The Krest Files


I hear school is reopening next week. And I can bet my marbles the lec is going to ask what we’ve been doing over the holiday. She’ll probably walk in with one of her long dresses, briefcase in hand, and a thermos flask on the other.

It’ll be a cloudy Monday morning and the light will pour from the windows. It’ll be cold. Only a paltry few will attend class. My fingers will be stiff as a board. Holding a biro will feel odd.

And then Mrs. Lec will start to walk around the class, making a bit of eye contact with everyone. She’ll turn to the class and ask a question like, “How many have done the assignment?”

Then, when no one raises a hand, she’ll turn back to the student closest to her. And they will lock eyes. The air between them will sit still. She’ll ask, “Why haven’t you done the assignment?”

The student will sit up straight, suddenly roused from his fantasy world. Building castles in the sky. Only a few seconds ago he was looking out the window, watching the endless workday traffic on Mbagathi Way.

His wild bushy hair has been the subject of discussion in previous classes.

“I’m guilty, Madam. Guilty!” His eyes look deep into hers, imploring, looking for someone to understand.

“Guilty of what?” she asks.

“I haven’t done the assignment because I’ve been guilty.”

His face drops. His lips tremble. The class takes a collective breath.

“Is this something you’d want to talk in private?” she asks. Her eyes have softened, the assignment long forgotten.

“No, I can share it with the whole class,” he says. “I haven’t done the assignment because I’ve been a bad boy. I’ve been drinking too much vodka. I haven’t studied anything about this class. I find it much more interesting to drink.”

Half of the class will be in stitches. The rest will be shocked out of their wits. Never has there been such a straight shooter in these academic halls. Never have they seen such a ballsy student. No one has ever said the truth about what they’ve been doing over the holiday.

“So this is a case of indiscipline?” Mrs. Lec says.

“No, Madam. It’s a case of addiction. In fact,” he holds up a finger then he reaches into his backpack and takes out a green bottle of Krest, “I’m a little drunk right now. Do you want a taste?”

She’ll open her mouth wide, too shocked to speak. “My friend! What did you say your name was?”


“Michael.” She walks to the table and picks up the attendance register. “I see here you’ve already missed four classes.”

“Ah, just stop it already! We all know the attendance register is a scam to keep us all tied to a desk. There’s no attendance limit. As long as I get a good grade you guys will bump me to the next class.”

By now there would be murmurs coming from the back of the room. This is turning into a real show down. And it’s only the first day of school.

Mrs. Lec will be incredulous. The young lad must be off his rocker. “My friend,” she says again, “I think you’re out of order.”

Michael will get off his seat, point to the Mrs. Lec, and say, “No, my friend, you’re out of order. This whole class is out of order!”

And then he’ll walk out. Some of the students, due to some immature high school reflex, will feel like cheering and clapping. Kudos for defiance. The rest will be left with their mouths open, convinced that Michael has completely lost his marbles.


I wake up with a bottle of Krest. I have no idea how it got to my nightstand – all 300ml of it, unopened, glowing green like a goblin.

It’s the morning after Labour Day, and my mouth is dry. I’m hangover, and it takes a while before I take in the whole room. My eyelids were still half open when I sensed a climate change in the room.

My cheeks are warm against the pillow. And the bottle of Krest is just standing there, showing me its bar code, as if declaring its unique identity. The memory of the bottle dissolves and vanishes and goes further away from me. At what point did I bring it back to my room?

I thought if I clench my fist I might get a cold distant sensation of holding it in my palm. I don’t even like Krest, so what did I see in this one, that I just had to bring it back home with me? Was it the dimples at its waist?

I had spent Labor Day at a family gathering. The wine and the music flowed. Cheers to all the workers.

But now this bottle of Krest makes the rest of the world seem so remote. And I start to wonder if I had done any other silly things.

I check my phone. Maybe there might have been an alert in the family Whatsapp group about a missing bottle of Krest. Nothing. Then I check my call log and, indeed, I had done something silly.

I had dialed Catholic Girl. Twice. She doesn’t like me when I’m drunk. And it kind of peeved me that a bloody bottle of Krest had been in my bedroom, and she hadn’t.

I don’t remember much of what we talked about. But if she was the one asking what I did over the holiday I’d say: “Nothing much. Although, there was that thing about Dennis Onsarigo.”

“Dennis Onsarigo, the KTN guy?” she’d say.


“What about him?”

“I’ve been thinking about him.”

“Thinking about him how?”

“Like, in the shower.”

“You know, I always had my doubts about you.”


Anyway, I was in the shower one morning, lathering up, thinking about Catholic Girl. She’d been cropping up in my writing lately. And I thought maybe I’d create a New Folder on my desktop, to hold all the stories about her.  I’d name the folder ‘The Ex-Files’.

I was so excited about the aptness of it all. Then I thought I heard Dennis Onsarigo’s voice, saying, “Dennis Onsarigo, for Ex-Files.” (In the show he says, “Dennis Onsarigo, for Casefiles.” I totally dig his voice.)

I wasn’t certain about the show’s name, though. So I DM’d him. He replied and said it has always been Casefiles. I asked him what year it first went on air. He has never replied.

I’m still waiting.

Meanwhile, still on phone with Catholic girl, I would tell her, “By the way I’ve been re-watching Narcos. I simply can’t get enough of those banjos.

“I got to the part where Pablo was cutting a deal with M-19 soldiers. The soldiers were to break into the Palace of Justice and destroy all the evidence against Escobar. They set fire to a room that contained 600,000 pages worth of evidence. The result was a bloodbath of epic proportions.”

Catholic Girl would have run out of patience by now. She’ll have tired of hearing my oozy drawl and my pointless stories. I’m like a tap when I drink. Chatty as hell.

She’ll sigh into the phone and ask, “Michael, what does all this have to do with Dennis Onsarigo?”

“Well, when I was a kid I remember watching CCTV footage on the news. A bunch of masked hoodlums had stormed the KTN offices. Or was it Standard? They set fire to a pile of newspapers. I’m not the only one who remembers something like this, right?

“Maybe if I was a bit older I’d have wanted to know the whole story.

“But I wasn’t. I was still a pupil. I was still disciplined enough to do my homework. They weren’t called ‘assignments’ back then, they were homework. Haha. My head was only filled with thoughts of video games and budding breasts.”

I’ll hear Catholic girl breath into the phone irritated but I’ll keep talking. “Maybe Dennis did a story of the incident on CaseFiles. Where was he that day? Was he in the building when the hoodlums stormed in? Did one of them point an AK47 at him? I should probably bundle up all these questions in the DMs.”

“And does he like Kre…?

“Hello? Babe, are you still there?

Mike blogs at www.mikemuthaka.com

A Thirsty Performance
The Weedy Meadows

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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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