There are childhood homes that feel like buildings, and others that feel like worlds. Mine was the latter. I grew up in Nanyuki, in Thingithu Estate, on a quarter-acre piece of land that my mother had won in a lottery in the early 80s, a rare stroke of grace that shaped much of our family’s story. My father, industrious and endlessly inventive, kept building — extra rooms, a smaller house for the boys, a rental unit attached to the main house with its own entrance and compound — until our quarter-acre felt like a megacomplex. We had a chicken coop, a goat and cow shed, a dog pound, and a garden that wrapped around the house like a green apron—constantly feeding the kitchen and keeping life lively. The cemented compound was large enough for football games, neighborhood adventures, and parking three cars comfortably. It was also where my sisters and I lay side by side on mattresses outside when chicken pox struck — healing together under the open sky. The sitting room felt like a h...
There is something sacred, almost rebellious, about men gathering without performance, masks, or the pressure to impress. Not to posture. Not to compete. Not to prove masculinity. But to be . That was the spirit of our recent men’s meetup, set against the calm, idyllic backdrop of a dam outside Nairobi. Jet skis, boats, open skies, and a break from the city’s noise. A reminder that men, too, need space, both externally and internally. Ironically, I arrived late. Not because I didn’t care, but because I was learning to let go. For a year, I had carried the vision of these gatherings almost alone. I had pushed, planned, persuaded, hustled, and overperformed. By November, I was exhausted, drained, and quietly resentful. I asked for a hiatus — not because the mission wasn’t worth it, but because my nervous system was collapsing under the weight of trying to prove myself . That realization changed everything. The Hidden Emotional Weight of Leadership Leading a cause often feels ...