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  • Grandpa; The wall clock

    I learned how to read time, especially on a wall clock, at a pretty early age. I spent most of my childhood with my grandfathers in the village, and he had this not so big but a fancy classic clock on the wall. I found it fascinating. Around the age of six, I would spend hours just staring at it, though I didn’t know how to use it. I enjoyed listening to it, tic toc…..tic toc…..

    My grandfather noticed my interest in the clock and so one day, as I stood watching it, he stood before me pointing at it and said: “This is twelve, this is three, this is six, and this is nine. Once you know that, the next thing is to understand the hands: the short one tells you the hour, the long one tells you the minutes, and the longest one keeps moving it tells you the seconds.” At 6 years, I didn’t fully understand it, but I was really happy about it. I spent the next few days telling out loud the time. And every time I got it wrong my grandfather could correct me and say no it’s half past seven not seven half. Hahaha 😂 I was learning. And within a few months I was able to use terms like, “quarter to”, “half past” “few minutes to”, and I didn’t look back anymore.

    My interest was practical as well. We had schedules to follow— 7:00a.m to go to the farm, 5:00p.m to the posho mill. Sometimes we would take maize to the millers to make flour for the night’s maize meal. On some days I would  wake up in the morning, check the clock, and figure out how much time we had before getting the goats needed to be out to the field. The clock was always important.

    My grandfather was extremely disciplined. He loved being punctual and had specific times for everything: eating, stepping out to church, sitting down for night prayers, and going to bed. Watching his routines fascinated me. I’ve always been curious about people and their habits, and my grandfather provided a perfect example.

    On my mother’s side, my other grandfather had a different but equally strict routine. He worked at the Mombasa port after the colonial period, and his life had a very military character. He would iron his clothes sharply, polish his shoes meticulously, and follow a strict schedule for every part of his day. People born before the 1960s often lived like this—disciplined, organized, and routine-driven.

    Both grandfathers taught me the importance of time. I saw the same precision repeated daily: meals at fixed hours, waking and sleeping at exact times, and strict adherence to routines. Through them, I learned to read a clock and understand time in a way that many adults today still struggle with.

    Even now, seeing a wall clock reminds me of my childhood of curiosity, discipline, and the simple lessons my grandfathers taught me. What memories do you have of your grandfather ? How did you learn to read the wall clock especially the 12 hour clock ?

  • Break the system

    We’ve all grown up inside a system that teaches us certain expectations about life. I like to call it the reward system. It’s that silent formula society passes down: if you do A, then B will follow. If you study hard and go to school, you will succeed. If you stay disciplined, work hard, or settle down, then happiness and stability will surely come.

    On the surface, this system makes sense. After all, effort and discipline often do bring results. Education can open doors, and responsibility can lead to growth. The problem isn’t that these values are wrong — the problem is in the guarantee we’re made to believe. We’re rarely told that life is much more complex, that doing “A” doesn’t always guarantee “B.”

    You can spend years in school and still struggle to find opportunities. You can commit to family life and find that the weight of responsibility is heavier than anyone ever warned you about. You can work harder than most people around you and still fall short because circumstances outside your control shift the ground beneath your feet.

    This mismatch between expectation and reality is what quietly wounds so many people. When the promised reward doesn’t come, we start to think something must be wrong with us. And that’s how discouragement, shame, and depression take root. Not always because life failed — but because our expectations were built on a fragile foundation.

    So maybe what we need is not to throw away effort, school, or responsibility — but to challenge the rigid reward system narrative. Life isn’t a transaction where your input guarantees an equal output. It’s more like a journey, one with detours, delays, and unexpected turns. And those turns don’t mean you’ve failed. They mean you are living.

    We should start telling each other a more honest story: It’s okay if your life doesn’t look like the picture you once imagined. It’s okay if you haven’t arrived at the milestones that others told you would define success. Your timeline doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s. What matters is that you keep moving, keep learning, and keep redefining what success means to you.

    Because sometimes, the real reward isn’t what society promised — the degree, the job, the family, the “perfect life.” The real reward is resilience. It’s growth. It’s discovering who you are becoming in the process of navigating all the unexpected turns.

    So don’t beat yourself up if “A” didn’t lead to “B.” Life doesn’t always work like that. And maybe that’s not a flaw in you — maybe that’s just the way life unfolds.

  • No Matter How Hungry You Are, You Never Take Another Man’s Last Bread


    Hunger comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s the ache in your stomach, sometimes it’s the longing in your heart, and sometimes it’s the thirst in your soul for something more than what life has offered you. In those moments of deep emptiness, desperation whispers, “Take whatever you can, wherever you can find it.”

    But even then — no matter how hungry you are — you never take another man’s last bread.

    Because that last bread is not just food. It is survival. It is dignity. It is the final piece of hope someone is clinging to. To take it would be to strip them bare, to leave them with nothing, and to silence the little voice that still tells them, “Maybe tomorrow will be better.”

    We live in a world that often celebrates taking, where strength is measured by how much you can accumulate. Yet true character is shown not in what you can grab, but in what you can resist. Restraint is not weakness — it is wisdom. It is recognizing that your hunger should never cost someone else their lifeline.

    And here’s the paradox: when you choose not to take another man’s last bread, life finds a way of placing bread in your own hands. Sometimes not immediately, sometimes not in the way you expect, but always in a way that proves kindness and integrity are never wasted.

    There is a bread that is yours. It may not look like anyone else’s, but it will come at the right time, in the right way. Until then, let your hunger teach you patience, compassion, and the kind of strength that does not destroy but protects.

    Because real abundance is not found in taking — it is found in trusting, in giving, and in knowing that what is meant for you will never require you to take away the very last hope of another soul.