Clueless Twenties

  There is a particular comfort in believing that people are either good or bad. It simplifies things. It allows for quick judgments, clean conclusions, and a sense that the world is, at its core, understandable. But that clarity rarely survives proximity. The closer you get to people, to systems, and to yourself, the more unstable those categories become. What looked like principle begins to resemble convenience. What felt like integrity starts to shift under pressure. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, “right” becomes less about what is true and more about what works. Simone de Beauvoir, in The Ethics of Ambiguity , resists the idea that morality is fixed or easily resolved. That human beings exist in contradiction, capable of both freedom and harm, intention and compromise. Not in dramatic, philosophical ways alone, but in the quiet, everyday decisions that rarely feel like moral choices at all. Because most of the time, they aren’t framed that way. They look like survival. In a ...

  I don’t think empires end the way we imagine them to. Not with collapse or spectacle, but with a kind of quiet confusion. It is not one event but a series of them, moments that feel important on their own but indistinct when placed side by side. An election that does not feel like an outlier but a signal. Wars that do not conclude only extend. Invasions were justified, then complicated, then forgotten. Laws passed, rolled back, rewritten, a constant state of internal negotiation. Nothing definitive. Just enough to make you pause. America was not just a country; it was a reference point. For culture, for success, for power. It was the center of things, or at least, it felt that way. The music, the films, and the language of the internet all carried a certain authority. To participate globally was, in some way, to pass through it. Economically, it offered a story. That there was a place where effort translated, where ambition had structure, and where “making it” was not abstract. P...

  “Be a good example for your brothers." He says it like instruction, like inheritance "They are younger than you they will emulate you do better.” And I learn quickly. How to step forward How to stand in place That was never called mine. First daughter But raised in the echo of a son Not in name, But in weight. To be careful with his silences To anticipate the weight of his days To become somewhere he can rest To hold the house steady When it leans too far To soften what lands hard To be watched Not as a child But as a measure Of what is working And what is not And I carry it well, Too well. Like something tailored But never asked for He does not see the shift, only the shape. How I arrive early How I stay longer How do I not break? Where I should And maybe this is what he means. When he looks at me With something like pride Not daughter Not quite. But something that holds Something that endures Something he can point to And say, This one This one is mine. And I, I have lear...

  I started noticing it in meetings. Not the agenda. Not the coffee. Not even the unnecessary icebreakers. The way people speak. Everyone sounds like a press release now. Smooth. Neutral. Over-rehearsed. Sentences that begin confidently and end without saying anything at all. You leave the room unsure what was decided but very aware that everyone “contributed.” We are not thinking more. We are sounding smarter. There is a difference. It took me a while to name it. Performative intellectualism. I noticed it first in corporate spaces. Meeting rooms where nothing is said beautifully. Decks filled with words like "leverage," "optimize," "synergy," "ideation," and "value alignment," language so polished it reflects your face back to you but tells you nothing about where the company is actually going. People don’t argue. They “add perspective.” They don’t disagree. They “offer nuance.” They don’t admit they’re lost. They say, “Let’s take thi...

  End of Year Reflection & Recap What even was 2025?! I started 2025 in love. The gentle kind. The kind that feels like safety before it learns fear. The kind where holding hands still means something. I was happy, blissfully so, and unaware of how fragile that version of me was. I also started the year believing in myself loudly. I tried to build things. Businesses. Ideas. Futures. Two of them ended before they even began. Another taught me that effort doesn’t always equal success. I dipped my toes into agriculture, hopeful and curious, only to learn that growth is never guaranteed, even when you do everything right. That relationship I began the year with ended. Then it ended again. And the second ending hurt differently, heavier, quieter. Not because the love wasn’t real, but because it was. Because sometimes two people can love honestly and still fail each other. There’s a grief that comes with that kind of ending that doesn’t ask for witnesses. It just sits with you. If I’...

  There’s something quietly heartbreaking about the way young Kenyans talk about the future nowadays. Not with excitement, not with idealism, but with a kind of pragmatic detachment. The kind you develop when you’ve watched too many promises collapse in real time. The kind that makes you say things like, "Mimi, I just want to leave,” even when deep down you wish you didn’t have to. For many twenty-somethings, “abroad” is no longer a fantasy. It is an escape route. A pressure valve. A way to breathe in a country where everything feels like squeezing into a matatu that was already full. And we can act shocked, but we shouldn’t be. People do not abandon home out of boredom. They abandon home when home stops making space for them. We grew up being told that education was the key. Study hard, get top grades, and then the world, or at least the country, would unfold gently before you. Except somewhere between KCPE and adulthood, that promise got lost. Job markets shrunk. Corruption exp...

Enmeshment, transactional parenting, obligation language & emotional debts. The conversation Kenya has been having these past few days didn’t actually begin in a courtroom. It’s been simmering for decades in our homes, in our living rooms, in the quiet places where roles blur and love becomes obligation. But the courtroom is where it finally spilled into public view. A university student refused to apologize to his parents, a judge insisted he must, and suddenly, everyone had something to say. Parents felt attacked; young adults felt vindicated; the whole country felt exposed. Because beneath the noise was a truth many of us recognize: a deep generational mismatch about what respect, adulthood, and family actually mean. For many young people, the moment didn’t feel like rebellion; it felt like naming something we've lived with our whole lives. And for many parents, it felt like losing something sacred: their authority, their sacrifice, their story of what it means to be a “good...