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 hall. The dining table felt like a landmark.
And the television? A sacred portal.
Since the only TV station started at 4 p.m., I could only
watch cartoons then, like a special treat. From 4 to 6 p.m., I felt pure
childhood joy. After that, it was adult debates and news, which to my young
mind seemed like punishment disguised as programming.
As my eyesight worsened, I kept leaning closer to the
screen, leaning forward, determined not to miss the magic. But even then, I was
still a bit of a loner.
The boys outside our gate played football, raced toy cars,
and shouted their way through childhood. I watched and occasionally joined in.
But more often, I enjoyed my own company. My mind wandered, and my imagination
roamed. I didn’t yet realize it, but I was already living like a reader —
observant, reflective, quietly curious.
The First Book That Found Me
The first book I remember reading wasn’t from school. It was
from two Jehovah’s Witnesses who somehow slipped past our gate, past our door,
and into our sitting room — smiling with unsettling confidence while enjoying a
cup of uji courtesy of my mother.
They spoke in rhythmic syllables. “The world is co-mi-ng
to an end.”
I was deeply suspicious. One was an older woman, and the
other was a younger man. Something about them felt unusual. However, when they
left, they left behind magazines — illustrated with dramatic scenes of heaven,
earth, animals, and humans walking freely with lions and tigers.
I was barely five, yet I kept picking up those
pages—staring, sounding out words, letting images spark my imagination. That
was the first time books truly captivated me.
Soon after, my mother joined the Seventh-day Adventist
church, and books started to pile up in our house. Religious books.
Devotionals. Study materials. But none of them felt like mine. None matched the
world as it unfolded in my head.
Until one day in Class One, a librarian visited our school.
She talked about the National Library—just a few buildings away—and said we
could register and borrow books. When lunchtime arrived, instead of playing, I
crossed the main road with a few classmates and walked into the library.
And I will never forget that moment. The smell of books. Not
just paper, but time, stories, memories, silence, imagination. It felt like
walking into a room full of sleeping voices. I wandered into the children’s
section, opening one book after another, stepping into worlds that writers had
created for young minds like mine. I stayed close to three hours that day —
lost, enthralled, completely undone in the best way.
That’s where I met Magdalene, the librarian. Jovial. Warm.
Encouraging. She helped me register my first library card. Then she handed me a
pop-up book — Puss in Boots. She smiled and said, “You will enjoy it.
Bring it back when you finish so that you can get another one.”
I walked home while dancing. The book was so large that it
draped over my torso. I held it like a treasure. That evening, cartoons didn’t
stand a chance. I was too busy traveling through stories. That was my first
borrowed book. And by the time I was ten, reading wasn’t just something I did;
it was part of who I was becoming.
How Reading Expanded My World
Comics from a white settlers’ shop a few streets away. Mystery
novels. Newspapers. Magazines. Later, science fiction — especially Star Trek
Enterprise.
I rode my bicycle across the open savannah of Nanyuki,
gazing at the wide sky beyond Mount Kenya, wondering what lay beyond the
horizon. What kind of people lived out there? What stories did they hold? What
mountains, rivers, cultures, and cities awaited beyond my estate?
Books didn’t just entertain me; they expanded my world. They
taught me to dream beyond borders and imagine a life beyond the familiar. They
made me believe there was more than what I could see. Yet, like many teenagers,
I drifted away from reading — chasing grades, academic success, and the
pressure to “succeed.”
But books, like old friends, found their way back to me. My
first employer, Mike Macharia, gave every employee a copy of Malcolm
Gladwell's Blink. I read it and wondered—Why did I ever stop reading? What
was holding me back?
Years later, as I tried to improve my writing, I found
Stephen King's On Writing. His advice was direct and freeing: if you
want to write well, you need to read a lot — widely. He mentioned reading over
90 books a year. That pushed me. So I started making reading lists each year.
Some years, I read 100 books. Other years, 24. Some months, I struggled to
finish even one. Yet, in other months, ten books seemed too few.
But one truth stayed constant: Reading reshapes how you
think.
Reading, Thinking, and the Cost of Ignorance
I won’t pretend I’m a perfectly cultured reader. Some
“essential classics” are painfully boring. I’ve learned to read like an ocean
current — one difficult book followed by an easy one — to keep the habit going.
But here’s what I know for sure: Ignorance is expensive. It costs us
opportunities. It costs us clarity. It costs us wisdom. It costs us emotional
maturity. It costs us better decisions.
Reading slows us down in a world obsessed with speed. It
encourages reflection in a culture focused on immediate reactions. It helps us
develop independent thinking rather than simply echoing popular opinions.
Real reading — the kind that transforms you — looks like:
- A book
- A pen
or marker
- Quiet
time
- Honest
reflection
- Asking,
“Do I agree with this?”
- Journaling
thoughts
- Challenging
your own beliefs
Our ego loves protecting what we already believe—reading
challenges that ego. It fosters humility.
It either strengthens belief systems or dismantles weak ones. A reader becomes
harder to manipulate. A thinker becomes harder to deceive. A reflective person
becomes harder to control. That’s why reading isn’t just a hobby. It’s a form
of freedom.
Why I Still Read Today
Reading taught me patience when I wanted speed. Imagination,
when my world felt small. Perspective, when my thinking felt narrow. Depth when
surface-level opinions seemed tempting. Humility when ego demanded certainty.
Reading helped me become a better writer. A deeper thinker. A more reflective
man. A more grounded habit coach. And if there’s one message I want to leave
you with, it’s this:
Keep reading. Not to impress or show off intelligence, but
to become wiser, calmer, sharper, and freer. Because in a loud, noisy world,
reading teaches you to listen.
Call to Action
If you’ve fallen out of the reading habit, restart with one
book and read 10 pages a day. If you feel mentally stuck, read something that
challenges you. If you want sharper thinking, read slowly and reflect deeply.
Pick a book this month. Read it. Mark it. Question it.
Journal your thoughts. Your future self will thank you.
If this message stirred something in you, don’t let it fade.
1. Join my LinkedIn
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3. Alternatively,
sign up for my 12-month Personal Transformation Program by
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