KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

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...

Why does doing the right thing feel like a punishment nowadays? You refuse “ chai ” and lose a tender. You return extra change and get a strange look. You speak up at work and become “difficult.” In a world that seems to reward shortcuts, spin, and spectacle, integrity can feel like a tax you pay while others speed past. And yet integrity has its own currency —quiet, slow, and hard to counterfeit. The problem is that most of us don’t keep both ledgers open. We see the immediate costs of being honest and miss the compounding returns. Let’s unpack how we got here, why integrity feels penalized, what its currency actually buys, and how to live it without becoming naïve—or bitter. How We Slid Into “Everything Is a Transaction” This didn’t happen overnight. Three long arcs converged: From community to market: As life monetized—education, healthcare, even celebrations—more decisions became price-tag decisions. When money mediates everything, “what works” often beats “what’s right.” ...

You wake up and there’s no water. Electricity was rationed again last night. You’re juggling unpaid bills, a stagnant salary (if any), and the quiet hum of anxiety that never quite goes away. But still, you’re expected to say, “At least I’m alive. God is good.” In Kenya , we’re taught from a young age to be thankful for the bare minimum: the ability to breathe, the chance to wake up, a job that barely pays, or the fact that we’re not in a war zone. Gratitude, in its pure form, is beautiful. But over time, it can also be manipulated into something exhausting—something that keeps us compliant instead of empowered. When Gratitude Becomes a Muzzle Gratitude should lift us up. But in many Kenyan households , workplaces, churches , and schools , it's used to shut us down. We’re told not to complain because “others have it worse.” We’re shamed for being frustrated, told we’re ungrateful, or reminded that we should just be happy to be alive. This kind of gratitude becomes a way of num...

“The best time to buy land in Kenya is during the rainy season.” That saying holds weight—not just literally but metaphorically too. Because only when the heavens open and the water flows do we truly see things for what they are. What looked like a decent, promising plot can turn into a swamp. What was once a trusted path home can vanish without a trace. This afternoon it rained. And as I walked home, I realized: the path I take every day isn’t really a path. It’s a suggestion—a possibility that only holds shape when it’s dry. When the rain came, it ceased to exist. Isn’t that how much of life is? The paths we swear by, the routines we follow, the beliefs we lean on—sometimes they only work when conditions are good. When the metaphorical rain comes, when life gets hard, what we thought was stable disappears. And suddenly we’re ankle-deep in questions we’ve avoided for years. In Kenya, rain is a test. It is both blessing and burden. It reveals the truth of our planning, our priorities, ...