Edwin's Corner

There's a sentence that has stayed with me for years: “Edwin, you never listen to me.” If you know me, you’ll find that accusation strange. I love conversation. I can sit across a table and discuss ideas, faith, leadership, business, habits, archetypes, and human nature, and lose track of time. I enjoy good banter. I enjoy depth. I enjoy watching someone’s mind light up when they realize something about themselves mid-sentence. So when I heard that line, I paused. Was I not listening? Or was something deeper happening? Sometimes the person speaking was barely audible. Words were half-formed. Thoughts were whispered. It was almost like they were arguing with themselves before they ever engaged me. I would lean forward and say, “Could you say that again?” and somehow that simple request felt like rejection to them. That bothered me because I started to notice this: many people don’t speak from their chest. They speak from their throat. They speak out of fear, out of uncertaint...

      The Boy Who Lived in His Own World I grew up introverted and withdrawn in a world that felt louder outside than inside. Some of my earliest memories aren't anchored in faces but in textures, movement, and atmosphere; tires scattered across a dusty kindergarten playground, dirt pressed into the creases of my palms, and the soft creak of a swing on a small patch of land that felt like the entire universe. I remember other children being around me, but oddly, they seem faceless in my memory, like extras in a movie where I was both the star and the only viewer. What I do remember vividly is my nanny. Every morning, she walked me to school and held my hand; a warm, reassuring hand that anchored me to reality. We walked about a kilometer from our house, past a row of neatly arranged homes, across what I would generously call a shopping center, although it was more of a village market with urban ambitions. Through a tree-lined street, until we reached my nursery s...

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 ...

  I grew up in a strict Seventh-day Adventist household. Saturday was holy, quiet, serious, and structured. In the early 90s, when I was ten years old, I had one consistent spiritual gift: arriving late. Not because I hated church, but because I loved space. Or more precisely, I loved Star Trek: The Next Generation — those weekly adventures of Jean-Luc Picard and his crew, exploring strange civilizations that somehow taught me more about human nature than any lecture could. In the series, you had alien races like ‘the Borg’— obsessed with assimilation, turning identity into a factory line. You had ‘the Ferengi’— where everything was about profit and bargaining, even breathing felt negotiable. And you had ‘Q’— this omnipotent troublemaker who kept putting humanity on trial. Every “alien” was a mirror. And many evenings after the house settled, I would look at the sky and wonder: What is the next frontier of human imagination? Here’s the cosmic truth: light from many stars ta...

Let me start with a confession. I smoked my first cigarette when I was fourteen. Before you quietly close this article and assume this is a story about smoking, addiction, and teenage rebellion, hold on. It is not. It is a story about how habits truly start. About identity. About belonging. About freedom. And about responsibility. And more importantly, about how one small, seemingly innocent moment can quietly influence the course of your life. I need to rewind this story slightly. At fourteen, I had just moved from Nanyuki. Nanyuki was gentle, quiet, and homely; a town that moved at its own pace. It had a more National Geographic vibe. And I loved it. It was the kind of place where you learned to enjoy your own company. Where friendships weren't intense, loud, or invasive. Where people knew part of you, not all of you, and no one hurried you to share the rest. There was no rush. Then I was suddenly transplanted into the city. Lights. Movement. Noise. Speed. Urgency. Ev...

  There was a time in my life when I stopped running. Not because I hated running. Not because I was injured. Not because I was lazy. I stopped running because, in my twenties, I was busy chasing after something else—identity. Career. Recognition. Titles. Brand association. A name on my CV that could explain who I am. I lived in what I now jokingly call a pantheon of voices—trying to find myself through who I worked for. When I quit my job at PwC, something quietly fell apart. It wasn’t my finances first, nor my career. It was my sense of self that collapsed. The long working hours I had wrapped around myself as protective armor disintegrated. For the first time, I realized how deeply my sense of worth had been outsourced to an organization. In 2013, alone and staring at the future, I was just another highly skilled technologist. Certifications. Experience. A bit of chutzpah. And nothing else to hide behind. I was entering consulting as an entrepreneur. And there is nothing...

  The Shame Chronicles — Part One There are people you admire from afar. Paula is one of them. Gifted. Driven. Reliable. The kind of woman whose name, when mentioned in a room, prompts a nod of respect. She works hard— exceedingly hard —and she excels at what she does. Not just good— exceptionally good . Promotions follow her. Praise sticks to her. Results seem to chase her down. And yet, every few months, Paula disappears. Not in a dramatic, social-media-announcement kind of way. No “taking a break” post. No explanations. She goes quiet. Emails go unanswered. Calls go straight to voicemail. Friends and colleagues can’t quite track her down. Over time, people understand the pattern. “Oh, it’s that time again. Give her space.” They don’t panic or pressure her; they wait. Paula always returns. What nobody notices—and what Paula herself struggled to name for years—is that these disappearances are not breaks. They are collapse. Achievement as Armor Paula lives with a qu...