Edwin's Corner

  Reflections on The Provider Trap --- This article was inspired by Episode 2 of The Men's Group Debate Series, held on June 6, 2026, at Savelberg Retreat Centre in Nairobi , under the theme "The Men Nairobi Raised Are Not the Men Nairobi Needs." The debate, moderated by Erick Opon and featuring contributions from Justus Kirigua, Titus Lwanda, Steve Wasilwa, and Collins Munene, explored five provocative questions on success, fatherhood, provision, emotional health, and identity. What follows is not a transcript of the debate but a reflection on the ideas, stories, and tensions that emerged as a room full of men wrestled with what it means to become whole. ---   There are few phrases more dangerous to a man than: "I'm doing this for my family." Not because it is false, but because it is often true. And because it is true, it can hide all sorts of things behind it — exhaustion, avoidance, workaholism, emotional absence, distance, and sometimes...

Reflections on The Motion - Success Tax --- This article was inspired by Episode 2 of The Men's Group Debate Series, held on June 6, 2026, at Savelberg Retreat Centre in Nairobi , under the theme "The Men Nairobi Raised Are Not the Men Nairobi Needs." The debate, moderated by Erick Opon and featuring contributions from Justus Kirigua, Titus Lwanda, Steve Wasilwa, and Collins Munene, explored five provocative questions on success, fatherhood, provision, emotional health, and identity. What follows is not a transcript of the debate but a reflection on the ideas, stories, and tensions that emerged as a room full of men wrestled with what it means to become whole. --- Nairobi has a unique way of convincing men that they are doing well. It starts innocently enough. A slightly nicer phone. Then a better apartment. Then a car with buttons you don't fully understand. Then, children in schools whose fees require prayer and mathematics to coexist peacefully. Then...

  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...