Edwin's Corner

  A Men's Mtaani Chronicle  It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was feeling dangerously pleased with myself. That can be risky. As a habit coach, I have learned that most victories belong to the client. I am usually just a mirror. The work is theirs. The courage is theirs. The uncomfortable actions are theirs. Yet on this particular afternoon, I could not help but act. I had just come from a coaching session with a client who, after months of wrestling with himself, was finally beginning to see what the rest of us had long seen. Potential. Not the motivational-speaker version of potential. The frustrating kind. The kind that sits in plain sight while a person remains convinced it's not there. For months, we had worked through limiting beliefs, difficult questions, habits that quietly sabotaged progress, and stories he had inherited about himself that no longer served him. And then something shifted. Not dramatically. Not with fireworks. Not with a life-changing ...

I woke up with a start. Not because of an alarm. Not because someone was knocking on the door. Not because Nairobi had finally decided to become a quiet city. Just one of those strange awakenings when your body seems to know something before your brain gets the memo. Outside, the wind howled. The cold had teeth. The blanket and I had reached that stage in our relationship where separation felt unnecessary and perhaps even cruel. A sensible man would have stayed in bed. A wise man would have stayed in bed. Unfortunately, I have spent years systematically training myself to ignore sensible and wise men whenever they appear. --- Somewhere in my mind, a number floated up. Fifty. I knew immediately what it meant. For months, I had pinned an ultramarathon WhatsApp group at the top of my phone. Every day, someone posted distances that looked less like exercise and more like migration patterns. Fifty kilometers. An ultramarathon. Anything beyond 42 kilometers qualifies. Fifty is...

  He was seated on a curb outside the restaurant, crying his eyes out. Not the dignified kind of crying, where a single tear rolls down your cheek as you stare heroically into the distance. No. This was ugly crying. The kind where your nose gets involved. The kind where, if somebody takes a photo of you, they have acquired blackmail material for life. A watchman walking past looked at him, slowed slightly, then continued walking. Whatever was happening here was beyond the scope of his duties. Behind him, Nairobi carried on as though nothing had happened. Matatus blasted music so loudly it could be heard in neighboring countries. A boda boda rider narrowly missed a pedestrian and immediately blamed the pedestrian. Someone was selling smokies. Someone was shouting about avocado prices. Life went on. Yet for Mark, civilization had collapsed. Because inside that restaurant sat Cynthia, with another man, a white man. Before you accuse Mark of tribalism, racism, colonial trau...

  A few days ago, I watched a SpaceX rocket launch. Now, let us first appreciate the absurdity of human beings. We looked at Earth — a perfectly functional planet floating peacefully in space — and collectively decided: "You know what would improve this experience? Controlled explosions." And somehow, through caffeine, mathematics, sleep deprivation, and Elon Musk tweeting at 2:13 am, humanity has managed to make giant metallic skyscrapers leave Earth vertically. The rocket lifted beautifully. Employees screamed. People hugged. One man almost ascended spiritually. Another looked as if he had discovered purpose, meaning, and lower taxes all at once. Eventually, the rocket exploded over the Indian Ocean. Somehow, people still celebrated. Which honestly tells you two things: Engineers are emotionally different from the rest of us. Human beings can normalize almost anything if the company culture is strong enough. But while everyone was celeb...

Before you read: this story goes to some dark places — suicidal ideation, generational trauma, childhood pain, and the quiet despair that can live inside even the most successful lives. It is ultimately a story of healing and purpose, but it earns that light honestly. Take care of yourself first. Melvin stood at the edge of the building, hands buried deep in the pockets of an expensive coat that had never once succeeded at making him warm. The rooftop gave him a clean view into the lives of strangers—little illuminated aquariums of human existence. Across from him, in the apartment directly opposite, an introverted young man sat hunched over a glowing laptop, his face illuminated ghost-blue, fingers tapping with the desperation of someone trying to outrun himself through productivity. In another apartment, a couple sprawled across a massive sofa, laughing at something on television, the sort of laughter people carefully manufacture after years together so the silence doesn't be...