KenyaOnAShoeString

There is a question we rarely ask ourselves with complete honesty: What do you believe—and what habits does your belief produce? Most people can answer the first part easily. They can describe their beliefs, their values, their philosophies. They know what they stand for. They can explain the principles they claim guide their lives. But the second question is much harder. Because beliefs are easy to claim. Habits are harder to hide. And it is in our habits—especially the small, ordinary ones—that our true philosophy quietly reveals itself. A belief system means very little if it does not shape the smallest habits of everyday life. Not the grand gestures. Not the moments when others are watching. But the quiet decisions that happen in ordinary settings—shared spaces, everyday responsibilities, small interactions with the people around us. How we manage inconvenience. How we treat people who cannot benefit us. How we handle situations where restraint, fairness, or consideration...

There is a quiet idea in psychology known as the Broken Windows Theory . It suggests that when an environment shows visible signs of disorder—a broken window left unrepaired, litter on the streets, rules ignored without consequence—it sends a message: no one is paying attention. And once that message settles in, disorder does not remain isolated. It spreads. But there is another side to this idea, one that is less often discussed. What if the opposite is also true? What if living in an environment where right and wrong are clearly visible every day slowly shapes people into becoming more disciplined—not because they are forced to, but because they learn to restrain themselves? In such environments, behavior is not constantly negotiated. It is quietly guided. You do not litter because the streets are clean. You do not jump a queue because no one else does. You do not ignore rules because they are consistently followed—and enforced. Over time, something subtle begins to happen. ...

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...

Our attention is finite, yet we spend it everywhere but where it matters. This is not a moral failure. It is a structural one. Attention economics is the idea that in a world overflowing with information, human attention becomes the scarce resource. Whoever captures it, holds power. Over time, this has reshaped not just markets, but inner lives. What we notice. What we ignore. What we can tolerate. What we can no longer sit with. For a long time, people warned that television would rot our brains. In hindsight, television looks almost generous. A show required you to stay for forty minutes. A film asked for two hours. A detective story invited you to notice details, to remember names, to hold multiple threads in your mind at once. You watched. You followed. You waited. Listening to music meant staying long enough to learn lyrics. Reading meant sitting with confusion until meaning arrived. Writing a poem meant wrestling with language, not skimming it. Even boredom had a purpose—it ...

There are things we do not grieve, because we learned to live without them too early. Not because they were unimportant, but because the world rearranged itself in a way that made their absence feel normal. February asks us to speak about love loudly — romance, desire, grand gestures. But this is not that kind of piece. This is about something quieter and more foundational: our capacity for ordinary human closeness. The ease of speaking to a stranger. The courage to suggest coffee without pretext. The ability to sit in someone’s presence without agenda or performance. I think often about how entire generations adapt to the worlds they inherit. Not consciously. Not philosophically. We simply learn what is required, and shed what is not. When I watched a documentary about Hasidic Jewish communities in New York — particularly those who choose to leave — I was struck less by the act of leaving, and more by the origin of the structure they were leaving behind. After the Holocaust, survi...

February arrives every year carrying a very specific demand. To feel. To declare. To perform love loudly, convincingly, and on time. I do not often write about romantic love. Not because it does not matter, but because in this part of the world, love rarely announces itself the way February expects it to. It is quieter, more restrained, more practical. It is shaped early—by survival, by responsibility, by environments that teach us to endure before they teach us to feel. And yet, February insists. So this piece is for those who love differently, late, cautiously, or incompletely. For those who sense that something in them is capable of tenderness, but also know that life has already left its marks. For those who carry affection in unfamiliar forms. For those who recognize love not as a feeling they lack, but as a capacity that has been shaped—sometimes narrowed, sometimes sharpened—long before the person who might have needed it most ever arrived. This is not a celebration of roman...

We are often told not to put all our eggs in one basket. The saying is usually offered as financial wisdom — diversify your income, your investments, your risks. But somewhere along the way, we did the opposite with our emotional lives. We consolidated. We placed our need for connection, understanding, intimacy, companionship, and belonging into fewer and fewer baskets, until in many cases, there was only one left. The romantic partner. The spouse. Sometimes the nuclear family. And everything else became secondary, suspect, or threatening. This did not happen accidentally. It happened as life became more fragmented. As communities dissolved. As adulthood became increasingly solitary. In the absence of inherited social structures, romantic relationships were asked to carry what entire villages, extended families, and friendships once held together. One basket began to do the work of many. At first, this felt efficient. Romantic love promised intensity, exclusivity, and meaning....