KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

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 ...

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.” ...

Chris Brown’s song Loyal is catchy, no doubt. But listen closely to the lyrics: “When a rich man wants you, and your man can’t do nothing for you… these hoes ain’t loyal.” The entire weight of betrayal is dumped on the woman. The man who knowingly chases someone else’s partner? He is invisible, blameless, even glorified. This narrative isn’t confined to music — it mirrors society. The Invisible Man, the Visible Woman Think about it: a man pursues a married woman, or a man flirts with someone in a relationship. When the story breaks, the woman is branded “unfaithful,” “cheap,” “disloyal.” Yet the man is rarely dragged into the spotlight. He is excused as “just being a man,” or worse, admired for his boldness. In Kenya , scandals play out the same way. Side chicks become national gossip. Their faces and names are plastered everywhere. But the married men who approached them, funded them, or promised them the world? Their reputations remain intact. The blame is not shared. It is ske...

In 1974, Marina Abramović performed Rhythm 0 — a haunting six-hour piece that would later be remembered as one of the most disturbing social experiments in the history of performance art. She placed herself in a gallery in Naples, Italy, standing still next to a table with 72 objects. Some were harmless (a rose, a feather, bread); others were violent (a whip, a knife, a loaded gun). She allowed the audience to use any object on her however they wished. She took full responsibility for whatever would happen. She would not resist. At first, the crowd was gentle. They posed her. Kissed her. Gave her flowers. But as time passed, they became bolder. They cut her clothes. Pricked her skin. Marked her with a knife. Someone loaded the gun and placed it in her hand, pointing it at her neck. The crowd, once made up of ordinary people, had slowly turned into something else. When the six hours ended, Marina began to walk toward the audience — no longer a passive object, but a human again. People ...

If you ask most Kenyans what success looks like, you’ll get a variety of answers, but somehow, they always boil down to three things: money, cars, and land. A Toyota Prado, a ka-small ka-mansion in the village, and the ability to pepper conversations with "I was in Dubai last week"—that’s success, right? But is it really? Here’s a breakdown of what many Kenyans think success is and what real success looks like in different aspects of life. 1. SUCCESS IN FAMILY & COMMUNITY What Kenyans Think: Hosting a big wedding where people eat for three days. Being called "Baba/Mama Nani" even when your kids don’t know what you do for a living. Your family showing up at every funeral, wedding, and hospital harambee just to be seen. What It Really Is: Being present for your kids—not just paying their fees but actually knowing their teachers. Raising children who don’t just wait for your burial to start fighting over land. Being that relative people can actually call when the...