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A Country of Open Eyes and Quiet Blindness

There is a disturbing moment in the novel Blindness by José Saramago when a man suddenly loses his sight while waiting at a traffic light. His blindness spreads quickly through the city. Drivers abandon their cars. Streets fall into chaos. Institutions crumble. Society begins to unravel. But the true horror of the novel is not the epidemic. It is the realization that the blindness did not begin with the disease. The blindness was already there. People could see. They navigated their lives, went to work, obeyed rules, and participated in society. Yet they failed to notice the fragile threads that hold a community together—responsibility, empathy, restraint. When those threads finally snapped, the collapse appeared sudden. In truth, it had been forming quietly for years. Sometimes I think about that when I look at everyday life in Kenya. We are remarkably skilled at diagnosing what is wrong with the country. Conversations are filled with sharp observations about corruption, inequ...

A man is only as faithful as his options

“A man is only as faithful as his options.” Whether Chris Rock said it or not almost doesn’t matter anymore. The line has survived because it names something uncomfortable: that many of our choices are not moral declarations, but negotiations with what is available to us. We like to believe we choose freely. That our lives are shaped by preference, conviction, taste, discipline. But the longer you sit with that sentence, the more it unsettles you — not just in relationships, but in work, lifestyle, ambition, and the quiet stories we tell ourselves about who we are. What if much of what we call choice is actually adaptation ? Take fidelity. We praise loyalty as virtue, as character. But how often is loyalty reinforced by lack of alternatives? How often does commitment hold not because temptation was conquered, but because it never arrived? The same logic applies far beyond romance. We stay in jobs we “like” because we have no viable exit. We live modestly and call it minimalism bec...

Going Home for Christmas, or Staying Away from What We’ve Redefined

Words shape perception. And perception shapes experience. When we misuse words, we misinterpret our lives. In recent years, one word has been quietly overused, stretched thin, and emptied of nuance: burden . We use it casually — to describe family obligations, shared living, hosting relatives, contributing to a household, showing up when resources are limited. But what if some of what we call burdens are not burdens at all, but moments misread through the wrong lens? Perhaps the problem is not the situation, but the definition we bring to it. Nowhere is this more evident than in the slowly fading tradition of going home for Christmas . Increasingly, people choose not to go. Not because they do not love their families, but because home has become associated with expectation, financial strain, judgment, and quiet measurement. Who has made it. Who hasn’t. Who is contributing enough. Who is costing too much. Family, once anchored in presence, protection, and shared life, has gradually...

The Wealth of Stillness

Today I asked someone what having enough money looked like to them. They said it would mean no longer being bound by work — the freedom to show up when they wished, to come and go without the burden of schedules, to become master of their own time. It was a practical answer, relatable and familiar. But it made me turn inward. I began to wonder what my version of “having money” is — not in the conventional sense, but in the intimate, unspoken meaning I carry around quietly. And what came to me was this: To have money, for me, would be to have the privilege of being still. Not rushing. Not planning. Not calculating, budgeting, or negotiating with the endless list of “shoulds.” Not living one step ahead of myself like a person forever chasing the next instruction. Just… still. Because the moment money enters our hands, something else enters with it — movement. Bills. Obligations. Savings. Investments. The constant mental gymnastics of “what now, what next, what if.” The in...

Sometimes the Markers of Adulthood Arrive

"Sometimes the markers of adulthood arrive, and all they bring is the quiet reminder that we are still ourselves." The new house. The promotion. The fancy dinner. The long-awaited trip. The little victories we imagined would change us. And yet, when they arrive, the feeling is often smaller, quieter, less transformative than we expected. Life keeps moving, and we remain — essentially — the same people we were before the milestone, carrying the same thoughts, habits, and internal rhythms. I have built, saved, and achieved things I thought would define me. Each time, I expected exhilaration, a sense of arrival, a reshaping of identity. And each time, the reality was softer: a subtle satisfaction, a fleeting pride, a quiet observation that I am still myself. There was no sudden transformation, no cinematic moment of revelation, no magic that altered who I am. Just me, in a new context. It is tempting to feel disappointment, to think that the milestone failed to deliver. But p...

Is This It? On the Quiet Disappointment of Arrival

The other evening, I went for an after-work coffee with two colleagues. Another day, I had dinner by myself — twice — in a nice restaurant. The kind of place that appears often in movies, books, and vlogs: soft lighting, carefully plated food, the suggestion of a life unfolding well. I remember sitting there and thinking: is this it? In stories, this is meant to feel like success. An evening out after work. A quiet dinner in a good restaurant. The kind of adult life that is supposed to arrive once you’ve done the right things. It’s framed as enviable, aspirational — a marker that you’ve made it into a certain version of adulthood. But nothing landed. The conversations were pleasant. The food was good. There was nothing wrong with the experience. And yet, all I could think about was how much I wanted to be in bed. There was no spark. No sense of arrival. Just a subdued awareness of time passing. I’ve been noticing this more often lately — not just with social rituals, but with mil...

The Future Doesn’t Wait for Permission

I came across a line recently that felt almost rude in its honesty: “The future doesn’t wait for permission.” My first thought was immediate and unfiltered — ain’t that the truth. We like to imagine the future as something that arrives when we are ready. When we have figured things out. When we feel brave enough, healed enough, secure enough. We negotiate with it silently: just give me a little more time . But the future does not listen. It does not pause for clarity or courtesy. It keeps coming, indifferent to our readiness. We often behave as though life is waiting on us — waiting for the right decision, the right confidence, the right moment. As though there is a holding pattern somewhere, a pause button we can press while we gather ourselves. But days pass. Seasons change. Bodies age. Situations evolve. The future takes shape regardless of our hesitation. This is not always dramatic. Most of the time, it is quiet. It looks like routines continuing while dissatisfaction grows ...

Even Lies Come Dressed in Effort Sometimes

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...

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