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.

It’s a lovely Sunday evening. My tea tastes great, and I’m feeling calm. I love feeling calm. How are you? I really hope you’re okay.

I’ve just finished reading Liz Gilbert’s ‘Letter from Love’, and today’s message? Wildly similar to what Love told me yesterday. Funny how God keeps confirming things through other people.

Liz writes these letters daily. I do mine weekly, usually on Sabbath afternoons when everything slows down; no/less work, no/less noise, just stillness and my journal. I always start with the same question:
‘Dear Love, what would you have me know today?’

And, chile, the answers? Sometimes it’s comfort. Sometimes it’s conviction. Yesterday, Love said something that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about: ‘You’re here to learn, enjoy, expand your scope, travel, meet, and help people. You’re here to be, our child, and that’s not in any way tied to productivity...’

That line stopped me in my tracks. Because so many of us, especially those of us with ‘main character’ tendencies (with vision boards and to-do lists and to-achieve lists and year compasses and all), have built our sense of worth around output. You’re not thriving if you’re not doing. You’re not valuable if you’re not producing. But God, through Love, keeps reminding me that just being is sacred too.

Now, Liz’s letter today? Same frequency. She asked Love, ‘Why am I here?‘ And Love, in the most gentle but gangster way, said: ‘You’re here because we wanted to be.’

Not to change the world. Not to win some cosmic award for good behavior. Just to experience it; the mess, the joy, the boredom, the heartbreak, the laughter, the wonder.

And doesn’t that just make you exhale a little? Because sometimes I get tired of chasing meaning. Of trying to justify my existence by achievements or activism or applause. But what if life isn’t about proving anything? What if it’s just about being here, showing up, feeling things deeply, and letting God, who is Love, express Himself through that?

One thing I’ve realized is that God speaks differently to all of us. Some hear Him through prayer, others through meditation, others through movement, or even through writing. (And yes, sometimes through Liz Gilbert’s Substack, let’s not lie.)

We may call Him by different names, or show up through different traditions, but the essence is the same. He’s that gentle voice inside saying, ‘You’re doing fine. You don’t have to earn my love. Just live.‘

And I think that’s what Liz means when she says we’re ‘open-hearted visitors.’ We came here to live, not to hustle for divine approval, not to fix everyone, or to change the world, but to be here fully.

So tonight, I’m grateful. For the stillness, for Love’s letters, for the reminder that being alive is the point.

And if you’re reading this, maybe this is your reminder too:
You don’t have to do more to deserve your place on this planet. You’re already a masterpiece in progress. And no, God, Love isn’t asking you to be lazy. You’ll still show up, still build, still do your part, just without the panic and punishment. There’s a way to move with grace instead of grind. To work with life, not against it.

Ask yourself, ‘Dear Love, what would you have me know today?’ Then listen. The answers are softer than you think, always.

May this new week be great! Thanks for being here.

Yours lovingly,

Njoks.

If I could summarize this Sabbath in one sentence: my trinity (body, mind, and spirit) finally agreed to stop fighting and just vibe. I feel good; I feel soooo good and calm (zensational), and I hope you do too.

Today, I read the book of Micah, and whew, what a book! It’s only seven chapters long but reads like a poetic punch to the gut; part courtroom drama, part love letter, part reality check.

Micah was a prophet during a messy time for both Samaria (the capital of Israel) and Jerusalem (the capital of Judah). The rich were exploiting the poor, leaders were corrupt, judges were accepting bribes, and prophets were twisting God’s word for personal gain (sounds exactly like the world we’re living in today, right?). It was a societal circus, and not the fun kind with popcorn. Micah called it out boldly, reminding them that no nation, no matter how ‘chosen’, could escape God’s justice. But even in his rebukes, there was hope. He spoke of a coming restoration, and in that prophecy, he mentioned the birth of Jesus, born in Bethlehem, the one who’d bring true peace and righteousness.

Micah’s message, though ancient, still feels like a word for our times: God isn’t moved by performance; He’s moved by our posture. Do justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly with your God (Micah 6:8). Simple, direct, yet somehow the hardest thing for us, humanity, to get right since… forever. I mean, look at what’s going on around the world: Sudan, Palestine, Congo…it’s all insane. There’s no justice, mercy, or humility in the way we’re treating each other, especially those who cannot defend themselves. *sighs*

Anyhoo, it reminded me of Jonah, the previous book. Remember how Jonah was sent to Nineveh to tell people to repent, and he was like, ‘Nah, they don’t deserve mercy’? And then God goes ahead and shows mercy anyway? Micah feels like the continuation of that theme. Justice and mercy aren’t opposites; they’re dance partners. You can’t do one without the other.

What stood out to me is that humility isn’t weakness; it’s power under control. It’s knowing that you don’t have to shout or perform rituals (like sacrificing children) to be heard by God. It’s in the quiet trust that He sees, He knows, and He’ll handle it. Justice isn’t about playing saviour; it’s about doing what’s right where you are, with what you have. And mercy? It’s giving grace to others (and yourself) when it’s not deserved but desperately needed.

I closed my Bible and just sat there thinking, ‘This is it. This is the assignment. Do justice. Love mercy. Walk humbly!’ That’s all God asks; not perfection, not performance, just presence.

So, as we step into November, maybe that’s what we should carry with us. The quiet knowing that we can still be kind in a cruel world. That we can still choose to do right, even when it’s unpopular. That we can still be soft and strong and human.

What about you? What are you walking into this new month as? Maybe bolder, calmer, or more merciful? Whatever it is, be whatever you need to be, to do whatever you’re called to do. That’s the advice I’m giving myself, too.

I hope you have a restful weekend, and a great November. Be well, and thanks for being here.

Talk soon!

Yours mercifully, with orange toe nails that I’m obsessed with,

Njoks.

So, it’s Halloween, and while everyone’s out there being vampires, angels, or pumpkins, I’ve just finished reviewing my vision board. I try to do that monthly: it’s my little check-in with myself: ‘What’s working? What’s giving delulu?…’ (Of course we really don’t have a heavy Halloween culture on this side side of the world, being Christians and all, but I see it like any other holiday. I mean, we celebrate Christmas even though Jesus wasn’t actually born on 25th December, right?).

Sooooo, I have eleven items on my board. Eleven. And honestly, I think I’ve done pretty well. My most recent one was being a speaker at an international conference, which still feels a bit surreal. That was on my vision board: ‘Have my voice heard.’ A few months ago, my article was published by Packaging Europe: https://packagingeurope.com/comment/the-green-divide-why-sustainability-leaves-the-global-south-behind/13237.article. So yeah, some dreams have put on their big-girl shoes and gone out into the world. I haven’t achieved everything on my ‘To-Achieve’ list, but this makes me really happy, and hopeful.

Some of the ‘eleven’ aren’t things you achieve, though. They’re things you become. One of mine was ‘be calmer’, and while I can’t exactly measure that with a yardstick, my body seems to know. I’ve had my menses every single month this year (and that’s a miracle, because I was diagnosed with PCOS a few years ago). The calmer I am, the better my body behaves. It’s like my wellness clock. When I’m peaceful, it’s peaceful, and I’ve been mostly peaceful this year, which is another miracle cos my brain usually has twenty tabs open at a time; busy and anxious.

Anyway, as I was reviewing the board today, I was thinking about the things I still want to tick off, and the kind of person I need to be to get there. Not in a pressure kind of way, just in that ‘Alright babe, what’s next?‘ kind of way.

And maybe that’s why I like the idea of Halloween; not the scary bits or the costumes that look like infections waiting to happen, but the idea of becoming. That for one night, you can be whatever you want. A pumpkin. A warrior. A cat. A goddess. You just… put it on.

So, today, I’m deciding who I want to be, and what I need to ‘wear’ to become her. Bolder. Calmer. More curious. Unafraid. More grateful. I’m putting on all of that.

Because maybe life’s a little like Halloween; you don’t wait to become the thing. You dress the part. You walk in it. You speak like her. You act like him. You become the thing.

Now your turn.
Who do you need to be, to do the things you’ve been dreaming about?
Put it on, babe. The costume’s already yours.

Wishing you a lovely and restful weekend, reader. Be well, and let’s talk again very soon.

Yours, with a lovely costume,

Njoks.