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.

There’s this funny little thing life does. You think of something, say, climbing Kilimanjaro, and suddenly the world won’t shut up about it. You haven’t Googled ‘Kilimanjaro routes’ or searched ‘best hiking boots in Nairobi'(yet), but somehow. suddenly every other billboard is selling boots, your YouTube ads are all about hydration packs, and your neighbour’s cousin’s uncle (whom you’ve never met before) casually mentions how transformative his Kilimanjaro climb was. It’s like the universe goes into overdrive, shouting: ‘So… are you paying attention?’, and you think, ‘What in the synchronicity is this?‘

I know the scientists call it the ‘Baader-Meinhof phenomenon’ or ‘frequency illusion.’ The moment your mind tags something as important, your brain starts noticing it everywhere. But to me, it feels more sacred than that. It feels like energy. Like when you start aligning with something, the world joins in on the chorus.

Maybe that’s how life nudges us forward, showing us echoes of what we’re secretly longing for. A thought becomes a whisper, then a sign, then a whole drumbeat around you. Almost like God saying, ‘I heard you. Here’s a little wink.’

So now I’m wondering; what’s been following you around lately? What idea keeps showing up at your bus stop, in your dreams, in the mouths of strangers?

Your desires are your compass. What is being brought to your attention suddenly? If it’s not too personal, let’s engage in the comments section. Perhaps one of the readers has the ability to make your dreams come true, haha.

Thanks for being here, reader. Stay well, until next time (hopefully soon).

Yours, attentively,

Njoks.

I’ve been on a quiet quest lately; to visit different churches and hear faith expressed in ways outside my own. It’s been humbling, refreshing, and perspective-shifting. Stepping into a new congregation always reminds me of how varied faith can look, sound, and feel, and yet how each community is convinced that theirs is the truest expression of God.

In governance, we’re taught that all knowledge is situated and partial (basically, knowledge is like standing at one window of a house; you see part of the view, but never the whole landscape. What do you know? How do you know that what you know is the ‘truth’? Or is it ‘the truth’ because it’s what you know? Now you claim Christianity is the only right way, but if you were born Muslim, you’d be saying it is the true religion. Knowledge is situated and partial; what we know is shaped by our own context, experiences, and perspective; and we should allow others to have their own, too). No one person or community has the full picture. And yet, so many of the world’s problems, whether quarrels with neighbors, divisions in families, wars between nations, religious hate, or the exclusion of certain groups, stem from the belief that my way is the only way. It shows up in phrases like: ‘How can you be Buddhist?’ ‘How can you be gay?’ ‘Christianity is the only right way.’ ‘Being straight is the way…’ When we cancel people out because they do not fit into our preferred worldview, we shut down dialogue and reduce people’s humanity.

But here’s the thing: it’s possible to stand firm in your faith or knowledge, and still leave space for nuance. You don’t lose your identity by questioning your assumptions; you only deepen it. Neither do you have to be gay to rethink your views on sexuality. You don’t have to convert to another religion to appreciate the truths and beauty in it. And you don’t have to abandon your convictions to show kindness and love to those who live differently.

Even Jesus moved among people who were rejected, shamed, or condemned. He sat with sinners, dined with outcasts, and touched those others considered unclean. I sometimes think He would be found at a gay parade, not to endorse labels, but to embrace people, to remind us that ‘kila mtu afanye mambo yake’, and that love is always greater than judgment.

This reflection isn’t about watering down faith. It’s about remembering that humility, empathy, and compassion open us up to God’s vastness in ways that rigidity never will. Faith is not weakened by nuance; it is strengthened by it. Maybe the invitation is simple: don’t think less of someone because they live differently, and don’t think yourself better because of how you live. When we approach life with love and humility, we begin to see that God is far bigger than our categories, and His love stretches wider than our divisions.

Kwa hayo mengi, may the new week be great! Thanks for being here:-) 💛

Yours,

Njoks.

I read something in 2020 that has not left me since.
In Spain, when a dancer struck the perfect pose or a singer’s voice soared past what human skill could explain, the audience would cry out ‘Olé!‘ Not as in ‘bravo’ or ‘well done’, but as in Allah. God. The word traces back to the Moors of Northern Africa, who ruled Spain for nearly 700 years. In their celebrations, when an artist’s performance reached such grace and intensity that it seemed heaven itself was breaking through, the crowd would exclaim ‘Allah!’ Over centuries, the sound softened to Olé, but the meaning, ‘God is here‘, remained. I think it’s also what they chant during La Liga soccer matches, ‘Ole! Ole! Ole1 Ole!…’ God is here.

And it makes sense, doesn’t it? The truest moments of beauty feel like they’re not of our own making. They feel borrowed. Breathed in. Given.

Elizabeth Gilbert, in ‘Big Magic’, talks about creativity as a force that lives outside of us, visiting us, offering ideas, moving through us when we are willing to be vessels. I believe that force is God. Not just an impersonal ‘universe’ or ‘energy’, but the same God who spoke galaxies into being and then, unbelievably, decided to make us in His image and likeness.

We often read that verse and think ‘image’ means appearance. But what if likeness is about function, not form? What if one of the clearest ways we mirror God is when we create?

When you paint, when you bake, when you design a garden, when you choreograph a dance, when you crotchet a mat or scarf, when you write a song… you are echoing Genesis. You are stepping into the family business of ‘Let there be…’

For me, that thing is writing. I can write with tea and a candle in the early morning, or while the matatus scream outside my window, and still feel it; that quiet sense that something bigger than me is pushing the words forward. And when someone writes to say, “What you wrote encouraged me”, I imagine the angels leaning in to watch. I imagine God smiling because His message, somehow, came through my very ordinary, rusty fingers.

And maybe that’s why the best art, in any form, feels holy. It’s not just about skill or talent, it’s about presence. The Spanish were right. Sometimes beauty is so alive it makes you want to stand and shout Olé! because you can sense Him in the room.

So, create. Create badly at first if you must. Create when you’re tired, create when you’re afraid, create when you think no one is looking. And when you see someone else make something beautiful; a meal, a poem, a photograph, a kindness, recognize it for what it is. Whisper ‘Olé!’ God is here!

Have a great, restful weekend. May we feel Him close. He is here.

God is here, and He loves you.

Be well.

Yours, loved by God,

Njoks.

I recently heard something in a podcast that made me stop and sit still for a while:
Whatever choice you make, your life will grow around it.

And I thought, ‘Heck yes!’
Yes. That’s it.

We talk about decision-making as if it’s a one-shot at the ‘right’ life. As if choosing wrong will end it all. As if one closed door means every other one disappears. But really, most choices, even the hard, loud, heart-heavy ones, are things we grow around.

Say you choose Husband X. Five years in, it hits you that maybe you should have chosen Y, and you mourn that a little. You sit in the ache of what could have been. And yet, your life continues. It adapts. A new dream forms. A different version of peace comes. Maybe you even leave Husband X and start over, and again, your life wraps around that choice too. Rebuilds. Blooms again, even if the soil is different. You could even choose to stay married to Husband X. \your life will grow around that decision, too.

It’s not just about husbands. It’s the degree you picked. The one you dropped. The cities you left and the ones you stayed too long in. The job you took out of fear. The friendship you didn’t fight for. The one you should have let go earlier. The child you had when you weren’t ready. The child you didn’t. The Sunday you slept through instead of showing up. The fight you escalated instead of pausing.

Whatever it is, your life didn’t end.
It grew. Twisted, maybe, but it grew.

I think of all the hours I’ve wasted in the prison of ‘what if.’ What if I had chosen that one? What if I had waited? What if I’d spoken, stayed, said yes, said no? And it’s valid to feel the weight of those things. Regret isn’t sin. But to stay there forever, flogging your own decisions, waiting for the perfect ones, that’s where joy goes to die.

Most days are made of a string of small choices; what to eat, how to speak, when to stop scrolling, how to use an hour… and some days come with the bigger ones. But either way, I’m learning to release the pressure. To choose the best I can with what I know now, and trust that my life, stubborn and soft and spirit-filled, will grow around it.

Because it always does.

Are you still being hard on yourself for a decision you made and can’t undo? Yes?
What would it mean to finally let it go? Answer that on your journal.

I’m about to wash my beautiful hair, take a loooooooonggg shower, get a sexy pedicure, and enjoy the hell out of this weekend. I hope you do. Enjoy the weekend.

Talk again, very soon, reader. Thanks for being here.

Yours, with love,

Njoks.

Also, the ‘Nitakumbuka’ song by Bekah Dawn is on repeat in this house of mine. I lover her, and the song, to bits! Which song have you been loving? Let me know in the comments section. You don’t have to journal this one, haha.