Toastmasters Series: My Reflection on a Speech by Ebenezer Makori
Why is logic so tricky to understand?
It’s a question I often ask myself. Not because logic is
abstract or complex, but because true logic demands something very
uncomfortable from us: humility. It requires us to differentiate what feels
true from what is actually true. For most of us, that separation challenges our
identity, our coping mechanisms, and the stories we’ve been telling ourselves
for years.
As a young boy, I often wondered why my parents had to be
away. I was left to face a world that asked too many questions at every turn.
On the surface, my life seemed normal. I was sheltered, fed, clothed, and
protected by parents who were almost obsessively determined to escape poverty.
And I later realized that obsession was not accidental; it
was inherited.
My father was the son of a widow who raised twelve children
during one of the harshest droughts of the 1950s. Poverty wasn’t a phase; it
was the air they breathed. Hardship wasn’t something to overcome—it was the
baseline. Stress was constant. Adversity was familiar.
Yet somehow, despite all visible logic, hope endured. That
contradiction—logic versus hope—quietly influenced the habits, arguments, and
decisions that defined my family, and eventually, my own life.
Logic Is Often an Inherited Argument, Not a Truth
My father’s escape route was through nursing. Nairobi wasn’t
just a city; it represented distance—from hunger, stagnation, and the slow
suffocation of scarcity. During training, he met my mother, a woman who was
equally driven, restless, and unwilling to accept poverty as her destiny.
Maybe they bonded over shared pain. Maybe they bonded over
ambition. Or perhaps it was simpler: when they discussed the future, their eyes
lit up. They didn’t focus on survival; they focused on becoming.
Back then, logic looked something like this:
- Work
hard.
- Get
educated.
- Increase
your value.
- Earn
more.
- Rise.
Even love had to negotiate with logic. In the 1970s, tribal
differences mattered—especially when money was scarce. But my parents believed
that unity could overcome division. That belief alone challenged the prevailing
logic of the time.
Their first child arrived while they were still in school.
Education wasn’t optional; it was imperative. My mother made a difficult
decision: the child would stay with my grandmother while she pursued her
education, and my father went to India on a scholarship to earn a degree.
Bare threads. A foreign land. Five years of uncertainty.
Logic said the risk was enormous.
Hope said stagnation was worse.
What I understand now is this: they didn’t just work
hard—they reasoned differently. They built a different internal argument about
effort, sacrifice, and possibility.
The Same Premise Can Produce Two Very Different Lives
Here is an argument many people inherit, often
unconsciously:
I come from a poor family.
Therefore, I will always be poor.
At first glance, it feels logical. It feels grounded in
experience. It even feels protective—lower expectations, fewer disappointments.
But it is an unsound argument.
Why? Because the premise is incomplete. Poverty is real, but
it is not permanent by default. There is overwhelming evidence—globally and
historically—of people rising out of poverty. When the premise is weak, the
conclusion falls apart.
Now compare it to another argument:
I come from a poor family.
Therefore, I have a choice to make a difference.
Same starting point. Entirely different outcome. This is
where habits are born.
Some of my father’s siblings adopted a quieter, more
dangerous logic:
- I
am tired.
- I
am not good enough.
- The
world is stacked against me.
- I
need something to soften the weight.
Alcohol became a source of comfort. Not for celebration—just
relief. A way to quiet the argument, not to resolve it. In many ways, my father
also struggled with alcohol. He wasn’t immune. But over time, his reasoning
shifted.
The steady presence of my mother mattered. Shared values
mattered. The slow, unglamorous building of stability mattered.
Habits don’t change because of motivation.
They change because the underlying argument changes.
Ego Corrupts Logic Faster Than Ignorance
I have seen families in my clan fall victim to heavy
drinking, sickness, and unspoken resentment. An invisible burden remains—passed
down like an heirloom no one asked for. It manifests as hostility, suspicion,
and unresolved grief.
My father became a quiet mediator. Every year, despite
jealousy, envy, and even whispers of witchcraft, he brought fractured siblings
together around one table. Smiling. Eating. Pretending—at least for a
moment—that peace was possible.
When he died, that responsibility landed on me. I thought it
would be easy. It wasn’t.
That’s when a Toastmaster’s speech by Ebenezer Makori
reframed everything for me. He spoke about logic not as philosophy, but as
structure. An argument, he said, is like a house:
- The premises
are the walls.
- The conclusion
is the roof.
- If
either is weak, the house collapses.
Most of us live inside houses built on assumptions we’ve
never tested. And ego? Ego defends those houses fiercely.
Ego: Defends weak premises.
Justifies harmful habits. Calls emotion “truth.” Avoids responsibility while
demanding understanding. True logic requires sobriety—not just from substances,
but from self-deception.
The Habit Question That Changes Everything
What Ebenezer gave me wasn’t philosophy; it was permission
to question myself.
He reminded me to ask:
- Is
this argument valid?
- Are
the premises true?
- Or are
they emotionally convenient?
Many people say, “This is my truth.” Often, that
phrase is code for “I don’t want responsibility.”
Logic without responsibility becomes entitlement.
Emotion without discipline becomes sabotage.
The hardest habit isn't waking up early or exercising; it's
questioning the story you tell yourself to justify your behaviors.
Conclusion: Can We Ever Be Fully Logical?
Probably not. We are human—biased, emotional, influenced by
memory, trauma, and desire. But we can be more honest. We can rebuild our
arguments. We can test our premises. We can stop calling fear “logic.” And
maybe that is the most important habit of all—not self-control, not discipline,
but intellectual courage.
The courage to ask:
What if the logic I’m living by is simply familiar, not
true?
That question has the power to change a habit. And
sometimes, an entire lineage.
Call to Action
This week, write down one belief you’ve been calling
“logic.” Then ask yourself: Is it true—or is it just familiar?
Sit with the discomfort. That’s where change begins. And
that single question has the power to alter a habit and sometimes, an entire
lineage.
If this message
stirred something in you, don’t let it fade.
1. Join
my LinkedIn Habit Coaching Newsletter: https://www.linkedin.com/newsletters/habits-with-coach-edwin-7399067976420966400/
2. Join
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3. Alternatively,
sign up for my 6-month Personal Transformation Coaching Program by
sending me a message on WhatsApp at +254-724328059.
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