KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

We all carry around a few maybes —those half-formed ideas and dreams that hover in the background, whispering that maybe one day, we'll take the plunge. Maybe I'll move out. Maybe I'll go back to school. Maybe I'll buy land in that quiet town. Maybe I'll cut ties with that draining friend. These thoughts are not always harmless. Some maybes haunt us for years, quietly costing us peace, time, clarity, or money. This article explores real, grounded examples of Kenyans wrestling with maybes—choices that linger, pull energy, and clutter our decision-making. And how, by eliminating a maybe—either by turning it into a solid yes or a firm no—we make space for clarity and progress. 1. Muthoni – The Maybe of Buying Land in Naivasha The Maybe: Muthoni had her eye on a piece of land in Naivasha for months. She envisioned weekend getaways, a tiny home, maybe even hosting creatives for retreats. The Cost of the Maybe: She spent months obsessively browsing listings, calculating...

A neighbor once told me, “Si unajua tu I’m grateful?” And I remember standing there, trying to make sense of that sentence. Yes, I had done something for him. A small gesture. Ordered breakfast when he was having a rough time. But no message. No call. No proper acknowledgment. Nothing. He assumed I knew. I didn’t. And that relationship slowly died—because silence, even when coated with good intentions, can feel like neglect. The Kenyan Gratitude Gap I’ve lived here most of my life. I know how kind we can be. But I also know how emotionally lazy we’ve become when it comes to expressing thanks. We think gratitude is a formality. Or maybe a weakness. Or maybe we just never learned. We assume: Saying "thank you" is enough. People should know we appreciate them. Kindness doesn't need follow-up. But here's the truth: not all thank-yous are created equal . You can't say “thanks” for a life raft the same way you do for a bottle of water. Scenario ...

"Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world." — Arthur Schopenhauer Every few months, a new listicle goes viral: "30 things I wish I knew at 20," "What every 40-year-old should do before it’s too late," or "Advice from 80-year-olds on how to live a meaningful life." These pieces are often earnest, even well-meaning. But they carry a hidden danger: the illusion that there is one way to live well, if only we follow the right script, take the right risks, or apply the distilled wisdom of others to our own lives. The problem is, life doesn’t unfold in copy-paste format. Each of us is living a different season. And not all advice is timeless. In fact, some of it can derail you entirely. Life Comes in Seasons. Your Choices Should Too. There is no universal roadmap. Each decade of life asks different questions of us — and demands different answers. Your 20s: Exploration, Curiosity, Failure This is often the seas...

The Quiet Votes We Cast Each Day You say you hate your job, but you never apply elsewhere. You say you want a partner who respects you, but you keep going back to the one who breaks you. You say the government is corrupt, but you don’t vote—and if you do, it’s for the familiar thief who gave you a branded leso. You say you want change, but you’re still here, in this same place, in this same story, just older. There’s a popular saying that goes, “What you allow, is what will continue.” But what if we pushed it further—what you don’t change, you choose. Not passively. Not accidentally. But willfully. Repeatedly. In Kenya, we are a nation built on the art of waiting: waiting for government reforms, waiting for better leadership, waiting for our bodies to stop hurting, for relationships to fix themselves, for that magical promotion, for change to come and tap us gently on the shoulder. But the harsh truth is this: every time you choose to not change something, you have chosen what exis...

“You did your part, I did mine. But did we ever really see each other?” In many Kenyan marriages, the rhythm of life is predictable: one partner provides, the other supports. Bills are paid, children are raised, meals are cooked, intercourse is expected, and the relationship trudges along—sometimes decades long—on the fuel of duty. And yet, under the weight of this routine, many couples are strangers in the same home. There is silence where there should be softness, avoidance where there should be safety, and distance in a space meant for closeness. We have mistaken duty for love , and we are paying the price for it. What is Emotional Generosity? Emotional generosity is the willingness to offer kindness without accounting. It’s not just saying “I love you” but showing up when it's not convenient. It’s the soft listening in between the chaos, the vulnerability to share your fears, and the courage to affirm your partner’s worth without being asked. It's choosing empathy over...

There comes a time in many Kenyan homes when love quietly morphs into duty. The birthday calls stop. The small affirmations of care fade. Support becomes transactional, and affection is reserved for funerals and emergencies. We know our people are “there for us,” but we can’t feel them anymore. “Love is not the meal prepared, it’s the warmth with which it’s served.” In many Kenyan homes, love is measured in chapatis made, fees paid, and water fetched from the borehole. It’s graded in sacrifices, sleepless nights, and school trips funded just in time. From the outside, these are clear signs of care — but are they love? Maybe. But maybe they are duty dressed in love’s clothing.  From rural homesteads in Kakamega to middle-class apartments in Nairobi — emotional generosity is a rarity. We know how to provide, to protect, to discipline, to demand. But many of us, including our parents and their parents before them, never quite learned how to be emotionally generous. In many Kenyan fam...