Edwin's Corner

Toastmasters Series: My Reflection on a Speech by Grace Muchiri Every time I spoke to Grace, one thing was clear: her desire to make a difference. Not in a loud, attention-seeking way, but in that quiet, grounded manner you notice over time. The kind that shows up in how someone listens, how they help when they don’t have to, and how they laugh at themselves without trying to impress you. Grace always wears a warm smile, combined with a quirky, self-deprecating sense of humor. She stepped in to help more than once without feeling obligated, and over time, a friendship grew. You know the kind — not hurried, not transactional, just human. Then, one day, she came to my club, Simba Toastmasters, and delivered a speech that deepened my understanding of her. In just a few minutes, she shared the story of a dream she had been quietly nurturing for years—and actively building in recent months. She had started a company in the safari experience industry . But not just “book a tour and see...

  Toastmasters Series: My Reflection on a Speech by Faith Muhunyo     I recently listened to a young lady deliver what can only be described as an outstanding speech. Not outstanding in a dramatic, chest-thumping way. No fireworks. No theatrics. Outstanding because she did something quite rare. She connected. Authentic, intentional connection—not just networking for the sake of LinkedIn. A real, human bond that makes people lean in naturally, without even noticing. The kind that helps you feel seen, not just sold to. As I listened, a strange thought crossed my mind: What she was doing may soon look miraculous to most people. When I looked into her background, the pieces came together easily. She came from a family that valued people, time, presence, and community. Connection wasn’t something she learned for applause; it was cultural. It was normal. It was expected. She casually mentioned she was doing this to “increase her chances of getting a job.” I s...

  Esther Muchemi was a misnomer. That’s the only way to describe her. As she stood before us — a classy lady with a deep Kikuyu accent — you might have easily mistaken her for someone ordinary, someone who never tried to smooth out her voice with the usual corporate finesse. But soon enough, I learned why she was anything but ordinary. This woman was made from rare cloth. From a young age, Esther was gifted. Not the kind of giftedness wrapped in dramatic genius or rebellious brilliance — no, hers was the quiet, disciplined, razor-sharp kind. She loved to study. Loved to excel. Loved to stand out without making a fuss. Her grades were excellent, so good that they took her to prestigious schools for high school, A-levels, and later even as she pursued her Certified Public Accountant credentials. She wasn’t the type to joke around in college either; she went in focused and graduated ready to build a career with seriousness and purpose. Her entry point? An audit assistant. If you...

  Some stories quietly enter your life and reshape your thoughts. Others arrive like a guest who refuses to knock — bold, dramatic, filled with life lessons. My encounter with Raphael Tuju’s journey was of the latter kind. Not just because he is the eloquent voice I grew up hearing on the radio and TV, or because he shaped national conversations, but because his story made me reconsider something we often overlook: the daily miracles we call everyday life. I grew up in a backwater town called Nanyuki in the late ’80s, when Mountex Textile Industries hummed like a giant mechanical heart, and the skies were filled with both military helicopters and the occasional scandalous rumor from the barracks. It was a town full of character — and characters. As a young boy, I only knew AIDS as the “strange disease” that the grown-ups whispered about. My mother, a nurse, talked about it, but childhood ears conveniently edit things. Until the day I found “colorful balloons” in a trash heap ...

  Oliver Waindi didn’t just walk on stage; he approached like a bouncer who had temporarily retired from chasing away drunk patrons and had decided to intimidate a peaceful audience for sport. The man stood there—silent, towering, steady. And me? Since my relationship with social media is shakier than Nairobi electricity during a thunderstorm, I was one of those “suspecting nothing” folks waiting to be ambushed. And ambushed I was. He started with a story he’s told many times—so many that he’s polished it until it shines like a well-buffed church pew. A poor young boy from humble beginnings, fists bruised from boxing, desperate to survive, armed only with stubbornness and the kind of dreams adults tell you to “relax” about. He explained how he used boxing not for fame or medals but to escape—to carve out space in a world that had given him none. Then he painted a picture so vivid I could see it: this boy going to the airport, collecting discarded air tickets—yes, actually thr...

  When she stepped on stage, Mnyindo Tairo’s voice carried a slight quiver familiar to anyone who has ever spoken while holding a story bigger than themselves. For the first-timers in the audience, that tremble sounded like uncertainty. But I’ve learned something in my years as a habit coach: the people who do extraordinary things spend most of their lives doing ordinary things — like eating ugali, scrolling their phones, and arguing with their children about homework. They look like you and me. But the moment she began speaking, the room slowly adjusted its heartbeat to hers. Her words didn’t just flow — they felt placed. As if she picked each syllable gently off the ground, dusted it, and handed it to us. She moved from left to right with the precision of someone who had rehearsed pain long enough that it no longer surprises her. And then she said it. “I’m not a witch. I’m not a husband-killer. I’m not a gold digger.” Excuse me? My eyebrows almost shot off my face. Who sta...

Every empire has its enemies. Some conceal themselves in shadows, others gather in secret rooms, and a few sip suspiciously fancy tea at 7 a.m. But the most dangerous enemy is often the one hidden inside the ruler — the quiet slide into ego, the craving to be unquestioned, the comfort of hearing only praise. If you’ve ever found yourself suspiciously irritated by feedback, allergic to correction, or deeply convinced that everyone else is wrong, congratulations — you’ve entered your own personal empire, and you’re probably sitting alone in its echo chamber. I stumbled on a story that has followed me for weeks. It wasn’t the swords or the wars or the spies reporting on people’s breakfast beverages. It was the gentle but alarming reminder that true power is preserved only when someone is allowed to hold a sword above your head — a sword that reflects your most authentic self to you. This article is about that sword , the echo chambers we all build, and the spiritual lesson hidden in...

I’m increasingly amazed at how many adults go through their days acting according to a script they never consciously created — the script of shame. It shows in how we hesitate before speaking, how we avoid opportunities, and how we shrink around people who seem more confident or booming. It hides in our habits like an outdated operating system running silently in the background. Shame isn’t just an emotion; it’s an inherited debt — something we didn’t choose, but one we somehow continue to repay throughout our adult lives. And if you’ve ever wondered why you self-sabotage, procrastinate, over-please, withdraw, or perform for approval like you’re auditioning for a Netflix special. There’s a good chance shame is still controlling the story you tell yourself. Let me show you what I mean.   Key Point 1 — Shame Begins Early, Hides Deep, and Lives Longer Than Logic Shame doesn’t start in adulthood. It starts in classrooms, kitchens, playgrounds, and family meetings. Take Mary...

  There is a strange tension that hits all of us at the beginning of each month. It whispers, “Are you getting better? Are you growing? Are you advancing?” And most of the time, if we’re honest, we don’t like our answer. We either feel behind, feel stuck, or think our progress isn’t loud enough to impress anyone on Instagram. But growth doesn’t work that way. Progress rarely appears with fireworks. It arrives quietly, through responsibility, small decisions, and honest bravery. This is the core message: you improve not by waiting for perfect conditions but by taking responsibility for what your life needs—especially when uncomfortable. Stephen Covey expressed it well: we’re surrounded by endless stimuli, but it’s only when we deepen self-awareness, conscience, will, and imagination that we stop being acted upon and become proactive. That’s the kind of growth that lasts. And sometimes, it takes a hard story—yours or someone else’s—to remind you how short life really is. Rea...