I haven’t eaten eggs since 1st September.

That’s a whole month of no omelettes, no boiled eggs with salt and pepper, no sneaky bites of chapati mayai. It wasn’t even supposed to be this dramatic; I just decided to (try to) quit things that aren’t good for my body. And guess what? My arms are smoother, the tiny allergic bumps have disappeared, and my skin finally looks like it’s breathing again. The only thing left now is hyperpigmentation from the chaos that once was.

But today? Whew. I woke up craving eggs so bad. Like, I could smell scrambled eggs from my imagination. Same thing happened on Saturday. And yet, I found myself asking, ;At what cost?; Because yes, I could eat them, enjoy the momentary joy, but I know exactly what would follow. The itching, the breakouts, the discomfort.

So I made other food instead. Less exciting, maybe. But peaceful.

And that’s the thing about life, isn’t it? Sometimes the things that bring us discomfort don’t arrive disguised as enemies. They come as little indulgences; the convenient, familiar, easy things. The ‘harmless’ eggs. The person you keep texting even though your nervous system begs you not to. The job that pays well but quietly kills your creativity and makes you question your worth. The friend who ‘means well’ but leaves you doubting yourself after every conversation.

We keep going back because we crave comfort. But comfort isn’t always peace. Sometimes, it’s just the familiar pain we’ve learned to tolerate.

So this week, I’m asking myself, and maybe you should too, what’s my version of eggs?
What small thing do I keep choosing even though it keeps choosing chaos for me?

It’s not always about big, life-altering decisions. Sometimes peace is as simple as saying, ‘No, I’ll pass on that.‘

Even if it’s just breakfast.

I hope you have a great day, and if you’re not allergic to eggs, please enjoy them on my behalf. Heck, I feel like eating four, alongside cetirizine tablets. Irresponsible? I don’t know.

Yours, with cravings,

Njoks.

I enjoy scratching litu dandruff from my scalp onto a white sheet of paper when I’m working. It’s oddly satisfying, like a mini ASMR session I perform for one. The irony? I barely have dandruff. I just enjoy the act. It’s soothing. Some people suck their thumbs. Others pull their hair. I… exfoliate my scalp gently and dramatically.

Life’s been a bit heavier lately. I’m navigating grief after a friend’s sudden death, and honestly, it sucks. There’s no poetic way to say it. One moment you’re texting the living loved ones, video-calling nephews, and the next, you’re scrolling through old photos, re-listening to voice notes, trying to make sense of the new reality, that your friend, is actually not alive anymore.

Yesterday, I cooked lentils, veggies, and ugali. It wasn’t the plan. I’d prepped everything thinking I had rice, only to realize the container was empty; classic me. I had two options: go to the shop or borrow rice from a neighbour. But because the spirit of ‘I’m not leaving this house’ was strong, I settled for maize flour. Honestly? It slapped. Balanced meal. 10/10. Would ‘accidentally’ do it again.

I hope you’re well; eating what you have, grieving gently if you need to, and finding tiny joys in the strangest of places. Like scratching your scalp.

I’m gonna buy rice later today. And coffee too. I feel like I needs lots of it, to mix with chocolate, for the sweetness and stimulation.

Be well, be graceful with yourself and others, always.

Yours, with an empty rice container,

Njoks.

It’s a beautiiiiful morning; the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and I’m feeling Zen. Zensational! I hope you are too, and by the way, if you’re still using Harpic, I don’t know what to tell you. The blue Hurricane is where it’s at, I swear. It cleans the toilet bowl, leaving it as white as snow… or as white as my teeth, you know? Haha.

Now, about this whole ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ business… I don’t fully buy it. Sometimes, a cover does say a lot. That’s why books have covers. Otherwise, publishers would be out here dropping coverless paperbacks on us like surprise packets of unga. They’d just sell us stacks of paper like we’re buying chapati wraps at the kiosk, right?

Covers are branding. They’re a snapshot. They’re meant to give you an idea of what’s inside. Of course, you can’t know everything from the outside, but often, what you see is what it is. A romance novel with a half-naked man on the cover? Chances are, the story inside isn’t about corporate finance. A cookbook with a giant chocolate cake on the cover? Trust me, it’s not teaching you how to grill tilapia.

Same with life. Sometimes the packaging tells you a truth. Sometimes people really do show you who they are in the way they show up, the things they say, how they treat waitstaff, or even the state of their shoes. (Yes, I judge a man by his shoes. Sue me.)

Like in jobs, if a company’s interview process is chaotic, the emails are riddled with errors, and everyone seems rushed, that’s not just ‘a bad day.’ That’s the culture. Same with dating, if someone cancels three times in a row before you’ve even met, you don’t need a prophet to tell you reliability isn’t their strong suit. Sometimes the cover is already the story.

So, proceed to judge a book by its cover, with wisdom, of course. This is where discernment kicks in; pay attention to first impressions, small details, and leave room for curiosity/exploration if it feels right.

But also, switch to Hurricane. Because if your toilet bowl is the cover, best believe I’m judging the story inside.

I almost said, ‘Have a great weekend’ cos today feels a lot like a Friday, for some reason.

Anyhoooo, happy Thursdaaaay. Stay well.

Yours, with a clean toilet bowl,

Njoks.

You ever notice how quick we are to pick ourselves apart?
‘My lips are too thin.’
‘My thighs touch.’
‘I hate my fingers because they look weird. My thumb is crooked…’

But here’s the thing, you have lips. You have lips to complain about. And they’re not cracked, or sore, or bleeding. Well, they may be cracked, or a little chapped (apply some jelly, honey), but you have them, right? At least you have thighs, strong enough to carry you through life. At least you have fingers to complain about. You can hold a pen, type out rants on WhatsApp, scroll Instagram reels and YouTube shorts at midnight (don’t lie, we all do it ).

That, my friends, is body privilege.

We complain so much about how our bodies look that we forget the privilege of what they do. Your heart keeps pumping when you’re not even thinking about it. Your lungs just… breathe. Your feet carry you from Naivas to church to your neighbor’s house to gossip over hibiscus tea. Your stomach digests carrot cake with nuts (yes, I’m guilty). And still, we look in the mirror and go, ‘Ugh!’

The truth? Your body doesn’t owe the world ‘perfection.’ It already shows up for you every single day. That’s a privilege many people wish they had.

So today, instead of nitpicking, try gratitude. Thank your lips for smiling. Thank your fingers for working. Thank your thighs for walking you into rooms where God’s favor already waits.

And please, love the body you’re in. It’s the only one you’ve got, and trust me, it deserves kinder words than the ones you’ve been throwing at it. I hope you believe me. Be well, and see you soon.

Yours, sweetly,

Njoks.

We know Esther, Ruth, Deborah. Women who make it to the ‘Hall of Fame.’ And then there are the others; Vashti, who got condemned for refusing to show herself off like a trophy to her husband’s guests. Rahab, forever remembered as ‘a harlot’ first before ‘a heroine’. Jezebel, oh Jezebel; she gets all the hate. She was a wild one, though, haha.

Most times in scripture, women only appear in the spotlight if it’s tied to a man’s victory. That was the context of the time; women belonged to men, as it were. Other stories cast women as needy (needing food, needing a child, and so on) and/or weak, making them just the recipients of help (help is not bad at all): the babe at Shunem, the widow at Zarephath, the woman with the issue of blood. Rarely do we get to see a woman shine for her own boldness. Strength. Audacity.

But today, I learnt about Achsah, Caleb’s daughter. And listen, this woman was something else.

Here’s the story (Joshua 15:16–19): Caleb had promised that whoever conquered Kiriath Sepher would win his daughter Achsah as a wife. Othniel, Caleb’s nephew, stepped up, fought, and won, so Achsah was given to him. (Yeah, I know. Women as prizes. Sigh.) But Achsah wasn’t content to just be passed along as part of the victory package. When she and Othniel received land in the Negev (‘Negev’ is the Hebrew word for dry land/desert), she realized something crucial: land without water is a desert dream. So she went to her father and asked for a blessing. Not just any blessing; she specifically asked for springs. She said she needed water. And Caleb gave her not one but both; the upper and the lower springs.

Do you see it? Do you see her power?

Achsah knew what she needed. She didn’t just sit there grateful for what had been handed to her. She asked. She pushed. She stepped into her agency. And in asking, she didn’t just secure water for herself; she secured it for her children, her grandchildren, and generations yet to come.

I love this story because Achsah’s relationship with her father, Caleb, mirrors ours with God. He delights when we ask. He knows what we need, but there’s power in the boldness of our prayers. And like Caleb, He gives freely, sometimes more than we asked.

So here’s the lesson: women can step up. We can ask, loudly, for what we know we need. Not just for us, but for the people who’ll come after us. Our voices, our prayers, and our boldness ripple.

Today, as I sip my tea and think of this story, I’m grateful that we no longer live in a world where women are “’given away as rewards.’ We’re here with power, agency, and a God who loves us enough to give us springs when we dare to ask. Mimi I just know that if I lived in that era, I’d have been like Vashti, lol. I thank God for this freedom.

So, my babes, let’s step up. Ask. We must believe that our voice matters. Because it does.

May the rest of your weekend be lovely. I’m about to head out for 45-minute walk, yay! Stay well, and I’ll see you very soon.

Yours, sweetly,

Njoks.

There’s something about the right drink at the right time that just makes life feel softer, lighter, more alive. Lately, I’ve found myself reaching for the same three (okay, four, if we count the classic).

First up, sugarcane juice. I get mine from Catherine, a lovely lady who runs the loveliest healthy foods café. She makes it with lime and ginger, and it’s so fresh it tastes like sunshine in a glass.

Then, there’s hibiscus with ginger, a sweet-sour-red magic my neighbour Faith introduced me to. It’s sooo yummm, and is as gorgeous to look at as it is to sip, and every time I drink it, I feel like I’m giving my body a bouquet of expensive flowers.

And of course, kombucha. Always kombucha. My current rotation: mango and berries. Both bubbly, both bossy, both making me feel like I’m treating my gut and my tastebuds at the same time.

Finally, the one drink that beats them all in simplicity and necessity: water. Crisp, quiet, always waiting; proof that the most ordinary things keep us alive, yeah?

If you’re looking to switch things up this week, try one (or all) of these. And then tell me, what drink have you been loving lately? Let me know.

Yours, with a full bladder,

Njoks.

I’ve been thinking about fear this week. It’s everywhere, in our headlines, our conversations, even in the quiet corners of our lives. We dress it up with phrases like ‘feel the fear and do it anyway‘, but my devotion reminded me that for Christians, that line doesn’t quite sit right.

Because fear doesn’t come from God. ‘For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.‘ (2 Timothy 1:7)

Read that again. Fear is not a personality trait, or a quirk to accept. It’s a spirit. A thief. Something that sneaks in and tries to rob us of courage, of joy, of clarity. And if God didn’t give it, we don’t have to carry it.

Instead, what He does give us is love. And ‘perfect love casts out fear‘ (1 John 4:18); that means His love and fear can’t coexist. When we root ourselves in His love, fear has no seat at the table.

But here’s the thing: we still feel it. The shakiness in your chest before you speak up. The way your fingers hover over “submit application” before you close the laptop. The way your heart sinks when you want to ask for better; at work, in love, in life. Fear is loud. It’s convincing. And it always tries to stop us before we even begin.

Yet God says move anyway, not because the fear is valid, but because His word is stronger. Pray against the spirit of fear, and then act. Apply to that school. Demand better at work. Start the thing. Tell the truth. Hit on that girl (with respect, obviously). Say yes. Say no. Just don’t let fear be the one steering your life.

This week, I’m choosing to remember that fear is not the author of my story, God is. And His story for us has always been written in love, not fear.

So, here’s to stepping into the week with trembling hands maybe, but with steady faith. Fearless, because He said so. What good thing have you been afraid of doing? Would you do it if God commanded you (not requested you) to not be afraid? Well, He already has. “Do not be afraid’ is a command. Do the thing, yeah?

Stay well, and may your week be great!

Yours, fearlessly,

Njoks.

I’m writing this with a niacinamide sheet mask stuck to my face, sipping tea, and eating Naivas’ carrot cake with nuts (a discovery that deserves its own love letter, honestly). Yummm. This is the kind of multitasking life my girlies would hype me for in the group chat. And it got me thinking about them, about friendship, about what it means to be held by your people.

Today one of my girls texted me asking if she could call, and two hours later we were still on the phone. You know those soulful conversations where you listen intently, and hope that what you’re saying is actually edifying? That’s what it was. I hung up feeling really grateful for friendship; such a beautiful concept.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting more on how much my girlfriends mean to me. I don’t actually have many close guy friends. It’s usually the man I’m seeing and my girlfriends. Most of the boys I’ve been friends with have ended up hitting on me (destroying the friendship as it was, sigh). But my girlfriends? They’re constant. They’re the chopping board I’m cutting onions on right now, the one they bought me when they came over. They’re the late-night calls, the shared playlists, the emergency ‘send me 10k urgently I’ll refund in the evening’ M-Pesa loans, the ‘tell me the story again’ on repeat because some stories just deserve to be heard over and over again.

Our WhatsApp groups are a universe of their own. They hold it all: the dumb memes, the oversharing, the voice notes where one of us is walking down a noisy street and ranting about work or the hunting of it, the screenshots of texts from men we have no business entertaining, or from the ones making us happy, the sadness we sometimes don’t know how to carry alone. We talk about money, boys, work, skin care, God, grief, the price of bread, and everything in between.

And maybe this is why ‘The Bold Type‘ is my favourite show. Those three girls’ lives are a reflection of ours: somewhat in a similar phase of life, yet all of us carrying different victories and challenges. Sometimes one of us is soaring while another is in the mud. Sometimes all of us are in the mud at once. But no matter what, we’re together. That, I think, is what friends are for; people to do life with.

We live in a world where the pace is always speeding up, where the loudest voices on social media scream about ‘networking’ and ‘collaborations’ and ‘cutting people off who don’t serve you.’ But real friendship? It’s not always grand. It’s in the ordinariness of buying clothes together. It’s in the carrot cake recommendations. It’s in the ‘call me when you get home.’ It’s in showing up, again and again, not because you’re trying to optimize your life, but because you love.

So here I am, mask on, tea in hand, carrot cake on the side, writing a love letter to my girlfriends. To the people who make the bad days survivable, and the good days worth celebrating. This is what friends are for. I love you all, deeply and truly, and thanks for loving me too, friend! Are you grateful for your friends? Please tell them you are; many times, and loudly.

See you soon, reader, and thanks, as always for being here.

Yours, sweetly,

Njoks.

I’ve been painting lately. Yeaaaah, acrylic on canvas. I like it. The colours, the strokes, the accidents that end up being the best part. It feels freeing, and Picasso-ey, lol.

The other day, I was on a call with a friend and they said, ‘Wow, you actually paint well. Can you sell me one piece?’, and for a second, I was tempted. Because who doesn’t like the idea of ‘free’ money? But then I said no. Because I don’t want to monetize everything I touch.

There’s been this viral clip of a woman saying, ‘Don’t love your job, job your love.‘ And of course, the internet took off with it. ‘Don’t fake your death, death your fake.‘ ‘Don’t follow your dreams, dream your follow.‘ The internet is undefeated. But beneath the mockery, I got what she meant: make the thing you love your job. And that can be good advice, sometimes: make the thing you love your work.

But do we have to?

Sometimes work is just work. And what you love can stay a hobby. You don’t have to start a bakery just because you bake a good cake. You could, but you don’t have to. You don’t have to publish your poems, or sell your paintings, or turn every Sunday passion into a side hustle. You can be an accountant who writes songs no one will ever hear. You can be a teacher who sketches flowers. You can be a doctor who dances alone in her kitchen. You can be a nurse who plays the violin badly, but happily.

We live in a culture that’s obsessed with productivity. Monetize this. Monetize that. Turn your hobbies into side hustles, your skills into streams of income… And maybe that works for some. But I think it’s also okay, necessary, even, to do things just for just; to do things because they bring you joy, even if they’re messy, even if you’re not good at them, even if no one ever claps.

That’s what painting is for me right now. Not for money. Not for claps. Not for a gallery. Just for just. Just for my joy. Just because.

And maybe we all need a little more of that: things in our lives that exist outside of performance, outside of productivity, things that are not for sale. Do you agree? Yeah?

May the rest of the week be great, and may you find something to do just for just🙂

Yours lovingly,

Njoks.

Have you ever thought about how much of our conversations about the future are steeped in fear? Climate change. Artificial intelligence. Collapsing food systems. Vanishing jobs. Even YouTube ads sound apocalyptic these days: ‘Teenagers are using AI to build multimillion-dollar businesses while you’re using ChatGPT to send emails…‘ (In my head I’m always like, ‘Imagine let them just build the businesses. Please let me be.’)

Both climate change and AI are real. The soil is warming. The glaciers are melting. Algorithms are reshaping economies faster than governments can regulate. But have you noticed how most of the language around them isn’t just information, it’s anxiety? Panic? The simulation of horrifying futures until they feel like inevitabilities?

And in that loop, where we live rehearsing disaster in your imagination, something is quietly stolen: our agency in this moment.

Let’s talk about climate change. Yes, the reports are dire. Yes, the projections are terrifying. But if all you do is scroll headlines about a world on fire, you’ll forget that your small actions still matter; that you can compost, plant trees, pressure your leaders, teach your friends, neighbours, and children to love the earth.

Take AI. If all you consume are stories about teenagers becoming millionaires while you ‘fall behind,’ you’ll forget that you can choose how to use the tool; whether to build, to learn, to make your art more possible. Fear convinces you that the ship has already sailed, and you’ve missed it. But most of the time, the ship is still docked, waiting for you to board.

Fear doesn’t mobilize us into action. It paralyzes, and makes us give up in advance, forgetting that the doomed future isn’t here, at least not yet.

And here’s the thing: the future is not written. Not by tech billionaires. Not by climate models. Not by politicians. It is written in the texture of our daily lives, in how we decide to show up, in the creativity and courage we dare to express now; in what and how we cook, how we work, who we love, what we choose to plant, what we choose to protect. You cannot plant anything in tomorrow’s soil. You only ever plant in today’s.

So yes, read, learn, listen, stay informed, but don’t surrender your imagination. Don’t hand over your agency before the story has even unfolded. The future is not a horror film waiting to play out. It is clay in our hands. And if that feels like a fragile hope, good. Hope has always been fragile, and somehow, it has always been enough, to begin again. You don’t need to build a multimillion dollar business with AI like those teenagers.

Be well, reader. We’ll see each other again very soon, I promise.

Yours, softly,

Njoks.