She goes to Karura Forest on some Saturdays. She likes to walk along the narrow paths, with the sun rising grey and smoky behind her. She likes how the trees smell. She likes the serene silence and the clean air.

Once in a while a group of joggers will huff past her. She’ll catch herself staring at their receding bums, thinking of nothing in particular. Sometimes she prefers cycling. Her sister tags along and they have a race.

On Saturdays she isn’t in a hurry to get out of bed. It’s her day off. It’s the one day she can spoil herself without feeling guilty. She doesn’t feel bad about masturbating on Saturday. She’s been working all through the week and this is how she rewards herself.

She clinched a paid internship two months ago. She clocks in at 8a.m and leaves at 5.

Her supervisor is a debonair chap in his late 20s with a refined taste in footwear. On her first day he sported a pair of red loafers. It somehow alleviated her anxiety.

He had a warm smile. He made her feel comfortable. He directed her to her desk and introduced her to the other person in the department – an older looking guy who generally doesn’t talk much.

During her break she logs on to Twitter, where she’ll meet a salvo of leftie tweets and hilarious GIFs and feisty feminists. Sometimes she’ll start to type a tweet and then erase it. She doesn’t want to open the vault to her thoughts, not on Twitter anyway.

These days she isn’t online much, at least not when it’s 2a.m and I’m rereading our thread. She tires of texting. Your last text went to ‘seen’, an abrupt ending to a lost cause.

She’s focusing on her life now. No distractions. All her life she’s been making sure everyone else is happy at the expense of her own inner peace. She’s now living for herself.

And she echoed the same thing when you hitched a ride in her car. The passenger seat of that orange Mazda was comfy as hell. You would slide it all the way back to make room for your legs.

She didn’t like it when you turned up the volume. And she didn’t like that you refused to wear your seat belt.

“Please wear your seat belt,” she’d say.

“Seat belts are for losers,” you say, hoping you sound like the badass you never were. The headlines read: Boy breaks his own rules.

Now she gets home at 9p.m, exhausted and famished and craving a hot shower. When her sister graduated high school, she was relieved of the supper-making task. Her Mom comes home an hour after she’s had her shower. And they chat for a while before she hits the sack.

I always wonder about the dynamics of the relationship with her Mom. I wonder what they talk about on those nights. There was a time when, before she got her ducks aligned, she’d have you over for a spot of brunch and some sex. (The girl, not her Mom.)

You saw her Mom’s beautiful portrait in the living room. The resemblance was striking. Did they ever exchange office banter? Was her Mom proud that she had raised such a wonderful girl?

Some Saturdays she picks up her Dad at the airport. I wonder if he ever reclines his seat in that, her orange Mazda. What does he feel when he sees his little girl holding the wheel with only one hand?

He’d never know that, just a few days ago, you were there, looking into his daughter’s eyes, your collective heartbeats in a mess of rhythm, kissing and lingering on her soft lips.

And she’d never know how you sit up in traffic every time you see an orange Mazda. How time seems to blur and stop, how the past and future vanish, how thought and fear flee until there’s only the instant. You look straight at the driver and think: Is it her?

It never is.

And now you find yourself staring up at the ceiling. The evening has turned purple and the crowd is getting louder. The night’s entertainment is courtesy of a cell phone with bad speakers and an even worse playlist.

You skipped lunch. There’s a fire in your belly. You didn’t even want to come. But you needed the drink. Just over an hour ago you were in your living room, wrestling with your Dusty Rugs deadline due that Friday. And then you got a phone call.

“There’s drinks, have you left the house?”

The host is now chatting up some bird in the corner. The guy next to you lights a cigarette, then passes the bottle over to you. His tobacco breath forms a smoky sand-hill in front of your face.

When did you start drinking on Tuesdays?

The room is lit by a single bulb that burns like a newspaper, bright and yellow and quiet, a luminous ominous flame.

And it makes you think about the girl. You see the headlines and the commentary. A shemozzle of thoughts. You see the girl at her desk, getting ready to check out of the office. They brought in a new chef at the cafeteria and he makes the best rice. She can’t wait to tell Mom.

You see her exiting the building and walking across the parking lot. She presses the button on the key and the blinkers blink. The sun-burnt smell of the Mazda slaps her face when she opens the door.

And then you see another headline: Boy longs for girl. Drowns in vodka.


I was pissed that I was the first one in the tuktuk. Now I’d have to wait for God-knows-how-long until the cabin filled up. I wanted to be home. I wanted a cold shower and a nap. My head was still swimming in a pool of vodka, and I wondered if my breath gave it away.

A tuktuk ride home takes all of 10 minutes. Nine if the driver really steps on it. Two more passengers got into the tuktuk. We only needed two others so we could be on our way.

Then she materialized in front of the windshield. She stood behind her Mom, clutching a bag of what looked like groceries. She had one of those short, bendy braids, with deep black eyes and lips like cherries.

We shall now call her Wendy.

And Wendy looked awfully familiar. She peered into the dark cabin and looked straight at me. Where had I seen her before?

Her Mom – tall, plump, weave in her hair – said something to the driver before getting in next to me, which was a bummer, because I really wanted to sit with Wendy. Maybe even ask her where I might have seen her before.

The tuktuk picked up pace once we hit the highway. The rushing breeze blew into the cabin. The window was nothing more than a canvas cloth. Wendy made a futile attempt at closing the zipper but it didn’t budge.

I felt sorry for her, really. She’d have to endure getting slapped by the harsh winds of Namanga Road for the next 10 minutes.

Her Mom gave a run at the zipper too, but it was stuck proper. I would have given them a hand but I was afraid Wendy’s Mom would smell the alcohol on me.

Also, what if I tried to close the zipper and failed? I could never forgive myself. And beautiful Wendy here would always remember me as the drunk who couldn’t close a zipper. What else couldn’t I close?

Wendy and Mom talked as we went along. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, though. Then Mom took out her phone and checked her messages.

She had a long text from Pastor something, which she read and gave to Wendy. “Ona vile Pastor amesema.”

I wondered where they’d alight. I really couldn’t place Wendy’s face. Was it in church?

No, because I’m Catholic. We don’t have pastors.

Or maybe it was the movie shop. Was she a fan of Family Guy?

My stop was next. I didn’t get to know where they’d alight. And I didn’t get to find out which movie shop Wendy frequents. Besides, I wasn’t sure Mom would approve of Wendy making small talk with a disheveled, drink-marinated stranger who wasn’t even kind enough to help with the damned zipper.

And I saw another headline: Boy has no balls.

Mike blogs at www.mikemuthaka.com

A Thirsty Performance

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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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