It’s a sunny Monday afternoon. I’m on my balcony, enjoying the sun because heliotherapy is a thing, and the sun is the one thing I have to force myself to enjoy especially during this season when sadness is sitting on my chest. In fact, it’s sitting on my whole body, molesting me. Today’s the 20th day of July, exactly 6 days since I learnt of my friend’s painful demise. Evans, the lover of all things cars, died in a grisly motor accident, in Siaya. Evans died on some ‘random’ road in Siaya, when he’d navigated the craziest highways in Mombasa, Nairobi, Nakuru, etc., and I’m not saying that it’d have made more sense for him to die on the crazy Thika Superhighway with all the Neo-Kenya buses and rowdy motorcyclists, but surely?? A road in Siaya? That makes me mad.
A lot of things are making me mad. I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m afraid. I’m very afraid. Of so many things.
Now, chronologically, I can’t narrate how I’ve been processing his death since I heard the words ‘Aaah, huyo tulizika…’, but I’ll write about something I noticed yesterday. For the first time, I went on a walk and didn’t break down upon seeing any black TX. Evans had a black TX, and since his demise, I’ve been seeing 84 black TX cars every two minutes. In fact, just now, I’ve lifted my head from the screen and seen a black TX. Are there black TX cars everywhere, for the love of all that is holy??
Yesterday, I took more than five minutes, mustering the courage to cross the road, overthinking everything, when really, I’ve always been a sober and responsible ‘road-crosser’. You know how it goes, ‘Look right, look left, look right again, and if the road is clear, you cross!’ Sharp! I have been crossing roads alone for years. My sister finished her KCPE when I was in Class 2, in the year 2005, and cos we’d go to school together, for a while after she joined high school, my mum would escort me from the house, ensure I’ve crossed Ngong Road, then go back to prepare for work. I’d then board the trusty Citi Hoppa or KBS from Dagoretti Corner to Riruta Satellite, where my school was. That went on for about a year. From 2007, I’d cross the busy Ngong Road solo. Confidence? Experience? Whatevs. Yesterday, I found myself overthinking everything; that car is far, but is it far enough? Looks like the driver is speeding. That motorcyclist could be drunk. This lane is clear, but what if that car veers off the road and hits me?…
Evans was the best driver I’ve ever known, and he loooooved cars, so the fact that he died in a head-on collision makes me believe that truly, anything is possible on the road. I know it’s called an ‘accident’ for a reason, but it doesn’t make me less mad. He never drank alcohol, and I’m not saying that people who drive drunk should be the ones to die. He never over-sped. And he wasn’t even driving at night. It was 5 pm. He could see the road and other cars and pedestrians. He had just had a lovely afternoon, and was driving home to see his mother; the mother he adored. That makes me sad.
Also, I’ve buried all the loved ones I’ve ever lost; my mum and Aluoch, but I didn’t bury Evans because I found out late, on his birthday, cos we’d mostly talk once in a month. Burying is good closure, cos the cognitive dissonance is reduced, like, ‘Yeah, I didn’t want to, but I saw their beautiful face in that casket, so for sure, they’re gone…’, but Evans? He was very alive when I last saw him, and when we had our 3-hour monthly call in May, we laughed so hard that we couldn’t breathe, and he said, ‘Njoki yawa. I’ve never talked to anyone for 3 hours kwa simu. Our conversations are so fluid…’ and I was like ‘It’s the Njoki effect’ and we kept talking as I teased him about something, and he laughed again, and it was midnight. He had to sleep cos he had work the next day. We last talked on 24th May 2026. We first met on 25th May 2021. The last time he wanted to buy me lunch was on 26th May 2023, but I declined cos of a few reasons. Then I went to school, came back, and we maintained the ‘no meeting’ rule- which I later came to learn, was useless. Useful with the information I had at the time. Useless with the information I have now, which he had the whole time, which is another thing that makes me mad. I know this last part is cryptic, but it’ll stay like that for now.
My WordPress will be my grief entry, because I’ve cried ‘enough’ in my journal, so much that ink, from the pages I’ve shed tears and snot on, has bled to the opposing pages, and my journal just looks funny. I also tried talking to ChatGPT about my feelings and I realized it may be unhealthy, cos it gives lots of feedback, only based on the information I’ve given it. And of course, I have friends and family to talk to, but I can’t talk to them at 3 am., when I’m tossing and turning in bed, or even at 2:18 pm when I have more questions than mere thoughts, because I’ll burden them endlessly and they wouldn’t have the answers. I don’t have the answers either, and that’s okay, so keeping this entry here is purely an outlet. Writing is how I process things, make peace with things, accept things…
Right now, I’m eating pineapple slices that I’ve irrigated with cayenne pepper and salt. Pineapple is what I bought during yesterday’s walk, after waiting to cross the road for several minutes. The pineapple is bland, like the world is without Evans. The cayenne and salt have added flavour to the pineapple. I don’t know what I need to make an Evansless world more flavourful.
And I know it will get better with time. I’m not new to grief, but this one feels awfully difficult and strange. But at least today I’ve eaten, and the food has stayed in my system; the cortisol in my body has reduced thanks to the crying and journaling. I trust my body to adjust to this reality. And I trust God to heal me because eh, hapana!
Thursday For the first time since I learnt of Evans’ demise, I went outside, and found that the atmosphere felt gloomy, the art pieces looked just okay, and all the cars looked dangerous. An Evansless world feels less bleak, especially because I slept at almost 3 am last night, talking about Evans.
For five hours last night, Eric and I talked about Evans, cried, prayed, cried again, shared a few screenshots of our chats with him – him showing me what Evans would tell him about me, me showing him what Evans would tell me about what I meant to him, and what Eric was to him. It was soooo clarifying and healing, and was good closure. Eric literally said, ’I knew you’d have questions and I’m ready to answer all of them, and I know you’ll think that I’m lying because I loved Evans, but don’t worry because I have receipts- most things he said about you are here in our chat, from when you met in May 2021. Some things he told me in-person. Others are here, and I’ll show you, although I didn’t want to cos I’ll be filling you in on some of his fears, insecurities, anxieties, & the deep love he had for you. What he showed you was only a bit…’
If Evans & I were completely honest, reckless & less risk-averse, today, I’d have been a 28-year-old widow with 2 or 3 children, fighting for property with his 17 siblings.
I have cried, wailed, screamed, had a running stomach, prayed, and wondered about Evans. I have also journaled about him, and gotten clarity and peace, and now I’d probably be able to say who exactly he was to me, or what we were to each other. Before when anyone would ask, I wouldn’t know what to say – ‘friend’ wasn’t quite it, ‘boyfriend’ wasn’t it either, ‘just someone I used to see for nine months between May 2021 and February 2022’ would have been inaccurate too…
So let me tell you a bit about Evans as well as I remember experiencing him. To tell you everything, I’d need 84 days, 50 litres of tea, and dozens of handkerchiefs.
Evans and Njoki I met Evans when I was 22, just a month shy of 23. Evans had a beautiful spirit, a vibe I was awfully drawn to, and he liked me so much, that I liked him more for liking me like that. We met in a professional setting – I was finishing my degree, and he was finishing his annual financial audit, as he was the Chief Financial Officer of a multinational company. When I met him, he chatted with me a bit, asked for my number which I gave gladly, and I didn’t need to be told that he was significantly older than me – I mean, I could tell cos he held such a position, he had started balding slightly, and he wore Bugatti shoes. 20-year-olds cannot afford Bugatti shoes.
So that evening, in typical Njoki fashion, I updated my sister, Peggy, Kimetto, and Jay: ‘Guys, I met this really cool dude. He asked for my number and wants to take me out for coffee on 1st June! He’s definitely older and is likely married, although he didn’t have a ring on, but I’m curious about him. What do y’all think?’
Friend 1:
As you’d expect, my committee members had different opinions. This was 31st May. I had told Evans I’d confirm on 1st June in the morning, cos I wanted to meet him, but wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do, cos he ‘looked married’.
Friend 3:
Now, my friends aside, and back to Evans and I. I woke up on 1st June and decided, ‘If I perish, I perish.’ So we agreed to meet at the venue at 3 pm. I got there at 3:05 pm, found him sitting pretty, wearing an expensive-looking leather jacket, and cologne that smelled like power and mercy. Of course, although I was 22 and likely naive, I was wise enough not to enter his car, and to meet him in an open space so that there’d be witnesses if he tried to kill me, and I shared my location with my people.
It was supposed to be a 1-hour coffee date, but no, Evans and I, we had insane chemistry, so we ended up staying at the restaurant until 9:30 pm, and had to leave because they needed to close the space, and that’s when I knew I was in danger. I liked him. A lot. And we learnt a lot about each other, including the fact that he was twice my age. So, my storytelling is now limited to what I found out about him chronologically- mixing them up (what I learnt at the start, during, and end) is complex but doable, so I’ll do that some other time.
Evans and I liked each other, and like a foolish, trusting girl, walked with him to the parking lot to enter his car, before which he was like ‘Let’s go to this store and get you some goodies’, and I was like ‘Hell no. I’m not one of those girls you lure with money and gifts. I’m good.’, and he was like, ‘I’m not trying to lure you – just appreciating you for agreeing to spend time with me…’ I didn’t accept money or the offer to shop, but allowed him to drive me home.
So I got home, reflected, and like a typical self-judging Adventist girl, I was like ‘I can’t allow myself to like a 45-year-old man regardless of how good they are/sound. That was a fun date, but I’ll never see him again.’, but the Luo man? The Luo man had game, and I liked him a lot, so when he called later that night to inform me that he’d gotten home, he asked when we’d be meeting next, and we set a date, and we met again, and again, we talked for hours! Between date 1 & date 2, we’d have lengthy 2-hour calls, sometimes 3-hour calls… We were ungovernable.
What’s worse? I was getting to know another guy, my age mate, who liked me a lot, and I liked him too. Let’s call him Njoroge. With these long calls I was having with Evans, & planning dates, I started to feel like I was cheating, but I convinced myself that I was not, because at the time, I was a virgin – sexually untouched by any man, dating like Ellen White – meeting only outside. So in my head, I was just only talking to both Evans and Njoroge.
This story is longer than I expected it to be, lol, so let me try to summarize the best way I know how. I’ll blog about the whole thing, alongside my Mzansi blog that I haven’t started working on yet:-O
Now, communication with Njoroge started dwindling cos all my attention was directed towards Evans. He was fascinating (of course he was, cos he was older, more experienced, well-travelled, etc.) So my birthday came. Evans wanted to take me out for dinner, & Njoroge had talked to my friends & planned a surprise birthday party for me, so I ditched Evans, & spent my birthday with Njoroge & my friends. It was mad fun, but after the party when my friends were sleeping in the other room in the Airbnb, & Njoroge and I were talking and cuddling, I was like ‘I wish it was Evans asking me these questions’ and that’s when I knew I was treading on dangerous ground. Now, one virtue I’ve always upheld is honesty – so I told Njoroge that I met a guy called Evans, that we had met twice, that I liked him, as a friend😏.
So Njoroge and I agreed that we’d focus on each other, and cos Njoro was slightly older than me, he told me that Evans was here only for the long game – he just wants to sleep with me, that that’s only what older men want from younger girls. Sex before marriage was taboo for me, and I’m generally firm, so I was like ‘No, I already told him we can only just be friends and he respects my stance…’ So we had a back-and-forth, and I promised to stop seeing Evans, but after I left the Airbnb, I called Evans to tell him about the party, and we talked for two hours, and planned our next meeting. Needless to say, after 3 secret meetings with Evans, I confessed to Njoroge, and we broke up. He didn’t want us to and I found that surprising, but today isn’t about Njoroge. So Evans and I kept talking- for hours on-end on phone, for hours at restaurants, for hours when driving and doing Car-aoke, him playing classics from the 90s, me playing more modern songs. We liked each other a lot. I completely forgot about Njoroge.
Evans was obsessed with cars, so this was one of our many dates – a car show in Karen. I’m not a car nerd, but it was just nice to see him in his element – asking about akrapovic systems, taking pictures of engines, etc., and I’d just take random pictures of him cos he was like a little boy in a candy store. We were ungovernable, and I knew it was bad bad cos we kept hugging, and holding hands… that’s how I get when I like a man, so over time, what started as ‘we’re just friends’ became ‘these are two people who are obsessed with each other and it may not be healthy.’
So a few months in, after a lovely date, after talking and laughing a lot, we looked at each other, our eyes communicated ‘I’m so grateful for you and I enjoy you thoroughly’, and we kissed. We kissed passionately, and I couldn’t believe it. Our conversations didn’t end, and so, we started feeling jealous- he’d feel bad when I’d miss his call, I’d feel bad whenever he’d receive a call from a woman, he’d ask about my movements… obsession!
At this point, I was 23, still a virgin on the straight and narrow, but kissing a man twice my age, and the guilt was finishing me, for three reasons:
I was kissing an older man.
I, Njoki Kangethe, started feeling sexually curious, and I thought he’d be my good first, but it didn’t sound ideal in my head, yet I wanted him still. We had also started talking about ‘What is this and where are we headed?’, and he’d tell me that he wants me to bear a son for him. He’d be like, ‘Would you bear a son for me? I’ll make you my wife, and our son will be as smart as you and I’ll take him to good schools…’ and I’d be like ‘Hell no!’, for many reasons, including that I was young, only 23, fresh out of uni. How could I have a baby with a man twice my age?
I’d tell him ‘Hell no!’, but the truth is that I actually wanted it – my brain and body wanted it. I liked him. He felt good. He had hobbies. He had a business. He was a CFO at a multinational. He adored me. But I convinced myself that I didn’t want it.
I thought I was done crying, but here I am sobbing, damn it. Let’s finish this quick cos my writing is my healing
So, I’d be like ‘Remember we agreed to be just friends’, and he’d be like ‘Yes, aren’t we? I’ve been seeing you for months, and I’ve never been inappropriate. We first kissed organically. When I’m talking to you for 3 hours daily, and spending time with you, it’s cos I’m drawn to your vibe and intellect and warmth. You treat me like a person – not as a ‘boss’ or ‘mkubwa’ and your kindness towards me isn’t because you get anything from me because you never accept money or gifts. I’ve not had that in a long time. People like me mostly for what I can do for them. You, Njoki, just see me, and you even send me, and you make me feel normal and wanted just for who I am. And of course, you’re hot and sexy, so I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t want to sleep with you, but that’s not why I’m here…’ Sweet words. Staunch Adventist. I wanted him, but couldn’t allow myself to have him,so I started drifting.
Drifting because I was catching serious feelings and was sending 7-minute long voice notes, which he’d listen to, call, and say ‘Our thing could be less complicated…’ So I felt like he was invalidating my experience.
So, after a back-and-forth for a while, we agreed to never meet physically, and to talk once every month or once every two months to catch up. We last saw each other in 2022, but for the past four years, we kept our promise – checking in on each other. I’d update him about important stuff, he’d send me pictures of his fun days golfing, or climbing mountains, and would call me whenever he was very happy, or very sad about something, like when his brother died. I told him when I got the scholarship for my MSc, and he helped me choose my thesis, and I supported him morally as he started learning to play guitar, and when he launched his business- selling car parts for German machines. He loved German machines – owned a sexy BMW and a TX for work and ‘errands za Canter’ as he loved to call them.
I don’t want to dwell on his demise and how I found out and how I wept cos I might not sleep last night, so let’s focus on his life, and us. He knew about my family, I knew about his, and the one person he always talked about? Eric, his cousin – the guy I talked to last night. Eric and I would talk a lot when hanging with Evans, cos they were always hanging out – Evans would drive me home, then hang out with Eric. Basically Evans was at work, at the gym, at the golf course, or hanging out with me, or Eric. Eric liked me because Evans did, so yesterday, I got to understand how Evans saw me through the eyes of his best friend.
Eric told me things that made me sob:
Evans would talk about me like a little boy excited about a girl. If they weren’t meeting, Evans would send him pictures of us. If they’d be meeting, they’d take an hour to unpack – how I hugged him, how I took random pictures of him and that it made him feel seen, how proud he felt to be with me, openly displaying affection- hugs and all…
How Evans kept talking about ‘Njoki alinitengenezea art and craft’, flossing with the letter I wrote him (writing letters is my numero uno way of showing affection), keeping it where he could see it daily in his closet (thought it was hidden, for some reason).
Another way I show love is giving you teabags from my collection, so I once carried a few to one date, and gave them to him, to convince him to be a tea-lover (he loooved coffee and had the most expensive coffee machine). I thought he drank them all but no, he kept them on a cute bowl on his microwave, and whenever Peninah would move them, he’d be like ‘Please don’t touch those ones’. Peninah is the lady who’d do his cleaning. This one made me cry so bad cos I gave him the tea in January 2022. I actually thought Eric was lying to make me feel good, but he told me the brands, the packaging… they were there until Evans’ brothers went to collect all his stuff. They even carried the tea.
How they had a special name for me. Guess what it is.
So yesterday, Eric opened his chat with Evans, and searched the name ‘Njoki’ to show me what he used to say, mostly in Dholuo, and Eric was like ‘Translation doesn’t even do it justice.’ Eric knew almost everything about me cos Evans would send him pictures like from my MSc and undergrad graduation, like, ‘Jaber Njoki chamo book!’, which is Luo for ‘Beautiful Njoki has ‘eaten’ books!’
Evans: Thinking of forming government here. Eric: Opisa chukua hii yawa. Ochal nyako ma with a cool spirit. Evans: You will assess the Brabus.
Cos to Evans, I was the ultimate dream car. He never got to have the car like that. Eric kept urging him to be fully honest and just ‘form the government’ – cos even after we stopped seeing each other, Evans would be like ‘Hakuna Njoki mwingine huku nje yawa!’
Evans loved my eloquence and kept telling Eric that I speak like Oile and Captain – like a black mzungu. Evans adored me, more than I ever knew.
And now, he’s just gone. I could talk about him all night, but I’d rather not, and probably shouldn’t, to protect the sacredness of his experience as a senior guy who loved a 23-year-old girl. He kept telling me ‘Wewe ulinikataa’ and I’d explain, and he wouldn’t push. If he pushed harder and honestly, I’d have agreed to marry him. Instead, he told Eric the truth- how he didn’t know how to approach my dad, how he was afraid of dying way before me, leaving me with his babies and his greedy siblings, how he was worried that he’d dishonour me by tying me to his life, cos he had already lived his, yet mine had just begun, how he wasn’t sure we’d have the same energy levels – I might want to go out more, have sex more, travel more, and he was almost 50, with a fuller plate, & less energy, how he was worried that I was worried about my reputation as I didn’t like received money- that I was afraid people would say I married him for his money/status. Our thing required boldness, recklessness, honesty. We lacked those.
So now, he’s 6-ft under, with the beard I liked, the heart I cherished, and the cuddly body that gave the best hugs. And very white teeth. This is a selfie we took in January 2022, one of our last dates. My braids were maroon, his beard was very black, and we were both filled with fear, excitement, ‘what-if’ questions, hope, and surrender.
In another reality, I’d have been his wife and possibly the mother of his children. In this reality, I’m an unmarried girl, figuring out career, making travel plans, decorating my home, getting to know someone, working on better communication, remembering Evans, wondering ‘What would we have had, had we been more honest, and less afraid?’
I’ve spent the last couple of months studying the Minor Prophets, but today my Bible study took a little detour into Judges. And may I just say, the Bible does not talk enough about Jael.
Church has done a wonderful job introducing us to the ‘good girls’ like Esther who fasted, Ruth who was loyal to Naomi, Mary who never touched a man, and kind Dorcas who made clothes for widows. We know these women, and rightly so. They were remarkable.
But then there are the women who don’t quite fit into our neat Saturday School boxes; women like Jael (and Vashti? Gosh, I love Vashti, but today is not about her).
Her name in Hebrew means ‘wild mountain goat’, which already tells you she wasn’t about to have an ordinary story. If your parents named you Wild Mountain Goat today, HR would probably ask a few questions.
Her story begins in the middle of a national crisis. The Israelites had spent twenty years under the oppression of King Jabin of Canaan, whose commander, Sisera, was basically the military guy you didn’t want to meet. He had nine hundred iron chariots, which, in those days, were almost unfair. Imagine showing up to a fistfight and the other person arrives with tanks.
God raises Deborah, a prophetess and judge, and tells Barak to gather an army because victory has already been decided. Barak, in a move that has always amused me, says he’ll only go if Deborah comes with him. Deborah agrees, but quietly lets him know that although Israel will win, Sisera won’t die by Barak’s hand. God will hand him over to a woman.
Now, if I were standing there, I would have immediately assumed she meant herself. Deborah was already leading Israel, after all. Surely she’s the woman.
Except… she wasn’t.
This is where I think the Bible writers were having a little fun.
Because while everybody’s attention is on the battlefield, God is quietly preparing someone else entirely.
Meanwhile, something fascinating is happening that you only fully appreciate when you read Deborah’s victory song in the next chapter. Judges 4 tells us what happened. Judges 5 tells us how Heaven saw it.
Deborah sings that “the stars fought from heaven; from their courses they fought against Sisera.” Then she mentions the River Kishon sweeping the enemy away.
I love that imagery because it suggests the battle wasn’t won by swords alone. Many scholars believe a heavy storm turned the battlefield into mud, rendering Sisera’s famous iron chariots almost useless. Suddenly the very machines that had terrorised Israel for two decades were stuck in the ground, and Sisera, the mighty commander, had to abandon them and run.
I don’t know why, but that makes me smile.
Imagine spending years building the most powerful army around, only for God to say, “Lovely chariots. Shame about the weather.”
Sometimes we think God only works through miracles that look supernatural. A voice from heaven. Fire falling from the sky. But here He simply… made it rain.
The stars fought.
The clouds fought.
The river fought.
Creation itself seemed to understand the assignment.
And then Sisera, exhausted and desperate, stumbled into Jael’s tent.
He asked for water.
She gave him milk.
Which is already funny to me because if I ask for water and someone hands me warm milk, I’m asking follow-up questions.
She covered him with a blanket. He fell asleep, probably believing he’d found the safest place imaginable.
Instead, he’d walked straight into the last chapter of his own story.
Jael picked up a tent peg and a hammer, and with what I can only assume was extraordinary upper-body strength, drove the peg through Sisera’s temple.
The end.
Honestly, the Bible can be unexpectedly dramatic.
What I love most, though, isn’t the tent peg. It’s that God fulfilled Deborah’s prophecy through someone nobody was looking at.
Jael wasn’t leading armies. She wasn’t standing under Deborah’s famous palm tree judging Israel. She wasn’t delivering prophecies. She was simply living her life until history knocked on her front door.
I find that incredibly comforting.
Sometimes we spend so much time wishing we were Deborah that we forget God is perfectly capable of using a Jael.
Maybe your role isn’t to lead the meeting. Maybe it’s to have exactly the right conversation at exactly the right time. Maybe it isn’t to stand on the stage. Maybe it’s to quietly change the ending of someone else’s story.
And maybe that’s what I learnt today.
When God decides to bring about victory, all of heaven cooperates. Stars. Rain. Rivers. Prophets. Housewives with tent pegs. Nothing is random.
Also…
Can we please start talking about the Bible’s bad girls a little more?
This week has felt like standing in the middle of a very noisy roundabout.
You know those weeks where several unrelated things happen, but somehow your brain puts them in the same emotional basket? Yeah. That.
First, Macron came to Kenya. International relations are so fascinating because one minute it’s handshakes and smiles and ‘strengthening bilateral ties,’ and the next minute you’re thinking about debt, influence, power, uranium, aid, language politics, and wondering whether world leaders ever get tired of wearing suits. Also, side note, French sounds so beautiful until you realise geopolitics is involved. Suddenly ‘bonjour‘ becomes tres economically stressful.
Anyway, somewhere in between all that, Flo shut down. Then Shop New Level, too. Yoh! That one unsettled me so deeply that my friend Peggy and I unpacked it for about an hour. It sat with me heavily particularly because when you’re trying to grow the product side of your business, you look at brands like that almost like older cousins who’ve figured life out a bit before you. You see their stores (and gasp in admiration), the branding, the packaging (Shop New Level was really good at this), the campaigns, the growth (I remember when Nancie Mwai started out as a vlogger and blogger alongside her friends Miss Mandi and Sheila Ndinda, back in my campus days), and your brain quietly files them under: ‘See! It’s possible!!’ A benchmark of sorts.
Then, suddenly, they close. What?? I felt really bad because I know how emotionally taxing it is to build something you’re super-passionate about.
All that said, I really appreciated Nancie Mwai’s honesty about the losses, the theft, the management strain, and the freaking lip oil issue; one ‘mistake’ can cost A LOT. I appreciated the vulnerability of publicly saying, ‘This has been hard…’, because social media has lied to us a little about business. Most people tend to glamourize it, you know? Everyone online is apparently ‘excited to announce’ things. Nobody is ‘devastated to announce…’, or posting: ‘Hey guys, our systems are collapsing…’, and ‘Hi loves, someone stole stock…’ Have you ever seen a ‘Good morning family, I cried in Excel today…’ post? No? Well, me neither.
So when someone is honest about the messiness, it almost feels refreshing. Sad, but refreshing.
And also terrifying, because what do you mean? Even the babes we admire are also stressed? Is the program constant like that?
Then Zuckerberg decided the week was not stimulating enough. WHATSAPP ADS??? Excuse me please. Mimi I saw the announcement and just stared into space for a bit. Because WhatsApp was the one app that still felt like a living room. Simple. Quiet. Human. Just vibes and communication. Aunties posting TikTok gospel videos, friends sending voice notes, cousins posting blurry wedding videos on their status, Njoki posting recaps and stories…
Now everybody wants to sell me something. Soon I’ll open WhatsApp to reply ‘Nimefika’ and see: ‘SPONSORED: Buy anti-aging serum now.’ SO RUDE!! And the thing is, I understand it from a business perspective. Ads make money. Meta is a company, not a charity organisation run by monks. But emotionally? I’m tired. Seemingly, everything online is fighting for attention now. Our eyes are constantly being dragged somewhere. Every app is loud. Every app is performing, and every app wants engagement.
Instagram exhausts me, although I find myself scrolling there aimlessly still and watching reels. LinkedIn is a motivational speaking competition. And now WhatsApp has ads. Very soon, my calculator app will soon interrupt me with: ‘Watch this short ad before solving 7 × 8.’
Black Mark Zuckerberg would’ve looked like this.
Anyhoo, I’m not complaining, am I? All I’m saying is that perhaps I belong in the Stone Age haha.
Those are this week’s thoughts from headquarters, and now I need to head out for my evening walk before the rain catches up with me (also I’ll walk to the supermarket cos I miss me some Naivas carrot cake goodness! Yum!)
I hope you’re keeping well. May the weekend be MUY BONITO (can you tell I’ve been enjoying my Spanish classes a lot lately? Haha!).
There’s this saying: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Heard it before, right?
I have questions. Because yes, the bird in the hand is there. It is tangible. It is behaving, and it is not making me go outside and gamble my life. It is just sitting there like, “Hi, I am your bird. I belong to you now.” But then, sometimes, in an honest, self-ware way, I look at it and think, ‘Wait, do I even like this bird?’.
Because the bird in the hand is also very good at one thing: keeping you busy. You are holding it, feeding it, adjusting your life around it, occasionally defending it in conversations like, ‘No, it’s actually a very good bird.’ Meanwhile, you are not looking at the bush at all. You are not even thinking about the bush. You are emotionally occupied.
And then there’s the bush.
The bush is chaotic. The bush is uncertain. The bush is where birds may or may not exist, but also… the bush is where possibility lives. And I think that’s the problem, cos sometimes the bird in your hand is not even the best bird. It’s just the first bird that didn’t fly away immediately. Which, if we are honest, is not always a qualification. And the bird could be anything; a job, a friendship, a romantic relationship, whatever’s in the hand.
But here’s the tricky part: letting go feels dramatic. Like, what do you mean I should open my hand and risk becoming birdless in this economy? And yet, staying with the wrong bird also quietly turns you into someone who stops looking up, because you stop noticing other birds, as you defend the one in the hand, and start saying things like, ‘At least it doesn’t bite me that often.’
All that said, no, I don’t have a conclusion. All I know is that sometimes the bird should be kept in the hand, and sometimes, the bird needs to be released to allow one to go into the bush and catch another that’s probably prettier, fatter, and more docile, but it’s not always easy to know what to do, is it?
I hope your Monday is coming along fine. Mine is; I’ve eaten several pomodoros. May the rest of the day and week be great!
Things; like me promising myself that I’ll be blogging daily, even if it’s two lines sometimes lol. Things; like me practising to apply eye shadow like a pro using this palette my sister brought me…
Things; like coffee, (yes coffee, not tea), and chicken, and mangoes, and a lot of other things.
Some days, it’s the little things that really carry you through. Today, at 1445 hours, I’m sitting back and thinking about them. Good breakfast; avocado involved, obviously. The scent of coffee lingering in the house (even though tea is my main love, I’ve been drinking more coffee lately, and adding lemon? Surprisingly decent). Chicken marinating in spices, making me look forward to dinner (who am I lying to? Probably late lunch, and then I’ll eat something else for dinner. We’ll see).
A sweet voice note waiting for me like a tiny reward for doing a boring task. And then… mango season, y’all. I’ve been indulging, and honestly, biting into a perfectly ripe mango is just bliss.
Life can be a lot (been feeling its ‘a lot-ness’ a lot), and some days you need grand plans, big wins, and huge victories. Other days, you just need good food, nice smells, juicy mangoes, and just other things.
What thing has made you happy today? Let me know:-)
Yours,
Njoks.
(I wanted to attach a picture of me wearing eyeshadow but I’d probably rather not; kinda still want you to take me seriously haha!)
I cooked today, and used black pepper properly; not the polite dusting at the end. It smelled warm and woody and slightly sharp, the way black pepper does when it hasn’t been sitting open too long. There’s something grounding about that smell. Familiar. Almost serious. So serious that it made me sneeze, as it always does.
Black pepper doesn’t ask to be liked. It doesn’t try to sweeten anything. It just shows up and does its job. Too little and you miss it. Too much and it reminds you very quickly that it exists. And that made me think about how many things in life are like that not dramatic enough to talk about, not soft enough to romanticise. They don’t announce meaning, but later you realise they held everything together; they might make you ‘sneeze’ a little but they’re useful; a habit, a conversation, a quiet decision you made…
I like spices like that. Spices just make sense. Black pepper makes a lot of sense, and I hope your week does too.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately; partly because social media feels like one of those things I haven’t yet learned to engage with healthily, and partly because I’m trying to run a business in 2026 while also preserving whatever’s left of my nervous system.
First, some context: I’m highly sensitive. Like, overly stimulated-by-ten-things-before-breakfast sensitive. I currently only have an Instagram account for my business, and a personal LinkedIn profile that’s basically on life support. I deleted the IG app from my phone, yes, baby steps, so now I can only visit it on the web when I really mean to. But still… the scroll.
Social media and business experts in 2026 say: ‘Show your work. Post hard. Be everywhere. TikTok, Threads, Reels, memes, trends…’ ‘If you’re selling something, you must be on TikTok. If you’re blogging, also Threads. If you’re breathing, make a video of it and use upbeat music, please, Margaret!’
But here’s the thing: I just can’t seem to engage with it the way people say we should.
Sometimes I log in and I get sucked in gorgeously, silently, like being pulled into quicksand. One minute I’m looking at business inspiration, the next I’m crying because the amazing LydiaKM’s trip with her mum to the States reminded me of what I’ll never do with my own mum who passed on. And then today, on checking my business IG after several days, I see a post, that Chimamanda is grieving her son, and I cry for her, even though I’ve never met her. I have read almost all her books, so it somewhat feels like I know her; her beauty, her wit, her personness, her fertility challenges and surrogacy, grief after losing her dad… I feel sooo bad for her.
And then, the Doreen Kananu post that broke my heart so bad, and suddenly I had days of anxiety and real panic moments that have nothing to do with my immediate reality. All because I saw it online.
And yes, I know not seeing doesn’t make the tragedies not real. But I get to choose what I house in my body. I get to decide what comes into my emotional bloodstream and takes up residence.
Then there’s the comparison virus. ‘We were classmates…’ ‘She now has three Range Rovers and ten businesses…’ ‘5 years, 7 trips, 12 book deals…’ Meanwhile I’m quietly experimenting with a business model that deliberately doesn’t rely on me dancing into the algorithm’s arms at 2 a.m. Great! Fantastic! Let’s thrive quietly, maybe?
So the question: Can you run a business without social media?
I think the honest and kind answer is: Yes, but not the way conventional wisdom tells you to. Or maybe not? I’m honestly not sure. Are you?
Social media is a tool; a big, loud, glittery tool, but it is not a requirement of existence. Some people thrive on it. Others survive on it. Others exist beneath it, beside it, or outside it altogether. You (read ‘I’) can have a business that:
has real customers who found you through word of mouth
has email lists you control
has bookings and repeat clients without daily posts
makes offline connections
grows organically
uses social media only when YOU decide, not when the algorithm demands
I’m not anti-social media. I’m also not sure what I am. I’m probably pro-limits. Pro-signs-you-in-but-also-sign-out-again. Pro-preserving my emotional bandwidth.
Here’s what I’m trying to learn: my business doesn’t disappear because I missed a trend, and I don’t have to know every platform’s newest feature to matter. And maybe, just maybe, there’s a whole category of thriving that is slow, calm, intentional, and deeply human.
And while I still want everyone in the world to have an EcoNjia bamboo brush, I’m learning that it doesn’t have to come through a frantic race with every algorithm. Perhaps that’s why people hire social media managers (I know I’ll be breathing over their shoulder so it’ll kinda be like I’m still running the show, no?) Being a business owner is an interesting experience. For now, I’m really loving personal engagement on our WhatsApp business. View our catalogue hereeee (yes, shameless plug haha): https://wa.me/c/254796354505
I hope you’re keeping well, though. Have a lovely weekend, and thanks, as always, for your readership.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my body lately. Not in a New Year, new abs kind of way (please), but in a quieter, more reverent way. Like… wow, this body has really carried me.
In September 2025, my friend passed on, and my body felt it before my mind could even make sense of it. Grief moved through me physically. After her burial, my skin flared up into eczema. My focus scattered. Anger came in waves. Sadness sat heavy. And then there were the accidents; small, but telling. I sliced my finger twice in one week while cooking. I absent-mindedly grazed my hand against a metallic rack. I picked up a scratch from my mama mboga’s stall like a souvenir I didn’t ask for.
But here’s the thing that stopped me in my tracks: every single wound healed.
Enter: platelets. Those tiny, hardworking, unsung heroes. A cut happens. Blood shows up. Platelets rush in. A scab forms. Healing follows. Sometimes a scar remains, sometimes not, but the body responds. Faith, my friend and neighbour, and I were talking about this one day, about how some people live with conditions where their platelets can’t do their job properly. And suddenly, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude. Even in grief. Even in shock. Even when I wasn’t doing great, my body was still on my side.
Which brings me (somehow very logically, in my head) to coconut oil.
I think my body hates coconut oil. Truly. I first noticed it with my hair. Coconut oil dries it out terribly, and later I learnt why: my hair has low porosity. Coconut oil works best for high-porosity hair because its molecules penetrate open cuticles. Mine said, ‘Absolutely not!’ Fine.
Then sometime back, I was getting to know someone who introduced me to cooking with coconut oil. Seed oils were the enemy, apparently. I did my research, nodded thoughtfully, and bought a massive jar of Kentaste coconut oil. To be fair, my house smells like a bakery when I cook with it. Very romantic. Very Pinterest-y. Then one night, I fell for the hype. I thought, ‘Let me apply a bit of coconut oil on my lips before bed. People swear by this stuff.’
Friends, I woke up with painfully chapped, wrinkled lips. I wish I was exaggerating.
And that’s when the thought landed: if my hair hates it, and my lips hate it, how sure am I that my intestines love it?
Maybe they don’t. Maybe this body, which has shown up for me in grief, is also asking me to listen. So here’s what I’m taking into the new year, and maybe you can borrow some of it if it fits:
Gratitude before criticism. This body has held me through loss. I owe it thanks before demands.
Not everything marketed as ‘good’ is good for everyone. Even if it smells nice. Even if the internet swears by it.
Healing is happening, even when life feels messy. Platelets don’t wait for you to be okay. They just do their work.
Pay attention to patterns. Your body speaks. Softly at first. Loudly if ignored.
Self-care is not about trends. It’s about truth. Your truth. My truth.
The truth is that my platelets have been there for me. I love them.
As we step into 2026, I’m choosing to trust my body a little more. To stop forcing things that don’t agree with me; foods, habits, oils, even people, and to honour what heals me, not just what’s popular.
Here’s to a year of listening. Here’s to tiny platelets doing holy work. And of course, here’s to letting coconut oil mind its business, nowhere close to my hair or lips.
Studying the minor prophets lately has felt like opening windows in a stuffy room; suddenly there’s clarity, fresh air, and that gentle voice of God saying, ‘Breathe, child.’ And today’s reading? Haggai. Listen… that tiny two-chapter book?? A whole sermon. A whole hug. A whole rebirth. And suddenly, I think I want to name my son Haggai; Njoki, Mama Haggai. Sounds good, no?
Anyhoo, before we dive into the good stuff, let’s set the scene; a little context because context is holy. So, the Jews had been in exile in Babylon, living in a land that wasn’t theirs, worshipping in ways that weren’t their own, and longing for home. Then comes Cyrus the Great; a pagan king whom God uses like a divine chess piece.
Cyrus issues a decree: ‘Go back home. Rebuild your temple. Oh, and take your stolen temple vessels with you. Also, here’s funding for the construction.‘ (Fun fact: this decree is what is referred to as ‘The Cyrus Cylinder’, an ancient clay artifact from 539 BC that represents freedom of worship, respect for diverse cultures, and the release of captives. A replica was handed to the United Nations in 1971, reflecting early ideas of tolerance, liberty, and dignity, influencing current concepts of governance and human rights).
Imagine the shock, the relief, and the hope rising inside a community that had lost almost everything.
They return to Jerusalem, lay the foundation of the temple, and there’s excitement… but then?
Opposition. Discouragement. Enemies and politics… (like the Samaritans would write to kings, halting the project for years)
Ezra tells us their neighbours, the ones who didn’t want Jerusalem restored, frustrated the Jews, intimidated them, and sabotaged the work. So the people stopped building. Not because they hated God. Not because they were spiritually sleepy. But because life was heavy and the battle was exhausting.
Of course, they also got comfortable, and started fixing their homes, adding paneling, trying to rebuild their own lives first. It’s understandable. Trauma makes you want safety. But God wanted alignment, not guilt or shame, so He sent a messenger.
Enter Haggai; The Prophet of ‘Don’t Give Up Yet‘
Haggai steps onto the scene with a message that is firm but deeply tender.
‘Consider your ways.’ ‘Fear not.’ ‘I am with you.’
This isn’t a scolding. This is a Father lifting His children back to their feet.
He basically tells them: I know it’s been hard. I know the enemies shook you. I know you’re tired. But I’m still here. Let’s rebuild. Together.
And just like that, the leaders and the people rise, and the work begins again (perhaps I”ll write another Haggai article about what I learnt from chapter 2 as they compare the first majestic temple Solomon built, with the one they built after exile. There are yum lessons there as well).
A little encouragement can resurrect an entire nation.
And tell me that’s not the story of life?
Sometimes We’re the Discouraged Builders…
You start something with fire in your bones: a dream, a project, healing, a relationship, a new chapter. You lay the foundation. You’re hyped.
Then life happens.
Opposition. Delays. Disappointments. Your own fears whispering louder than God’s promises.
And slowly, quietly… you stop building.
But Haggai’s message is the gentle nudge we all need: ‘Fear not. I am with you.‘
God is the restorer of shattered dreams. He rebuilds what looked forever broken, and brings back hope. He sends reminders, people, moments, whispers… prophets in ordinary clothes.
…And Sometimes We’re Called to Be Haggai
Sometimes you are the encouragement someone needs.
A text. A prayer. A reminder that God isn’t done. A ‘Don’t quit.’ A ‘You’re not crazy, keep going. I see you. God is with you.’
We underestimate how world-changing simple encouragement can be. What Haggai did in two chapters still echoes centuries later, not because he was dramatic, but because he was obedient and tender.
Maybe someone in your life needs that today. Maybe someone is one ‘fear not, God is with you’ away from picking up their tools again and rebuilding their life.
And maybe you, too, need to hear it.
So here it is: Don’t give up. God is with you. The work can begin again.
I have THOROUGHLY enjoyed Haggai, and I feel sooo blessed this Sabbath, and I hope this blesses you too. Please share it with your friends who need encouragement, or just vibes. Thanks for being here, reader. We’ll talk again very soon.
Yours, about to brew the richest, yummiest Earl Grey tea,
Rusty Fingers 