KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

  There’s a line I came across that I haven’t been able to forget: " In some ways, wealth simply means paying attention to the prices you pay." It sounds simple, almost obvious. But when you really think about it — it’s quietly revolutionary. Because we Kenyans, like much of the world, are always paying. We pay in shillings, in time, in stress, in sleep, in borrowed peace. And most times, we do it without noticing. The tragedy isn’t that life is expensive — it’s that we don’t realize what it’s truly costing us. The Hidden Prices We Pay We live in a world that constantly tells us what we should want. The right phone. The right shoes. The right wedding. The right image of success. We nod along, swipe the card, take the loan, and promise ourselves we’ll figure it out later. Because everyone else seems to be doing the same. But everything has a price. That phone upgrade may cost you your emergency fund. That flashy lifestyle may cost you your peace of mind. That “soft ...

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...

“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, ...

"I am right on time for this version of my life." There Is No Better Life Waiting Your everyday routine is your life. Not the life you fantasize about, not the one you keep pushing into some distant future where all conditions are ideal—no. The one you live now. The one with packed matatus, deadlines, Nairobi traffic, laughter in the kitchen, and evenings where nothing goes as planned. That’s the real one. The lie we are sold—on billboards, in pulpits, by motivational speakers, and even in well-meaning family advice—is that there is a better version of you that you will arrive at someday . That you must endure now so you can enjoy later. That you must hustle, sacrifice, dim yourself, and delay joy until you’ve earned it. But what if there is no shiny, perfect version waiting at the end of your journey? What if you are not here to become someone else—but to become more of yourself ? Who Is This "Better Version" of You Anyway? This version we keep postponing—who defi...

They said time is money, So we sold our days To desks, deadlines, and duty. Now the clock ticks softer. The pace slows down. And we wonder— Can we afford to buy back What we gave so freely? Not to earn. Not to win. But just to live again. 1. The Paradox of Retirement in Kenya Retirement, in theory, is supposed to be a season of rest. A time to exhale. To spend mornings slowly, reconnect with loved ones, and revisit the parts of yourself that got lost in the hustle. But for many Kenyans, retirement looks like another job. We see people starting businesses immediately after leaving employment, becoming consultants, jumping into family obligations, or even relocating to their rural homes only to pick up farming or new responsibilities. Rest doesn’t feel earned—it feels guilty. Instead of enjoying time with grandkids, learning something new, or simply sitting with the self, many continue running. But what if retirement—and seasons like it—were not a signal to do more, but an invitation to ...