scripted drama, and predictable plots, I realized something unsettling: so much of what we call “entertainment” isn’t reflecting life — it’s scripting it. The stories may look different, but the messaging is the same. A dating show in Los Angeles echoes one in Brazil, which mirrors one filmed in South Africa. And the formula hardly shifts: alcohol, tension, betrayal, temptation, chaos. Reality TV is not reality — it’s a machine of engineered dysfunction dressed as modern love. What surprised me wasn’t the drama. It was the consistency. Why do all these shows rely on the same emotional ingredients? Why is alcohol a permanent character? Why is infidelity an expectation rather than a...

Words are powerful — until they meet history. No matter how eloquently we explain, justify, or charm, there comes a point where speech cannot undo what behavior has already written. We live in a time where words move fast — apologies trend, promises multiply, and image is currency. But behavior is slower, heavier, and truer. It’s the record of who we’ve been when no one is watching. And once behavior leaves its imprint — on people, on relationships, on trust — talk alone can’t erase it. The Illusion of Words We’re raised to believe in the redemptive power of speech. Say sorry. Explain yourself. Give reasons. Craft the right narrative. But words without changed behavior are like perfume over smoke — pleasant for a moment, but the air still burns. You can talk your way into admiration, even forgiveness. But not out of consequence. Behavior is a form of truth that language can only circle, never rewrite. The friend who always says they’ll do better but doesn’t. The leader who apolog...

"If the desirable is not available, the available becomes desirable." At first glance, it sounds like something you’d hear in passing — a casual truth dressed as wisdom. But sit with it long enough and it unfolds into something far more complex, a quiet philosophy of human adaptation and compromise. It speaks to how we survive the distance between what we want and what we have. Desire and the Desirable Desire and the desirable are often mistaken for twins, yet they live on opposite sides of the human experience. Desire is inward — a current that flows through us. It is the ache that drives us to move, to reach, to create, to hope. Desire is not moral or logical; it simply is. It’s the spark that makes a child reach for the stars, or a thinker question what everyone else accepts. The desirable , however, is external — something we name, shape, and assign value to. It is what society, culture, and history tell us we should want: beauty, wealth, recognition, safety, belo...

Everyone says they want the truth — until it disagrees with them. Then suddenly it’s fake news, bad energy, or “a hater.” We love truth the way we love kale smoothies: in theory. It looks noble from a distance, but up close, it tastes like discomfort. The truth is elusive because it knows where to hide. It’s been studying us for centuries. It knows we get defensive, that we protect our pride like property, that we prefer a comforting lie to an inconvenient fact. So it hides in plain sight — right behind the thing we don’t want to hear. We live in an age where opinions travel faster than facts, where outrage is a national hobby, and where every WhatsApp group has at least one self-declared expert. The internet was supposed to make us wiser, but it just made our arguments louder. You can Google anything now — except humility. Truth has learned to adapt. It used to live in libraries and classrooms, but now it’s forced to rent space between conspiracy theories and motivational reels. It...

Inspired by Martin Niemöller’s haunting poem “First They Came…” , this article explores how silence and apathy shape Kenyan society — and why empathy and moral courage matter more than ever. The Poem That Still Speaks There’s a haunting poem that has echoed through decades, written by a German pastor named Martin Niemöller after World War II. It’s a poem about silence — about how people stand by as others suffer, believing that what happens to someone else doesn’t concern them. "First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me." Niemöller’s words were born in a dark time, but they still ring true — even here, even now. Because in many ways, we Kenyans have mastered the art of looking away . ...

There is something strange happening in Kenya’s YouTube world . A creator grows an audience, builds a loyal following, sometimes even becomes a household name—and then they disappear. No goodbye, no explanation, just silence. The channel remains, frozen in time, while subscribers remain subscribed, faithfully waiting. Unsubscribing from a channel takes less than a minute. Yet, somehow, it feels impossible for many Kenyans to press that button. Why? The Illusion of Relationship Part of it is the false sense of relationship we form with creators. In the comments you see it: “Any Kenyans here?” “I’m first today!” “Me coming back from work, dropping everything to watch.” These are not just casual comments. They reveal something deeper: people tying creators into the rhythms of their daily lives. The notification bell becomes a companion. The video becomes an evening ritual. The creator becomes, in some sense, a friend. So when a creator disappears, unsubscribing feels like...

The other day, I read a Kenyan novel titled Sinners by Sarah Haluwa. It’s a bold book, layered with intimate scenes and themes that don’t shy away from the subject of sex. Once I was done, I shared it with two people, one of them my cousin. Both came back with the same verdict: filth. That word struck me. Filth. It’s not the first time I’ve heard Kenyans use such language. For a country where sex is ever-present — in our music, our comedy skits, on TikTok dances, in whispered gossip, and in the quiet confessions of “mpango wa kando” culture — how is it that we also consider it shameful, dirty, and even demonic? The contradiction we live in On one hand, our entertainment industry thrives on sexual innuendo. The most streamed songs are often laced with it. Content creators know that scandal sells; anything suggestive will rack up views. Advertisers slip it in subtly to grab attention. In private conversations, too, sexual humor dominates. Yet when sex is written into literature, wh...

When I do take an Uber or Bolt , I’m always struck by how different the experiences can be. Same direction, sometimes even the same time of day — yet never the same ride. Some drivers are masters of the road. They anticipate traffic before it builds, weave through shortcuts with ease, and carry an almost instinctive knowledge of the city. Others, though, seem completely lost. They rely entirely on Google Maps , miss obvious turns, and sometimes admit they’re not familiar with the area at all. One driver once told me he had just dropped a passenger nearby and was simply hoping to catch another fare before heading back to his side of town. Another revealed something surprising: the app itself often works against them. Sometimes a ride request goes to drivers far away while those parked just around the corner never get it — or see it too late. He even insisted that the type of phone a driver owns can determine how quickly requests appear. So here we are: the same job, the same cars, ye...

We like to imagine that truth is buried deep, hidden away like a secret treasure waiting for the chosen few to uncover it. We search in books, in mysteries, in whispers of what might be. Yet often, the truth is not hidden at all — it comes from visible sources. It is there, plain as daylight, though our eyes and hearts may not always want to recognize it. Think about the people around us. How many times has someone’s behavior told us exactly who they are, but we chose to ignore it? The friend who only calls when they need something. The leader who speaks of service but lives in luxury at the people’s expense. The partner whose actions never match their words. We see these truths in plain sight, but we excuse them, cover them, or tell ourselves a different story. Later, when disappointment comes, we act surprised — yet the truth was always visible. Why then do we miss it? Part of it is human nature. We crave mystery. We want the comfort of believing that the truth is hidden somewhere ...

“Sometimes the most extraordinary lives are the ones lived most quietly.” – Unknown The other day, I found myself reading the obituary of someone I grew up around. We had gone to the same church, lived in the same neighborhood, but to be honest, I don’t remember him clearly. His face is vague in my memory, his presence faint. And yet, as I read the words written about him — especially the tribute from his two brothers — I was startled. Their words painted a picture of a life lived with meaning: quiet joy, steady love, and the kind of fulfillment that doesn’t always make itself visible to the world. I was shocked, though I didn’t fully understand why at first. Perhaps it’s because I had unconsciously absorbed the belief that a life worth remembering must look a certain way — marked by wealth , prestige , or visible achievements . We often expect fulfillment to carry recognizable markers: a celebrated career, material success , the kind of milestones that people point to with admiratio...

We’ve all heard sayings about life being like water — flowing, shifting, refusing to be pinned down. It sounds wise, almost poetic. But here’s the thing: when life actually shifts under us, most of us panic. A job is lost, a relationship ends, plans collapse — suddenly the wisdom of “just flow” feels like an insult. Because how do you flow when rent is due? How do you change when the ground beneath you feels like quicksand? And yet, flowing is not about pretending everything is easy . It’s about refusing to get stuck. The Weight of Rigidity Think about the last time life surprised you. Maybe your employer cut salaries . Maybe a partner left. Maybe your health demanded a new lifestyle . Did you resist? Dig your heels in and fight? Most of us do. We cling to what was, as if holding tighter will bring it back. But rigidity has a cost. It breaks you. Like a tree fighting a storm until it snaps. The Choice to Flow Water doesn’t stop at obstacles. It bends. It carves a new path. And it...