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.

So apparently, Duolingo now has an energy bar instead of hearts. And honestly, I don’t know how to feel about that yet. Maybe it’s growth. Maybe it’s chaos disguised as innovation. Either way, my green owl and I are still in this situationship, 800+ days strong, baby. French and Spanish, both. (If I ever start throwing ‘bonjour’ and ‘¿qué tal?’ in one sentence, mind your business.)

Now, if you’re a Duolingo learner, you know the real thrill isn’t just ‘learning languages.’ No. It’s surviving that last heart. The anxiety of submitting your answer when you only have one left; heart pounding, palms sweating, questioning every conjugation. It’s not a game; it’s a battle for dignity.

The stories section? Always so sweet. ‘Fallstaff’s Guide to Humans’ is my fav; pure genius. And ‘Lucy Is Listening’? 10/10 chaos. But let’s not lie, the actual lessons are sometimes straight from the ninth circle of hell. I’ll be doing so well, then suddenly, I spell ‘beaucoup‘ wrong and get punished like I just insulted the French Ministry of Education, or my phone’s autocorrect changes my ‘comemos‘ to ‘comments’, and I’m like, ‘What the heeeelll!?’

And don’t get me started on leagues. The rush of being top three? The trauma of seeing ‘You’re about to be demoted’? Why does it feel like high school exams all over again? Duolingo will have you doing lessons at midnight just to stay ahead of a random user called ‘LindaFromCanada’.

Still, there’s something nice about it; that daily little hit of discipline, joy, and mild panic. I love the friend streaks too. There’s something so comforting about knowing your people are also out there whispering ‘La mujer come pan’ into their microphones at 11 PM.

And yeah, I’ve seen the Preply ads (another language tutor) on YouTube, all smug and mocking our poor owl like they’re not jealous of his chokehold on us. But please. Duolingo forever. He may be unhinged, but he’s our unhinged.

I love Duolingo.

Give it a try too. Learn some French, or Dutch or German or Hawaiian, if you like, yeah? Yeah! Thanks for being here. Stay well.

Yours,

Njoks.

It’s been a heavy few weeks. My friend died on 26th September, and we buried her five days ago. I’ve been grieving in a way that’s both loud and quiet; heavy denial, anger, guilt, sadness that sits in my chest like a rock, headaches that refuse to go away, sleeping too much or not at all. I keep rereading our chats like she might reply this time.

My Google tabs have also been wild: Is death the body shutting down? Do people know when they’re about to die? Is it painful? I don’t even know what I’m looking for; maybe logic, maybe peace, maybe a way to understand something that simply doesn’t make sense.

But between all that crying, Googling, and staring at walls, grief has been teaching me a few things:

1. Life is the blessing.
Not success, not productivity, not the next big thing. Just life. It’s the reason you get to dream, laugh, worry, and complain about slow Wi-Fi. Life is the foundation of everything else, and it’s so easy to forget that until it’s taken away.

2. Love the ones you love, loudly.
Tell your people you love them. Hug them long. Forgive when you can. Good relationships make this hard, confusing life softer. I think about my friend and how often we laughed, and that’s what I’ll hold on to.

3. Do the thing.
That thing you’ve been postponing; the class, the trip, the message, the risk… do it. Don’t wait for perfect conditions or a sign from heaven. You’re going to die anyway, and so are the people whose opinions you’re worried about.

4. Ask for help.
Even Jesus had Simon help him carry the cross, and yet we’re here pretending to be strong and self-sufficient. It’s okay to say “I’m not okay.”

5. Life is fickle.
And that’s not pessimism; it’s truth. One moment everything is fine, and the next, you’re Googling what death feels like. But maybe that’s the point; to live while you’re alive.

6. If you believe in God, talk to Him.
Even when you don’t feel like it. Even when you’re mad. Especially then. Faith doesn’t always make sense, but it keeps us standing.

7. Make life feel good.
Wear the nice dress. Sleep on yummm sheets. Buy the shoes. Eat the food. Light the candle. Decorate your life, not for anyone, but because you’re here, and that alone is reason enough.

Grief changes things; the way you see people, the way you breathe, the way you exist. But it also clears the fog. It kinda makes you see what matters.

And right now, what matters to me is this: to live. I want to live well. I want a gooooood, loooongg life! Oh, Heaven knows I do.

Yours, grateful for life,

Njoks.

I just finished watching ‘Wolf King’ on Netflix, and honestly, I’m obsessed. You know how sometimes you start a show expecting light entertainment, and by episode three, you’re emotionally invested like it’s your real family on screen? That’s me right now.

The story follows Drew Ferran, a teenager who discovers he’s not just anyone; he’s the rightful heir to a kingdom divided by humans and shape-shifters. He’s awkward, stubborn, brave in the messy, teenage way; the kind of protagonist you want to roll your eyes at and hug at the same time. But what really got me wasn’t just the plot or the world-building; it was the heart of the story.

And Whitley.
Oh, Whitley.

If I could bottle up that girl’s courage and sprinkle it over the world, I would. She’s clever, strong, and refuses to fit into the ‘sit still and smile’ box the world tries to force her into. While everyone expects her to be delicate and agreeable, mostly her dad Duke Bergan, she’s out here strategizing, training, and fighting alongside Drew. She’s proof that women can swing swords and have soft hearts; that strength and tenderness aren’t opposites, they’re siblings.

One of my favourite things about ‘Wolf King’ is how it subtly explores identity and leadership. Drew isn’t born ready. He grows into who he’s meant to be, fumbling through self-doubt, loyalty tests, and moral decisions. And isn’t that all of us? None of us just are what we’re supposed to be; we become.

By the final episode, I realized that what I loved most about ‘Wolf King’ wasn’t the fantasy; it was how real it felt.
The loyalty of friends who fight beside you.
The power of a woman who chooses her own path.
The beauty of someone finding their purpose, even when they were scared to look for it.

So yeah, maybe it’s ‘just a show.’ But also, maybe it’s a reminder that bravery is learned, love can be fierce, and sometimes, the wolf you’re afraid of becoming is exactly who you were meant to be.

I RECOMMEND THE SHOW HIGHLY. GO YE, WATCH, AND ENJOY.

Yours, wishing I could meet up with Whitley for tea at 4 pm tomorrow,

Njoks.