At 33 weeks

I am not a mother. Yet. I am on the homestretch to being one. I am 8 months pregnant when I write this. 33 weeks and 6 days to be precise. I realize I cannot call myself a mother yet because there’s this 7-week stretch where anything could happen. Anything that could flip the script – anything – and I end up being caught between that space of saying I was pregnant and I was almost a mum. I’ve been there before. It’s the harshest place a mum-to-be can find herself. There’s an emptiness to it that echoes across the hollow space of where your baby once was. And it reverberates through your entire being in a way that shudders to your core. It’s unimaginable, the depths of your love to this person whose face you looked into only once, when he wasn’t breathing. Eyes which will never open.

So all we ask is that it turns out as we want it.

(My goodness, how frosty does that intro leave you? Hehee)

Being pregnant has been a lonely place for me. It’s an exciting and unpredictable place in its context but a lonely one nonetheless.

Understand this: you are in this alone. Your single pals won’t stop going to Tamasha because they are supporting you in your pregnancy. Hell no. On one particularly lonely Friday evening you may decide to join them there for a few. And you will drive over in a lark. Surprise them. But you will get to the parking and think about what you are really about to do – do you really want to mix your pure bump with the filthy hedonism of the club? You are in the wrong scene. So you will reverse slowly and drive back home, not ever letting them know you were there.
Your new-mum pals won’t save you from the twists of the pregnancy no matter how much unwarranted advice they give you. GB, your mano, won’t stay in on weekend nights with you even if you are too emotionally needy to spend it on your own. He will go out to meet his boys and he will leave you at home catching The Devil Wears Prada for the third time that week because you don’t want to take your chances with catching something new, something that has the possibility to disappoint you. And you will fall asleep to it halfway with your half finished plate of food balancing on your belly, feet up on a pouf. And you will wake when he returns because his disturbance rouses you from your sleep. Its 3AM. And as you drag your swollen feet and your big belly to bed you will catch a whiff of whiskey in his breath and you will wonder if he had a good time, or rather, a better time, without you. And you will feel that pang of loneliness as he snores himself to sleep. You want to be held, damnit. And you will stare into the darkness feeling the weight of loneliness wash over from your toes up. You will feel a lump forming in your throat. You want to cry, Jesus. Then you will feel your baby move within you and you will realize he needs you as much as you need him. He will never leave you, this baby. You are glad he is here now.

The loneliness fades away.

You will wonder what it’s like for him, your baby, in that little space of your belly. His knees nudged into his face, his legs entangled into each other, bum at some odd angel, elbows poking into the irregular outer walls of your belly. The little guy is upside down, for crying out loud. He hears muffled voices and muffled sounds and opens his eyes into darkness.
If you think you are lonely, what about him?

This loneliness was a bitter truth for me to accept. Nobody had warned me about it. Well hear this, Love: Life goes on without you. The world won’t stop spinning to let you catch up with the magic that’s happening inside of you. The only Universe that has seemingly halted to is yours. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

I don’t know the sex of my baby. I don’t know what his face looks like. I don’t know if he has GB’s flat nose or my large eyes. If he’ll be chubby or tall. I don’t know if he will be an artist or a scientist, a chirpy bird or a silent thinker. I don’t know if he’ll like to chill solo or chill with a crowd. If he will be a Kale runner or a Kuyo swindler, heehe. I don’t know if he will bite his fingernails like GB does when he’s idle or if he will stare into nothingness listening to his thoughts as I do. I know shit.

And that’s where the beauty of motherhood lies for me. That surprise of meeting this person who has been listening to my heartbeat for 40 some more weeks. A first meeting – he of me, me of him. Looking into eyes that are as unknown as they are familiar. That adventure of discovering who he is and what he is about, the journey of watching him mould himself into his own person. I don’t want to be the type of parent who imposes her preferences on her kid and lives vicariously through him. Neither does GB. But get this, last Thursday evening GB and I are catching a rerun of Prison Break (remember it? how cool was Scofield?). GB says he wants our kid to be an engineer and a grandmaster at chess. He’ll play soccer with him on the weekends. I say I’ll take him swimming and buy him a piano. And books, lotsa books. GB says he’ll have him listen to hip-hop. I say its indie and classical music. GB says he’ll be Anglican, I say Protestant. And in the choir at that. There was silence before we heard the baby clearing his throat. True story. Little man clearly had something to say.

I am not worried I will be a great mum. I am worried I will sacrifice everything I am to be a mother to my baby. I do that a lot, over-indulge in a new activity that I forget there’s more life to be lived outside of what I am engaged in. I am worried I will forget about my pals and about my sisters and about that girl I was before I got pregnant. I am worried I will ignore what I love to do. I am worried for my writing. And reading. It’s been suffering over the last six weeks because my pregnancy brain means I can’t read nor think up any creative ideas, let alone write them. I am a mabati. Hehhee. (It took me five days to send this copy in. Sorry, Magunga.)

But I am reassured – time has a way of making our past concerns seem so naive and short-sighted in the present. I will read this a year from now and smile at my selfishly narrow perspective to motherhood.

And my baby – whoever you are, little one – will smile with me.


PS. This story originally featured as a guest post in a series titled #AMomStory, under Magunga’s blog (www.themagunga.com)

Show me the money
Mad Men

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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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