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.

Yours thoughtfully,

Njoks.

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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.

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.

Happy and Prosperous New Year 2026, reader!

Talk soon.

Yours, wearing lip gloss, not coconut oil,

Njoks.

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,

Njoks.

I grew up in Dagoretti Corner, inside the Nairobi City County staff headquarters, aka the kind of place where every house had kids spilling out like popcorn. Our house was Number 111, which was also the matatu number from CBD to Dagoretti Corner. I always thought that was incredibly cool. Like fate was trying to tell me, ‘This is your stop, child.‘

Anyway, the place was packed with families, noise, laughter, drama, and kids playing games everywhere; on verandas, in tiny open spaces between houses, and of course, the large field close to the shops (this field was always occupied by teenage boys playing soccer). Because it was government-owned, we had ‘amenities’ like a social hall that transformed depending on the time of day. At noon: kids playing whatever games. At 6 p.m.: men drinking beer, arguing about politics, or whatever. On Sundays, it’d be rented out to a certain church ran by Americans, and we’d attend service sometimes because they’d give us free snacks and stationery, lol!

Life was good. Childhood was loud.
And kids? Kids were dumb. We were dumb (Including me.)

Among the characters of my childhood was a man known as Kenyanya, the official hater of children. This man despised us. He lived next to the best playing field: perfectly flat, soft, green grass that made kati feel like the Olympics. So of course, that’s exactly where we would go.

And of course, that’s exactly where Kenyanya would chase us from.

He would literally run after us; long strides, angry voice, swinging arms… and in the chaos, he often managed to grab a shoe or two. We’d scatter like rats, leaving behind shoes as evidence of our crimes. Come evening, the man would knock on doors with unmatched authority:

“Hizi viatu ni za huyu mtoto wako? Sitaki kuwaona pale kwangu.”

We thought he was petty, and strange.

And honestly?
We thought he was overreacting; I mean, it’s just kids playing! Outside! On grass! Shida ni gani sasa?

But now?

Let me confess something…

I have become Kenyanya.

I don’t want kids playing outside my house. They are too loud. Their games are chaotic. Their laughter is overstimulating. Their tiny feet slap the ground like they’re summoning demons. And their volume levels? Criminal.

I don’t chase anyone or steal shoes or make evening rounds to report people; I’m not THAT far gone, but today, I understand Kenyanya in my bones.

Because now I know what he was going through.
We later learned that his wife was unwell. She lived upcountry but came to Nairobi sometimes, and their son with her. Imagine dealing with that kind of stress, only for a bunch of small, sweaty humans to scream outside your window every afternoon.

We didn’t understand him then.
We only saw inconvenience, because childhood makes you think adults exist purely to adjust to your needs.

And it’s funny: the older I get, the more I see that dynamic everywhere.

Growing up, you’d hear people whisper about that aunty…
‘The miser.’
‘The one who never sends money for contributions.’
‘The one who always says she’s busy.’

Then adulthood hits you like a frying pan and suddenly:

Oh!
She wasn’t a miser.
She had boundaries.
She simply didn’t want to fund every committee, fundraiser, or impromptu celebration for cousins they last saw when Moi was still president.

People weren’t mad because she was bad.
People were mad because she refused to carry responsibilities that weren’t hers.

Just like Kenyanya was not crazy, we were just loud.

Adulthood is humbling.
It makes you sympathize with the villains of your childhood and see the humanity you never noticed before.

Now I catch myself thinking: Why are these kids shouting? Why is this neighbour’s music so loud? I’m not even 40 yet, but the spirit of ‘can everyone please calm down?’ has already located me.

I have become Kenyanya, and I can’t believe it.

So tell me: have you also become one of the adults you judged growing up?
Do you finally understand your childhood ‘villains’?
Are you one loud child away from chasing people with a slipper?

Let me know.

Be well, reader, and see you again, very soon.

Yours, drinking warm water,

Njoks.

Today started like any other day… until my business phone buzzed with an M-Pesa message. We all love M-Pesa messages, don’t we?

KSh 30 received.

Not 3,000.
Not 300.
Thirty.

Now, listen, 30 bob is not exactly ‘the angels have remembered me’ money, but because I wasn’t expecting any money, for a split second my delulu was like: ‘Ah! Someone has visited our IG, fallen in love with our journals and bamboo toothbrushes, and said: ‘You know what? Let me buy one journal and a few brushes…’ and then they forgot to add two zeros after ’30’ to make it three thousand bob, ‘3000’.

My sensible side then whispered,
‘Girl… someone was paying for airtime or Omo bar soap at the kiosk, and misdialed a digit or two.’

So, being the Responsible Adult™ that I am (on most days), I called the guy. His first name is George. George picked up with the speed of someone who has lost money before, like:

‘Ooh! Nilikuwa nalipia kitu! Wah! Asante! Wewe umeokoka, eh? Sindio? Wow! Asante sanaa!’

Let me tell you, this man was so grateful you’d think I had rescued him from a burning building. He was so touched you’d think I had sent him a million bob instead of returning the 30 shillings. My response was a simple ‘Eeh, karibu sana!’

Here’s the thing:
Maybe this was my moment to evangelize.
Maybe angels were watching like, ‘Now Njoki, say something profound. Give him Micah 6:8. Do it for the kingdom...’

But me? I only hit him with the ‘Ni sawa, karibu,‘ returned his 30 bob, and let him continue being impressed, lol.

I think, sometimes ministry isn’t a sermon.

Sometimes ministry is simply returning someone’s 30 bob without making it deep. But genuinely? It reminded me how rare small kindnesses are. People expect to be scammed, ignored, or brushed off, so when you do the bare minimum of being decent, it feels like revival. Maybe the point wasn’t that I should preach. Maybe the point was that compassion itself is a sermon. Even tiny, 30-bob compassion.

What about you?

Have you ever returned money to a stranger?
Ever had someone hype you for doing something that felt basic?
Or better yet, do you have a funny M-Pesa ‘wrong number’ story?
(I need stories. Don’t leave me hanging.)

Thanks for being here, reader. We’ll talk again very soon, okay? Be well.

Yours, kinda dozing off,

Njoks.

Lately, I’ve been drawing a suspicious amount of inspiration from the kids around here. They remind me of my childhood; the fun, the chaos, the unprovoked violence…. and it’s got me thinking about something important, something philosophical, something that feels like it belongs in a TED Talk titled ‘Healing Your Inner Child Before She Sends an Email You’ll Regret.‘

Childhood bullies.
Where do they go?

No seriously, where?? Because the way some adults behave, you’d think they teleported straight from the playground to corporate Kenya without even stopping to breathe.

You remember them.
The ones who’d beat people for existing.
The ones who’d say the meanest things with a straight face.
The ones who played unfairly and then cried when you caught them cheating.
The ones who’d push you, pinch you, threaten you… basically everyone’s free character-development providers.

And it wasn’t just in school; even at home there was always that cousin who’d ‘accidentally’ hit you too hard during games, or the neighbourhood kid who ruled the playground like a tiny dictator. (If you can’t think of one, sijui… perhaps you were the bully? No offense. Just data collection.)

But what happens to these people when they grow up?

Well… some of them become your colleagues. The ones who reply to emails like they’re throwing punches. The ones who hoard information like it’s national security. The ones who make every group project feel like a hostage situation.

Others become cyberbullies hiding behind anonymous accounts, posting hateful comments on people’s bodies, lives, dreams… as if they don’t have a sink full of dishes waiting for them. We usually assume people grow, soften, evolve. But some? They just grow taller. That’s it. Same energy, bigger bodies.

But here’s the thing: we also forget that some bullies did change. Life humbled them. Life stretched them. Life handed them stories that softened their edges. Everyone’s battle is different, but still, it’s fascinating to think about how childhood personalities show up in adulthood.

So now I’m curious.
Do you remember your childhood bullies?
Are they still around?
Do you know where they ended up?
And, wild thought, are you absolutely sure you weren’t someone’s bully?

Tell me in the comments. Let’s unpack it together.

Have a great weekend, reader. Talk soon!

Yours, enjoying lemon tea,

Njoks.

This evening, I’m seated by my window watching the sun melt into that soft orange-pink glow, and somewhere downstairs, kids are playing the most boring games known to mankind. Like… kalongo? Plain old Kati? Kwani what happened to imagination?? During my time, and yes, I’m officially that person who says ‘during my time’, we had games. Serious games. Games that needed stamina, diplomatic negotiation, and sometimes mild violence. Kati alone had like 17 versions: kasuku, rounders, double kati, mkebe with mashakwe (maize cobs) that could concuss you if you weren’t alert. This was real sport. Not this -throw once, catch once’ business these kids are doing. And don’t get me started on the fact that half of them are just waiting to run back to their tablets. I swear if you shout ‘Come use your tablet now’, they’ll scatter faster than coins on a matatu floor.

Maybe it’s a generational thing; every era has its flavour of fun, but sometimes I wish kids would zhuzh things up a bit. Add some spice. Add some danger. Add some maize cobs. A small part of me is tempted to go downstairs tomorrow and show them how Kati was meant to be played, but then again… I don’t want to look like that aunty. You know the one. The one who’s too enthusiastic, too competitive, out there diving for balls like she’s training for a national team. The kids will think I’m unhinged. Or adore me. Or both.

Maybe I’ll go. Maybe I won’t.

But sitting here, I’m realising this: every generation thinks the next one isn’t having fun ‘properly.’ Maybe that means we grew up well. Maybe it means they will too. Their fun just looks different, and maybe that’s okay.

Still, if they ever want to learn mashakwe, I’m available.

Now that the sun has set already, and I have finished writing, I’m gonna take a shower, eat, drink Earl Grey tea, and then sleep. Like a sloth. I’ll probably also read a chapter or two of a book I got from my dad’s collection; might blog about it soon.

Alright, talk soon, reader. Thanks for being here.

Yours, craving tea,

Njoks.

Yesterday, my friend Esther posted a photo on her WhatsApp Status; she’d gone to the Snake Park… and had a whole snake on her shoulders. Like. A. Whole. Snake. With calmness. With confidence. SMILING.I almost threw my phone across the room!! See, I can go to the Snake Park; I have gone, and I will go again, but I will never touch a snake. I cannot. I will not. Even the tip of my little finger refuses. And putting it on my shoulders?? Sweetie, my ancestors would rise from their graves to personally escort me home. Some things are simply not in my destiny, and that’s okay.

The second thing I will never do? Water sports. Scuba diving, snorkeling, deep-sea diving, all those things that require faith, bravery, and a loose relationship with survival. Count me out. I’ve done boat rides maybe three times in my entire life, and even that felt like I was negotiating with the universe. I will never be under water, inside water, inside something that is inside water, or participating in anything that depends on water behaving itself. Even cruises? Zero interest. It’s not on my to-do list, bucket list, or even my delulu list. I love water… from afar.I drink it. I shower daily. We have a respectful, distant relationship. But large bodies of water? Ocean? Deep lake? No thank you. My spirit simply does not vibe with vibrations of that magnitude.

And honestly, that’s one of the nice things about growing into yourself; knowing what you love, what you like, and what you will never do. There’s freedom in saying, ‘No thank you, not for me,’ without guilt or apology.

So now I’m curious; what’s on your ‘never’ list? Be as unserious or as dramatic as you want:

Never dating a short man?

Never climbing Mt. Kenya?

Never eating mutura?

Never skydiving?

Never touching a snake like Esther?

What’s your own personal line in the sand? Tell me in the comments, because I’m sure some of your ‘nevers’ will have me laughing on the floor.

Thanks a lot for being here, and may your week be great, beloved reader.

Yours, never ever touching a snake,

Njoks.

It’s Sunday evening, and I’ve just wrapped up a gentle, slow kind of day. I enjoyed some yummy sour porridge today (yes, the kind that hits the soul), scrolled through Instagram a bit, and saw that one of my fav people, Mo Momanyi, recently had a baby girl; Mama Girls is officially here! I’m soooo happy for her, especially since this marks a beginning since her divorce a few years ago. Women are healing, and beginning again, and I love it.

Now, I’m sitting with this quiet, warm feeling, thinking about the week ahead. Here’s to a week that’s restful, yet productive; full of small joys, tiny and big wins, and maybe even a few sour porridge moments that just hit different. Take a breath, smile at the little things, and step boldly into Monday.

You’ve got this.

Yours, dozing off,

Njoks.

I’m currently doing a task that’s boring the living daylight out of me. Yaani, I can feel my soul sighing with every scroll. It’s on Microsoft Excel, of course. Nothing humbles a person (me) quite like staring at a spreadsheet that just refuses to make sense, or that takes a lot from me for it to make sense.

And as I sat here, clicking away like a tired data-entry intern from 2008, I suddenly remembered something from my childhood. My mum used to assign me tasks she knew I hated, mostly, looking for things. She’d call me from wherever I was, usually when she was ironing, and say, ‘Njoki, enda utafute shirt ya baba yako ya sky blue iko na stripes…ulete ni-iron…’

Now, this ‘blue shirt with stripes’ could be anywhere in the wardrobe, the laundry basket, or in some mysterious corner of the house only mothers have the GPS coordinates to. I’d go rummaging through everything, then shout,

‘Mum, siioni!’
And she’d reply, calm as ever,
‘Utaiona. Angalia vizuri.’

Of course, I’d sigh dramatically, stomp back, and look again, and again, and again, until eventually, on the fifth attempt, I’d find it. Always right there, mocking me, like: ‘So you couldn’t see me before?‘

That’s exactly how Excel feels today. I don’t exactly like it, but I kinda have to do it. It’s the adult version of the ‘blue shirt with stripes’ task. The formula won’t balance, the numbers won’t align, and I keep whispering to myself, ‘Siioni…‘

But I’ll find it eventually. I always do.

Maybe that’s the moral of the story: some things in life you just have to go back and look for calmly, even when you’re bored, tired, or just don’t want to. Whether it’s a missing shirt, a lost file, a forgotten dream, or a piece of yourself that’s gone quiet. Look again.

You’ll find it.

Yours, not exactly loving MS-Excel,

Njoks.