It’s 5.00a.m. The entr’acte between dusk and dawn. The blanket of the night is peeling away slowly to reveal the glorious shine of the morning Sun. In the biting cold outside, watchmen yawn and stretch before clocking out for their nightshift, they wipe the drool off the sides of their mouth. A few solitary figures slice through the morning mist – there are those who are choiced with the refined routine of a morning jog. And there is the handful of industrious workmen unchoiced with their jog to work. The irony of this infuses the mist as it resumes its cottony suspension behind them. A dog howls in the horizon. Birds chirp then whiz past from the trees above. Crickets say their goodbyes.
Cars snail past in sporadic bursts. Where are they going, is the question. Or rather, where are they coming from?
Dew collects on the spiny blades of grass beside the sidewalk. A lazy drop rolls from the tip and bursts into a thousand little droplets when it reaches the ground. It is these same droplets that will capture the flicker of the sunlight and cause it to glisten across the sidewalk in a soft film.

There’s a sincerity that comes with breaking dawn. A purity to it. Something that comes once, and you look forward to. It’s like that pop sound you hear when you open a fresh bottle of ketchup. You heard it?

In a household somewhere, a mother rouses from her sleep in a fairy-like flutter of her eyelids. She doesn’t need an alarm to alert her that dawn is here. Her body, her mind knows when it’s time to get up. So she gets up when it is time to get up. Only the lazy mother stays in bed a minute more than she needs to, she says. Her husband snores in ever-increasing grunts besides her. As always, he has his nose pointed into the air and his mouth falls sideways as if numbed with a drug. It’s a humorous sight. Not unsightly, but humorous. One which, even after seeing it for over thirty years each morning, still provokes the loving wry smile.

She swings her legs off the covers into the bedroom slippers that wait for her where she left them last night. She pulls on her worn-out blue robe and wraps a leso around her waist. The room is still dark. Yet she operates around with robotic precision, not knocking down the lampshade or knocking her toes against the corner of the trunk that sits at the foot of the bed. She goes into the bathroom and tags at the string to turn on the mini-fluorescent bulb above the mirror.
She washes her face. She gurgles mouthwash. Vaseline for her lips, a habit she picked from her own mother – It’s the most you do for yourself in the morning, she told her – then she leaves her snoring husband in the dark bedroom to the kitchen downstairs.

It’s chilly. She wraps the robe tighter around her.

She could run the mile of the next three hours with her eyes closed because she’s done it for all her seven kids for the past thirty years. Breakfast – tea, fermented brown uji, poached eggs or sausages, oven-toasted bread, and bananas – takes an hour to prepare. She will set the table as her husband hits the shower – she can hear the water running as she scissors those sausages. The girls rouse before the boys. Then there will be a squabble over who goes to the shower first and who needs to hurry up and who needs to get the iron box from Daddy’s room and who wore my P.E t-shirt yesterday and Mummy, have you seen my homework and wake the boys so we don’t get late and be told to kneel infront of the flag pole again. Nothing in these exchanges is unfamiliar to her.

Once breakfast is on the table, she will pack snacks and lunch for the kids and for her husband. And she will line them up in the kitchen in order of age so no one picks anothers. The next forty minutes are about a rackety school of kids as they sit down for breakfast and zigzag the living room and bedroom putting their things together. Someone will cry. Someone will spill tea. Someone won’t find their sweater. Someone wants their yellow scarf for their Brownie’s uniform. Someone will forget to carry their lunch. Someone will have forgotten to finish their homework, so they will sit at the bottom of the stairs trying to control as much damage as they can. And in a very blunt, very dark pencil they will scrawl very illegible, very incorrect figures. Someone will shriek because someone pulled a prank on him and put cold water in his school shoes; his socks are soaked to his ankles, but he’s too harried to change them.
They’ve heard the hoot. That siren. It sounds like the trumpet call to Heaven. The rapture itself. The second coming.
It’s a hoot that says that if you don’t get your skinny ass outside the front door before I am done reversing out the gate, your sorry ass will be left behind. And they will. Because no one wants to find salvation in a slap, not in the morning anyway.

After what seems like an eon, they will pile in Daddy’s blue Peugeot for their drop-off at school.

She will wave them goodbye as she shuts the gate behind them.

She will return to the kitchen and living room to clean up their mess. She will sing to herself as she does this for the next forty minutes. She knows to do this with love because this is what it means to be a momsie.

She will go back to her bedroom upstairs.

She will look in the mirror.

The Vaseline is still on her lips.

Say Uncle
More guns than roses

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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

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