13 weeks later

I am pregnant. 3 months – 13 weeks and 6 days in as I write this.

Nothing about me was ready for a baby this year. But who ever is ready for these babies? They come when they want to come, and stay because they want to stay. Defiant. Of all my pals who’ve had babies, I can only count a handful that has been at it with the aim of a minion.


Do you know how in the movies we see the chick character rushing for the nearest washroom so she can spill her guts out? Then we hear the loo flushing as she comes out and says, forlornly – and most times it’s forlornly – I am pregnant. Then, I don’t know, everyone in the show, including the director and all the other cast and the audience are happy for her?
Do you see how it goes there? Well, it was different for me. Mine is a better story to tell. Here’s how it went. And this is all true: Friday morning in mid-February my boy and I are getting ready to go to work. (My boy, his name is GB.) GB is sitting on the edge of the bed putting on his socks, I am standing over the kitchen sink having my cereal. He’s already threatened to leave me if I don’t hurry my sorry ass up and be waiting at the door in the next five minutes. I tell him to calm the fuck down. Heehe.
The doorbell rings. I call out to him, ‘Are you expecting anyone?’ and he barks back ‘No’. I mean, why would we expect anyone this early in the day? Kwani we’re in shagz.
I open the door. No one is standing on the other side but there’s a cotton sling bag. Like something you could decide to wear on your head. It’s red with blue stars on the outside. On the inside, it’s blue with red stars. The artwork is hand-drawn, the seams hand-stitched. At the end of one sling is a knot. Again, a handmade knot.

I peep outside. There’s no one in sight. I run down the stairs to see if there’s anyone exiting the parking. Nothing. I crane my neck up the stairwell to see is there’s anyone going up. No one. What was odd though was I heard a distinctive flap of wings. Strong big wings that built a wave of momentum with every flap. It was regal. Like a fairy-tale. Ethereal.

I’m back to the bag. It’s soft. And it smells nice. Not perfume-nice but homely-nice. Like my Moms closet. Or that smell she has when you bury your nose in her to hug her and you can smell her giddy momminess.
There are clothes inside, all white. Soft and fluffy with press studs and tiny sleeves and tiny arms holes and tiny leg holes. Tiny tees. One is scribbled ‘November 14’. Another one reads ‘My Mom is still super hot’ (I crack a smile at that one). Another, ‘Tell Dad to loosen up’ (Heehe). Another says, ‘Signed, sealed and delivered’ (Catch the witty pun?)

By this time, GB is standing behind me asking what the fuss is all about. I mumble about the bag and the clothes and the… But he cuts me off before I’m done, “We go.”

It wouldn’t be until I’m in the lift punching the buttons to my floor that it dawns on me, ‘What date is it, anyway? Am I late? Shit, I am late. Oh no. I’m preggos.’

Exciting? No, terrifying. Ever heard that track by J Cole, St Tropez, from 2014 Forest Hills Drive album? I know I’m taking this line out of context but it’s the closest to what I felt that Friday morning. J Cole says, “She asked me if I’m scared to fly, to tell the truth I’m terrified.”

I’ve been pregnant before and he didn’t make it past week 14 – I didn’t make it past my 26th birthday in one piece. I stopped breathing on the day that he did. He took my spirit away with his.
No one knows for certain why it happened. Doctors gave me possibilities. But I believe he felt that I didn’t want him, he felt my negative energy. So he took the gentlemanly high road and saw himself out. It was two more years before I was honest when I said, ‘I am OK.’

So I promised myself that the next time, I would be ready. I would have all my shit together. I would be in my own girl, know who the hell I am. I would want the baby. (Most importantly.) I wouldn’t be breaking my back in the hustle. I wouldn’t go around making the announcement of the ‘Big News’ only to return a few weeks later to make another announcement to undo the ‘Big News’. Such prematurity and naivety.
I planned for a perfect pregnancy.

But you know what they say? God laughs when we make our plans. And these babies, they laugh harder because they come when they bloody well please.

I imagined that the pregnancy would be good for my art. That I would be itching with stories, oozing with ideas, cursing the Sun for setting way early. Epiphanies week after week would have me write my greatest work. But it wasn’t. The last 13 weeks couldn’t have been any more brutal.

It started with feeling as if I am constantly hangied – teetering between wanting to throw up but never quite, needing to eat without the appetite, face contorted in disgust. Sluggish. Lethargic. You just want to lay your head down for a minute, ‘Just one minute,’ you tell yourself, ‘one minute then I’ll have the energy to get this jobo done.’ Natsing (as my pal Pepe likes to say). They lie when they call it morning sickness. This hangie stayed with me all day, every day for 13weeks.

Then the gas. Jesus. It swelled up in my stomach then moved about it like an unwanted spirit. I swear. Not even squatting in the washroom for 2 hours could get it out. I remember one afternoon of having brown chapos and beans for lunch, I’m at my desk and my stomach starts to growl. My desk mate gives me a side glance. It growls harder. She clears her throat, I ignore her. A louder growl. She (side-) stares at me, I laugh sheepishly. The next growl had her rise from her seat to go take a call. Her phone wasn’t even ringing, hehee.
It went on like this for several weeks. Uncontainably large deposits of gas after every lunch.
I had so much gas I could fuel a hot air balloon. (Emergency situation at the Mara: One attendant says worriedly to another, “We don’t have enough gas to fly all these balloons. What will we do?” The other guy says, “Get Bett on the phone. Tell her to get here, now!”)

Heartburn followed the hangie and the gas. I’ve not had heartburn before. My life is far too simple for heartburns. The passage between my breasts burned like a flaming tunnel. GB once suggested I take Eno. I threw him a piercing look, ‘Wow, how smart.’

After the hangie and the gas and the heartburn came the blandness. Pregnancy blunted me to the taste of life, to all its richness and its flavour. I couldn’t savour anything as I had before – sizzling steak tasted like rubber, salad dressing like toothpaste. New albums, music were a racket I preferred to do without. Sunshine made me itchy. Road trips drove me nauseous. Alice Munroe’s short stories sent me to a nap.
Nothing tasted the same, not even my lover’s lips.

My days were silent and colourless.

And it was then that everything started to get thick. The brutality of first trimester snowballed. I couldn’t write.
Me and my hangie and my gas and my heartburn would sit at my desk for hours on end struggling to put a few flimsy sentences together. I’d come back to read it later then I’d have to start over cause I’d lost my train of thought. I didn’t have the energy to sit through a story from start to finish. Creativity flat-lined.
I became a cabbage. Hell I looked like a cabbage. Sitting back in my chair ndee; chest heaving from my heavy breathing, legs apart. I came to work to eat. Unashamedly so.

I emailed my mom pal (you make several of these when you are preggos) and asked her what to do. She told me to chill. “There’s nothing you can do about it. You probably won’t be able to write like you used to until another year from now.”

The hell. So what are me and the baby to eat?

“Do what you can. There are stories you don’t need to write. And you may have to cancel a few of your contracts.” (Sidebar: this year started well for me. I got a few writing gigs, made a few useful contacts who swung jobo my way. Peachy. But there’s nothing worse for an editor than a writer who misses his deadlines. The Queen Bee doesn’t want the Worker who can’t keep his word.)

And what do I do beyond that?

“Just… Be pregnant.”

Well, in my own obnoxious and histrionic way, this is me being pregnant: I cuss more; I have a dirty unladylike diction that I spill out with a lot of love. I am selfish; as long as I have eaten and I have a place to lay my head then fuck everyone else. I don’t care for people much these days; I always thought that being preggos would make me more motherly, more sympathetic towards others. That I’d draw them into my bosom and fix their issues in one fell swoop, bang. Their messiah. You know how people would rather give you bullshit than keep their mouth shut? Yeah. (I once saw this quote I have been dying to use: Silence is better than bullshit.) I thought I’d sniff them out, understand the vulnerability they are desperate to mask. But I can’t because I forget too easily.

It was a habit to respond to all whatsApps, because everyone who chats you up is entitled to a right of response. But not anymore; my brain is too woolly to keep these conversations running. Kumbe people catch feelings when you ignore them, hehee. (I will respond to yours Gilo. Soon. I promise.)

I have no other interests apart from the baby and myself. Should I be invited for a cocktail… no, that’s not possible. No one invites the pregnant lady for a cocktail cause they know what they a bore she can be.

I watch TV and I am always rooting for the baby. Last week, I caught The Walking Dead my kid sis and my concern was for that ill-placed toddler. ‘Where is his mum? What will he eat? Gosh, he must be thirsty.’ I went to bed wondering if he will be OK.
I am a shoe-size bigger. My shoulders are broadening – early this month, I bent down to lace my boots then I hear the sharp sound of a tear. My plaid shirt had come apart at the seams, in the section between my shoulder blades. I stupidly turned around to try and see it.

Going swimming then being underwater feels as if I am in a large womb. Like I will have a rebirth when I come up for air. I am in a womb and she’s in a womb. It’s a womb within a womb. Inception, anyone?

I’m needy. Emotionally needy.

I miss my Moms. Alot. The last time I saw her was the weekend before my last post, on Valentine’s Day. I was dropping her off to take the shuttle to Kaplong. I’ve been calling her often to ask her silly questions like, ‘I want uji like yours?’ ‘How do I cut up chicken?’ ‘Can you send me a hug?’
I miss my sisters. I miss having a drink at Tamasha.

I think more than I speak because I imagine the baby is listening to my thoughts. I also keep them, uhm, pure.

Late in the night when sleep escapes me, I am gripped with the fear of my inadequacy. What values am I to teach my little girl? Will I look into her eyes and feel naked and unfinished? Am I ready for this? Then I turn over and a get a warm feeling of smug, that maybe it’s the world that isn’t ready for another me.

So what now? I don’t know what now. Or what next.


I am at 4 months as I finish writing this. 16 weeks and 3 days.

I swear I felt her move.

Smile, Woman. Smile
Suits and monikers

Comments (29)

  1. SK

    Congratulations on the pregnancy, I know how it feels like it, was there 2 years ago! And it is not your shoulders growing, it is your boobs. I miss big boobs :)

    • fra

      Hehhhe, you kill me SK.
      Thanks a bunch.

  2. Cynthia Makau

    Amazing article! All the best with the pregnancy and true, all you can do now is enjoy being pregnant!

  3. Roggie

    Hahaha bett…totally nice piece, No wonder you were so cranky at the sleep over..mara u needed to brush ur teeth at 2am, then cold shower that u took 2hrs huko, u drunk all the juice!!!
    telling terry to change she looks like a mama…hahaha now i see…CONGRATULATIONS DARLING!!

    • fra

      You lie, hehhee.
      Thanks Darling.

  4. Terry

    Awesome awesome piece..av read n re-read.
    Love u gal.

    • fra

      Thank YOU. I feel the same way, hehhe. *wink*

  5. pepe

    I was referenced Yeey… Beautiful read. Can’t wait to read more and share in the journey.

  6. mungaik

    Wow, Bett, congratulations to you and GB once more And thank you for sharing this part of your personal life with us.

    • fra

      It wouldn’t be everything without sharing.
      Thank you Mungai. And thank you for the read-comment.

  7. Joy D'Souza

    Congratulations roomie!! Your post got me feeling like you interviewed me for this article because you expressed exactly what I went through up until 15weeks. Especially the permanent hangie! Waaahhhh. Hang in there, once you cross that bridge (which is different for everyone but roughly around week 13 to 16 weeks), the difference will be like day and night! Am currently at week 24 and all am struggling with currently is fatigue and a bit of heartburn. Everything else, including migraines, is gone! May God protect both of you and congratulations once more :)

    • fra

      Thank you, Joy. May He protect you guys too.

      PS. I had to do some math in the air to figure the 24 weeks.

  8. Besh

    Congratulations Bett you will make a perfect mom. Second Trimester is the best stage..prepare..ooh and i know you cant wait for the bump to appear….

    • fra

      She’s already on her feet!
      Thank you, Besh. And thank you for the confidence.

  9. Maryanne

    Writing to you comes so natural, so will motherhood. All the best in this AMAZING journey. The lil girl in your womb is already famous :-)

    • fra

      Yes she is. Thank you for the kind words, Maryanne.

  10. Laura

    Amazing article.Congratulation and all the best.

  11. Aditnar

    Congratulations Fra! I have congratulated you since June but having a pre-toddler meant I couldn’t actually get to putting it through to you… Yeah this is totally the long overdue of overdues… Bless you.
    PS. Play some Mozart for the wee one, she will come out a little Einstein ;)

    • fra

      Hehhe. She’s a hippie – she likes Indie over anything else I’ve ever played her.

Leave a Reply

Subscribe to our content

Florence Bett-Kinyatti


Columnist Saturday Nation Writer Craft It Author of best-selling ‘SHOULD I?’ and ‘HOW MUCH?’ ~ Guiding word: Overdrive Subscribe to our Newsletter👇🏾 eepurl.com/igmN8P
  • Dear God, 
It’s me again.

I don’t pray as often as I need to, You know that. I don’t kneel by my bed in child-like humility, as Muna does. I don’t whisper a prayer in the morning. Or at noon. Perhaps just in the evening. 

This going-to-church habit is a constant false start. So is reading the Word. 

I’m often guilty but I also know: You and I have a language only we can understand. 

I speak to You through this gift You bestowed upon my Kale shoulders, this gift to write in colour. It’s a gift that sometimes feels like a curse, a burden I have no choice but to pursue. 

Yet other times – most times, actually – it’s the very breath of my essence. Everyday I sit to write, when the words flow from my head and heart through my fingers to the page, I feel You next to me. 

You are here, Lord. Hovering. Lingering. Swooshing about in Your regal robes, like a character from Bridgerton.

Sometimes You get so close I can feel You breathing on my neck and I’m like, ‘Err, God, do You mind, personal space?’

And You chuckle uncomfortably. ‘He-he, of course. Of course.’

I’m here to tell You, Thanks!

I hosted my first in-person event last March, Lord, thank You to all the lovely ladies who granted me their time and full attention. 

I’ve carried them in my heart since and every day, my prayer is that You bring them closer to the life of abundance they each seek. To their own version of wealth. 

I always call them by their name: Becky. Purity. Lindsay. Wangui. Naomi. Shiqow. Mercy. Liz. Winnie. Polly. Nduta. Lynet. 

And Mike. 

Dear Lord, I’m prepping for my next in-person event in June, Inshallah. 

Walk with me as I get there. 

Love always,

  • Highlights from our first-ever in person event hosted by Craft It and @financialfitbit 
Thanks to all the lovely ladies — and gent, hehe — who honoured us with the privilege of their time and attention. And colourful energy. It’s been weeks since and it’s only now that I’m coming down from the high. 

Thank YOU!

🎥 @mikemuthaka 

#craftit #author #MakeYourMoneyMatter #personalfinance #money
  • I am a woman.

I’m strong. I’m brilliant. I’m like a comet shooting across the sky, I’m so bright you have to put on shades to see me.

I’m almost 40, I’m almost fully realising myself as a woman and the power of womanhood I possess.

I’m so powerful that if KPLC connected me to the national grid, I’d power up this country and we’d never have another blackout.

Ho! Ho! Ho!


To recognize and celebrate International Women’s Day today, I’d like to recognize and celebrate eight women.

I have eight things to give away to each of these women:
a) Two tickets to my upcoming event on March 18 with @financialfitbit Theme is ‘Make your money matter’
b) Three autographed copies of my book ‘Should I?’
c) Three autographed copies of my other book ‘How Much?’

To participate:
1. Like this post
2. Tag women who deserve a win of either event ticket or book (tag as many women as you like)
3. Tell us what you’d like her to win and why she deserves the win
4. Make sure your tagged women follow @_craftit and @financialfitbit 

Here are the rules for the giveaway:
— One woman, one win
— Winners will be contacted via DM
— Giveaway closes at the end of this week, Inshallah, on Sunday 12 March
— Only open to people living in Kenya

All the best!

(Swipe right to see the women I’m celebrating.)

#craftit #internationalwomensday
  • My 2022 word of the year was Wholesome. 

Wholesome meant engaging in moderation and in pursuits that didn’t leave me feeling yucky.

An example: there’re weekend nights I’d go out then have too much to drink. On the drive home, I’d tell GB to stop the car every half mile so I could throw up on the side of the road. Then I’d take three working days recovering. 


No more of that nonsense.

Now I have only two doubles of Singleton whiskey and chase it with water. I eat less food and I eat better. I take my supplements. I treat myself to an early bedtime and arise with my body clock, no alarm.

I spend a lot more time hanging with my kids, Muna and Njeeh. 

I buy fewer things. 

I play the piano. 

I created a disciplined routine for my work and take Thursdays off. 

You catch my drift…

Wholesome has become my lifestyle. 

(By the way, I was asked, ‘Where does this word-of-the-year come from, Bett?’ I don’t know about other people but for me, the words present themselves when I’m journaling. My spirit tells me what it needs; I must be still enough to listen and brave enough to obey.)

My word for 2023 is Overdrive.

My two books have unlocked new opportunities for me as a writer and creative. As an urban brand. I’d honestly not foreseen them. 

I know that if I adjust my sails to where the wind is blowing, these opportunities will translate to wealth.

Last Friday, I listed all the work I’m already doing and all the new opportunities – potential and realised – knocking at my door.

I asked myself, ‘What am I taking up here and what am I dropping?’

The response, ‘None – we go into overdrive and smartly pursue them all.’

#craftit #urbanguide
  • Years ago, my best friend said to me, ‘Bett, we’re almost 40 – forget makeup, let’s take care of our skin instead.’

I had to laugh because this was coming from Terry. Terry my Kisii pal, this fine gyal with skin the colour of honey, the only practising SDA in my circle. 

Terry had spent her 20s and early 30s sleek with Arimis. That’s right, the milking jelly with a lactating cow on its logo. 

Arimis addressed all her skin pickles back then. It was her problem fixer. Her Olivia Pope. It’s the one thing that always said, It’s handled.

Now here she was preaching to us about a consistent skincare regimen in the AM and PM.


It wasn’t until Terry shared her selfies on our girls WhatsApp group that I stopped laughing. It wasn’t until we stood next her – and took these selfies – that I reeally stopped laughing: Terry’s skin was youthful and toned, plump. Hydrated. Moistured but not shiny. 

It looked like it had been kissed by the Greek goddess of radiance. 

So we gathered around her feet and said, ‘Forgive us, master. We are ready now. Teach us everything you know.’

She did. 

Terry and I now spend plenty of time before work and before bed squeezing out little portions of expensive skincare products from expensive tubes, we layer them on our face in a calculated measure.

This serum here is for the circles under my eyes and the fine lines around my mouth.

Turns out I’ve been giving away too much of my face: I’ve been looking too hard, laughing too easily.

I’ll have to spend the next year into my 40s with my eyes half shut and laughing little. I'll have a resting bitch face.

Don’t blame me, blame the retinol.

And age.

#craftit #urbanguide #urbangirl
  • I’m Bett. I’m the author of your favourite books about money. I’m hosting an in-person event in March, Inshallah: This is my personal invite to you.

#craftit #moneymaker #moneyinkenya
  • I am hosting my first money event this March, Inhsallah. It’s the first of quarterly events I have planned for the year. 

(Give me a moment here so I pull myself together long enough to write this. I’m smiling very hard right now, ha-ha, I look like a donkey.)


The event will be in-person. On a Saturday morning, a loose three hours which, I am certain, you’d have burned on some other pursuit you couldn’t account for later. (I’d probably be oiling the hinges of a squeaky door or decluttering my sock drawer.)

My guest host for this edition is Lynet Kyalo. 

Lynet is a personal finance coach under her brand @financialfitbit She also hosts @getyourbagrightpodcast 

Buy your tickets from our Market.

Early bird tickets are discounted until the end of this month.

Limited slots available. 

#craftit #millenialmoney #moneyevent #moneymaker
  • Sometimes I sit down and read my own book. 

Odd, huh?

Reading my own stories is like an out-of-body experience. Or getting introduced to myself again. An outward journey inward.

It’s fascinating.

I also read because I need to improve my writing for my next project.

We call them the Elements of Craft: things like sentence structure and punctuation, word placement, story length etc, they all inform your reading experience.

This is what makes the book easy to read, and has you turning the pages.

Cop your autographed copy and #betteryourmoney 

#craftit #howmuch #millenialmoney #moneymaker

Seraphinite AcceleratorOptimized by Seraphinite Accelerator
Turns on site high speed to be attractive for people and search engines.