Moments & Musings

Fridays in Nairobi: The City That Clocked Out at 10am By 10:14 a.m., Nairobi has already quit working. Emails are still flying, sure. Laptops hum with spreadsheets that resemble ambition. People still say things like “synergy” and “action points.” But it's all performance now. Everyone’s just waiting for the bell to ring. Waiting to escape. Kevin , who works in finance, hasn’t reconciled an account since 9:45. His soul left the building hours ago. He stares at his screen, pretending to read an invoice, but he’s really scrolling through pictures of grilled goat on Instagram. His phone lights up. "Westie later?" "I'm in. But let’s pregame at Samaki first." He replies with the black handshake emoji and a fire symbol. Unspoken code for “we riot.” By noon, Nairobi begins to shift. Office shirts are unbuttoned an extra notch. Lipstick gets redder. Perfume gets louder. The scent of sizzling mutura from Tom Mboya Street rides on the wind and mixes wi...

Gin, Whisky, and the Accents of Empire There’s gin. There’s whisky. And somewhere between the juniper and the peat lies a story—not just of taste, but of temperament, territory, and time. London walks into a room with a glass of gin—clean lines, botanical notes, and the faint arrogance of a tailored waistcoat. Scotland swaggers in late, soaked in rain and rebellion, whisky in hand—amber as truth, smoky as secrets. Ireland doesn’t walk in. It sings. Whiskey in one hand, a poem in the other, sad and sweet like a love letter never sent. But how did these drinks come to carry whole nations in their glasses? The year is 1700-something. London is hungover—politically, spiritually, literally. Plagues have passed, but the bitterness remains. King William III, Dutch by birth and suspicious of French brandy, gives his blessing to a little homemade spirit called gin. Dutch jenever, anglicized. Rebranded. Reinvented. And then? Released into the wild. They called it the Gin Craze, but it was less...

  David Doesn’t Clap Anymore—And Here’s Why It Matters I met David last year in Kisumu, just outside his Agro-Vet shop. I had accompanied my friend who was looking for antibiotics for her mum’s goat, but what I found was a story thicker than the red soil that clung stubbornly to his worn gumboots. David used to clap the loudest. Weddings? He was the one who started the slow clap that turned into a roar. Office parties? He’d volunteer to MC, even though his English sometimes took detours through shags. Baby showers? He once brought a cake shaped like a diaper. No one asked for it, but he said it was “symbolic.” He believed in appearances. Life, he figured, was about keeping up—if not with the Joneses, at least with the Onyanchas. He ironed his socks. Wore cologne that sounded French but was probably manufactured in Industrial Area. His smile was white and ready for Instagram. His captions were always deep—stolen from Pinterest, but deep nonetheless. "Energy doesn’t lie." ...

  Broken Soles What the Heart Can’t Say, the Shoes Remember They say you can tell a man’s story by the state of his shoes. Mine were broken, and so was I. There’s something about poverty that makes you poetic. Maybe it’s the hunger gnawing at your ribs. Maybe it’s the way dust clings to your ambition like it’s jealous of your dreams. Or maybe it’s because when you have nothing, you learn to romanticize everything—especially beautiful women and clean shoes. My first heartbreak smelled like lavender lotion and rejection. I wore broken shoes and a brave face. She floated in, wrapped in a floral dress and expensive sunglasses. She called me “funny,” “real,” and “like a brother.” I knew I’d lost the war when she offered to buy me lunch. That’s when I understood: once a woman feeds you, your fate is sealed. She either loves you deeply or pities you profoundly. I had only one pair of shoes then. They were talking at the front—literally flapping open like they wanted to say, ...

  Surviving Her She wore chaos like lipstick—loud, defiant, and impossible to ignore. She didn’t ask for attention; she devoured it. I tried to tame her, but loving her was like riding a wild horse with no harness—thrilling, reckless, and bound to break you. She came into my life like Nairobi rain—sudden, loud, and guaranteed to mess everything up. She was the kind of girl who laughed like she was claiming the whole bar, drank her whiskey neat, and posted “healing crystals” on her Instagram story while texting three exes back-to-back. The kind your mother would pray against, your boys would warn you about, and your heart would chase anyway. I met her on a Thursday. I remember because Thursdays are cursed. You’re too close to payday but broke enough to feel spiritual. She walked into my life like she was late for an audition—heels sharp, smile sharper, carrying stories in her eyes and hell in her handbag. She warned me. “Sasa, I’m not the settle-down type. I’m the survive-...

  The Lioness Without a Statue N ot every warrior carried a rifle. Not every general stood on a podium. Some led from the forest. Some commanded without medals. And some—like Muthoni wa Kirima—were simply forgotten. When we think of Kenya’s path to independence, a few names rise like old statues in our minds. Dedan Kimathi. Jomo Kenyatta. General China. Their legacies were preserved in bronze and syllabus. But listen closely—beyond the textbooks, past the national holidays and flag-raising fanfare—and you’ll hear the rustle of a name nearly lost to silence: Field Marshal Muthoni wa Kirima . She was no ordinary fighter. She was the only woman ever to be granted the title of Field Marshal in the Mau Mau rebellion—a rank shared only with legends like Kimathi himself. While others plotted from safe houses, she lived in the belly of the war. In the cold forests of Mount Kenya and the Aberdares, she became both shadow and storm. Born in 1930 in Nyeri, Muthoni’s early lif...

Super Heroes Of Our Time If you’ve never dodged an angry buffalo while stealing guavas from a sanctuary with slippers on your hands to avoid electric shock—did you even have a childhood? Ours was wild, dusty, hilarious, and stitched together with wire wheels, river water, and the roar of makeshift engines. Growing up in Kabete was nothing short of a dreamland—if your dream involved adrenaline, mud, mischief, and monsters on four legs. Every July was sacred because of the Safari Rally. While the rest of Nairobi buzzed with excitement, we Kabete kids woke up before the sun, tiptoeing past sleepy parents to catch a glimpse of history in motion. Kapenguria Road, the dusty artery connecting Lower Kabete Road and Naivasha Road, transformed into a rally runway. We knew every bend, every shortcut, every hiding bush that offered a perfect view. “Ala! That one is Shekhar Mehta! I swear I saw his number plate!” one of us would yell, as the first car zoomed past in a storm of dust and legend. Catc...