Her Majesty

I saw her three times.

The first, I was standing under the shade of a kiosk sipping from a bottle of Keringet water. It was a hot day and I was looking at a fruit vendor swatting at an army of flies. His wooden cart was lined with readily-packed pineapples diced into polythene bags. Now every time I see her I think of pineapples.

She was speeding across the tarmac, never mind that the road was narrow and with the addition of a hundred boda bodas, there was barely any room to maneuver. She overtook more cars then managed to wiggle herself into a gap and missed the oncoming car by a whisker. Horns blared and headlights flashed. Some middle fingers were seen through roll-down windows. I continued sipping my water.

Minutes before, I was standing at the counter of an airless shop. The blue neon lighting inside the shop was dizzying, dance hall music streamed from a speaker at the corner of the room. A big plastic file was placed in front of me – the inventory. I was there to pick up some movies to watch over the weekend and my palms were uncomfortably sweaty. Some sand had collected into my sandals.

As I flipped through the file, skimming over the movie posters I thought, This is really not how I want to start a weekend. There was barely anything in that file that held my eyes and every flick seemed to me like a bore. And by that time I was tired and thirsty and pissed off about the sand in my sandals and I craved a damn cigarette. So I picked some series at random – Insecure, actually –  gave the guy my flash drive and told him I would be back later. Maybe after a crafty fag.

Then I went into another the kiosk and bought a half-liter bottle of Keringet water. And that’s when I saw her. She had a maroon coating with a shiny silver front. (She’s a car by the way, for those who haven’t caught on.) There was something about her that brought the word ‘majestic’ to mind.

Her swift motions made it seem like she was floating, untouched by the polluted earth beneath her. The windows were up, dark as a starless sky and the rims were polished with a blinding sheen.

There was no denying that whoever was behind the wheel remained unruffled. I mean, this part of Kitengela town was the dustiest and most hideous-looking. The paths were flooded with hawkers who had haphazardly spread their wares, and groups of youth who simply had nothing to do but chew miraa all day. The air was choked by the sound of shouting touts and smoky exhaust pipes, and I happened to see a watchman trying to milk a tip from an unsuspecting driver for parking. Another fellow wrapped in maasai attire was speaking loudly into a phone.

Yet all this activity seemed to escape Her Majesty. Unlike the rest of us mere mortals, her air was clean and calm, air conditioned with the effectiveness of a German.

Watching her disappear into a corner was like feeling the last flutters of a dying pulse, and I thought about her long after I had gone back home that day.

The second time I saw her was during one of my morning runs. My trail is made up of tightly-packed soil and there’s usually less traffic. A little ways down the road is a University gate, and, once in a while, on a Friday evening, you might catch a group of students making their way to the local. This University gate is usually my checkpoint, where I stop to take a breath and pretend to be checking something on my phone because I’m embarrassed of tiring easy.

So last Tuesday, while I was bent holding my knees in true athletic fashion and coughing up the taste of blood, I saw her heading in my direction. It was a few minutes to 8AM. She appeared on the horizon and I had half the mind to wave; maybe she’d stop and I’d finally get to see the driver. I watched as the car glided into the University and then I began to wonder some more about the driver: Who were they and what were they doing in Uni? Was it a lecturer? Or was it a student? And if it was a student, how do the others think about one of their comrades coming to school in a machine like that?

As I huffed and puffed my way back to my homestead, I realized that I was now more interested in finding out what the driver looked like. Were they kind enough to give a jogger a lift? I was suddenly in the mood for some pineapples.

The third time, however, I happened to see the face behind the wheel.

I was with my Ol’Man in the car at the time, him at the wheel, me on the passenger seat. It was a warm Saturday morning and we had stopped for gas. My head was buried inside a newspaper, looking at my horoscope and trying to block out the tune playing on the radio. And guess who I see at the station, filling up the tank? Yep! Her Majesty. Miss Pineapples herself.

Her window was down. Was is it a man or a woman? I thought. And if it’s a man, what kind of man likes maroon on his car?

But it wasn’t a man. It was a pretty young chick with screaming red lipstick and skin as dark as night. She had jetty eyelashes which rested on her dainty cheeks when she lowered her eyes. She handed the fuel attendant a bundle of a thousand shilling notes. I watched the attendant lick his stubby thumb and count it, 8,000 in all.

At some point I think I saw her lips move, like she was talking to someone. I did my best to peer inside her car but I couldn’t see anyone and I thought maybe she was singing along to a tune on the radio. Or maybe there was someone else in the back seat.

Still, I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to hear her voice. She looked like she had one of those throaty voices that pluck at the souls of men. I wanted to know how tall she was, and if she has special shoes just for driving.

And in a moment an idea flashed across my mind: One day, for my morning run, I would head straight to the University gate and be there before 8AM. Then, when I’d spot her, I’d feign a limp, maybe stretch out an arm and put on a pitiable face. She would then pull over on the side of the road and I would move to her side.

“Hello,” I’d say, wincing slightly. “I seem to have hurt my leg. I live a little ways down the road. Can I get a lift? Nice car by the way.”

She’d probably look down at my leg, then to eyes and maybe hesitate. That would be my cue to stare into her soul and will her to open the passenger door for me. Which she would.

“Thanks,” she’d say as I settled in. “What has happened to your leg?”

Then my eyes would fall to her lap, where her skirt will have ridden so far up her thighs my breath would catch in my throat. And the only thing that would come mumbling out of my mouth would be, “Pineapples, Your, uhm, Majesty?”


PS. Craft It takes an Election break for the rest of this week. We will resume our regular posting schedule – Monday, Wednesday, Friday – hopefully next week. Safe voting.

Walk With Me
Newborns and Nightgowns

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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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