A Dusty 2018


I want to try out celibacy this year. Wait, masturbation doesn’t count as celibacy, does it?

I watched the sun come up on that first day of the year. I was in my boxers, in the back yard, barefoot and bare-chested. I was listening to birds chirping in the distance. The horizon was painted red and the rest of the sky was a pale blue. And when that orange ball began its slow ascent – bright and pure and soaked in glory, two twin birds perched on electric wires – I mulled over how quickly time had gone by.

2017 was a blur. I was waiting to make my first shilling with writing. I had a blog that was barely alive. I was going into my third year of campus. My grades had taken a nosedive and my girlfriend had called it quits, citing unfavorable working conditions. (“You’ve changed,” she’d said. “We don’t talk like we used to.” “What’s wrong, Mike?” “I feel like you’re pushing me away.” “Maybe we should just break-up.”)

That was February.

I blinked and it was November. I was finally earning my wages from this craft. This art of writing. Someone was willing to pay so I could write about a pair of breasts. I had settled nicely, being single – finding comfort in my own company. Some nights would get lonely, though, and my mind would go back to the girl. Should I call her? (“I’m really sorry for how I treated you, Bella. I miss you. Do you miss me? Can we go back?”)

Still, as I watched the sun come up on that New Year’s Monday, I couldn’t help but feel that 2018 will be a great year. The dawn air was a welcoming micro-climate. I could feel the newness on my skin. The sun rays pierced my face and filled me up with so much optimism I felt like a Tele-Tubby. It was like I’d had a chemical change of spirit; the acid balance of my psyche had shifted onwards and upwards.

Then I thought about the little warrior in my room.

A few days before the end of 2017 I saw – on the bookshelf in the living room – a wooden Maasai figurine that my Ol’Man had brought home from one of his travels. The thing has a detachable spear and shield, one knee is bent in a war-like stance.

I wondered why I never noticed him before. He wears a beaded red kilt and a hat that covers half his head. I picked him up and looked at him –at his clenched fist and the lines on his face, and I thought, What a fearless man.

I took him to my room and sat him on my dresser. He will watch over me so that every time I see him, I will remember the promises I’ve made to myself in 2018. I placed him in front of the bottle of lotion, you know, just in case masturbation counts.

The warrior will remind me there is work to be done. There are stories to write and books to read – even the academic ones. There will be less junk food and less Twitter. There will be a paycheck to fatten and I can’t afford to slip.

My writing aside, I want to run more in 2018, too. I didn’t give much of a toss about fitness in 2017, this will be the year I get rid of the pot belly. It will be the year I grow some biceps and a chest for days. 2018 will be the year I bring my sexy back.

So what I’ll do – on days I don’t have class – I’ll wake up at 6:30AM, lace up, and then go for a run along Namanga Road. I’ve even mapped it out in my head. I’ll start with a slow jog up the slope and then shift up when the path becomes flat. Three days a week I’ll do this. Whether I’ll execute any of these actions remains to be seen.

I’m also keen on rekindling my love for football. My passion sunk after high school. Other interests piled up (photography, writing, girls). I felt alienated after and stopped collecting football jerseys – my team had always been Barcelona, forever Barca. I didn’t participate in football banter either because I felt terribly clueless; out of date and out of touch.

2018 looks to be a wonderful year for football. The level of competition is monumental, apart from Arsenal who should get a complete overhaul on the entire squad. And soon it’ll be June and we’ll have the World Cup. Thirty-two countries will put their best feet forward and it promises to be an absolute corker.

My Ol’Man loves his football. On most weekends I’d join him in the living room and we’d watch the beautiful game together. We’d make fun of Arsenal and cheer whenever Messi takes out his bag of tricks. This year I’m going to savor these moments with my Ol’Man a bit more.

I miss school, though. I’ve been out of school since October – first because of the student’s strike, then, towards the end of the semester, I just didn’t feel like going to class. My attendance record was already okay, though.

I miss the guard at the gate who always calls me Dreadman. And I miss Linet, the lady who knows just how I like my coffee.

I miss the girls. There aren’t too many girls here in Kitengela, where I live. I meet some on my way to the town but I only talk to them when I’m high. Hehhe. But not so with the girls in school: I miss the smell of their perfume and their long braids. I miss their tight tops and their round breasts. I miss their swaying hips and their high heels and their colored lips. But I don’t miss the drawn eyebrows – 2018 will be a much better year without them, really.

Last week I noticed, in the new estate across the road, one maisonette with curtains. Someone had moved in. I’ve always wanted to see the face of that home owner. To look in the eyes of someone who could afford a house worth 12M.

The Universe must have heard me wonder and decided to show me. Well, just a bit of it, because the Universe doesn’t give you everything.

Anyway, this one time I was opening the gate for Ol’ Man to drive out when I spotted a lady (age unknown) standing on the balcony. A sleeveless top on. Her hair was in a tussle and her skin glowed in the morning light. (By the way, in 2018 I want to see more sleeves please). She had one arm on the railing, overlooking Namanga Road. She was a queen.

She was too far for me to make out her face, and I wondered if she could see me: Dirty Tee. Baggy pants. Bread crumbs on my beard. I wondered who else lived in that house. Sometimes if I climb my bed and look out my bedroom window I can see her balcony. Did she ever see the light of my lamp at night?

And then another thought came to me. What if the Universe was giving me incentives to start the morning runs? Maybe she was the kind of chick who would get a kick out of watching me run. Maybe she’d love to watch me trundle along – my gait loosening and lightening. Perhaps she’d see me and get a reason to run as well.

One day, after a run, I imagine she’d ask me over to her house for cold refreshment. Orange Juice. One thing would lead to another and we’d find ourselves in her bedroom.

And I just can’t wait to see the look on her face when I tell her I’m celibate.
Follow me on Instagram: Mike Muthaka

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Old Dogs, Same Tricks

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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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