The Weedy Meadows


I’ve always been aware of the whole preparing-for-school business, since my first day of school at Twin Birds Academy. Getting ready for school has forever been a torturous endeavor. It has always been this slow and dreadful operation, spaced out by varying degrees of idleness and waist-line discomfort.

Not forgetting, of course, my perpetual fear of school – where your caregivers pinched harder than your own mother.

And as you were barreled through the morning ritual, in a misty cloud of sleep, you couldn’t help but think: “This is really no way to ask a three year old to start his day.”

Those mornings all began the same, with the snatching. You would be blissfully asleep. You’d be lost in another galaxy, with grassy meadows and fluffy rabbits. Deep blue skies and a smiling sun. You’d be rolling down smooth hills, and chasing the yellow tele-tubby around. And then, just when you were about to catch the bugger, you’d be grabbed by the shoulder, “amka twende shule.”

Your eyes would burn as you lifted your eyelids, trying to see the face of the intruder. A cold stream of drool would run down your supple cheek. The intruder’s hand would still be on your shoulder. And for a moment you’d want to sit up and say, “What the hell? Can’t you see I was about to catch the damned tele-tubby?”

But you quickly put a sock in it, once you realized the intruder was Mom. And she doesn’t tolerate your antics.

So, with a heavy heart, you make your way to the shower, thinking, “I swear if I ever find the guy who invented school… And what’s up with Math anyway?”

Now, in campus, there’s no one to stop me from catching the tubby. I don’t have to wear shorts and over-the-knees socks. The Toughees have been replaced with a pair of loafers. Most of my classmates now have breasts.

And, heaven of heavens, I don’t have to do Math. When I waddle down to the shower I don’t think about Math, neither am I worried about getting whooped in the ass because of running in the hallway. “Michael nowadays you’re becoming naughty.”


But on Wednesdays, I have to let the tubby go. I have to wake at 4.30a.m, so I can make it to Helen’s class on time.

Getting ready for school is less terrible. I can take a shower and dress up while I listen to music. And while it’s still a bit painful to let the tubby go, my mind is usually left to ruminate on what I might spot on the way to school.

I leave the digs with my folks at 5.30a.m. Sometimes I spend the entire journey watching the inky blackness outside. I watch the world wake up with rolling banks of mist and sun streaks in the sky. I see the early birds, catching a bus to work. I see the watchers of the night, bundled up in heavy sweaters, going back home after a cold night shift. I see a few school-going kids, shuddering in the bleak dawn air, dreading that morning Math class.

(Why oh why does he never finish homework on time? Those bloody cartoons he watched yesterday will mean zip later that day, when stern Mrs. Somebody gives him a good ass whooping.)

We reopened school last Wednesday. And that morning, while I pulled on my jeans, the last thing I expected to see was a painting of Adam and Eve.

Class was out by 11a.m. Helen, the lecturer, brought it to a close by reminding us to send in our term papers by Friday: eight to 10 pages, Times New Roman size 12, double spaced.

Then I talked to a girl in the hallway, where I might have promised her a packet of skittles. I thought I’d go back home and get started with the term paper. But I hadn’t spotted anything to inspire the weekly Dusty Rugs tale.

I didn’t want to go home without a story. So what I did, I talked to a few more girls at the cafeteria. Then someone touched me on the arm and said, “Twende trap house?”

Up to that point I’d never been in a trap house. I only had a faint idea of what goes on in there. But from the name I could only assume there would be music, and it would taste like crap.

(Trap. I meant to say Trap. No, wait, sorry. It’s crap.)

So I jumped into the wagon and headed for the trap house. Perhaps I’d get a story there.

It was a 10-minute walk away from school. And to get to the house you had to jump over a low fence. Then you had to ascend some shifty-looking stairs with no railings.

There was a metal door at the end of the stairs, which led to a dark corridor. And as soon as you crossed the threshold you got slapped with the clammy smell of weed.

We found the host playing PS. He was seated on a couch, wearing pajamas, never mind that it was going on to 3p.m. He had a silver chain around his neck and his eyes were so red they could have stopped traffic. He had a sly cast about his face, but with a capacity of kindness.

He played music from his phone, hooked up via Bluetooth to a pill-shaped speaker. The walls were covered with blue wallpaper. Old red sofas surrounded the room. And at the centre, a dusty rug strewn with matchsticks and ashtrays and cigarette butts.

I thought I heard a girly giggle coming from the next room.

I plunked myself on a sofa and kept quiet, like the perfect guest.

Then I suddenly found myself in the company of lighthearted and loose-tongued strangers. And all that time I kept thinking: What if the cops raided this place? How would I explain this to my folks? Heck, what would I tell Helen, when she asks why I didn’t submit the term paper on time?

“Tell me, Michael,” she’d say, “why shouldn’t I give you an ‘E’ on this paper?”

“It’s not my fault. I was locked up.”


“Well, I was busted inside a trap house.”

“Crap house?”

“No, trap house.”

“What’s that?”

“Somewhere you wouldn’t expect to see a painting of Adam of Eve.”


Anyway, the painting was hung high on the wall, and I thought it added a nice sensual flare to the room. It showed the naked couple under a tree, with nothing but leaves for their loins. Their skins were milky and unblemished, soaking up the afternoon light like a spectrum.

Adam was an Adonis. He had a shock of black waxy hair. His abdomen was ripped, with strong arms and an eight-pack to boot, giving way to taut long legs.

Eve had long blonde hair tumbling down all the way to her nipples. She was holding a lock of hair in one hand, and on the other, she was receiving the forbidden apple from the serpent, which had curled itself around the tree. Only, from my end of the sofa, the apple looked more like an egg.

I began to wonder about the artist.

Who was he? And at what point did he decide to paint Eve with small breasts? Which muse led him to do that?

There was another problem, too.

Eve wasn’t as pretty as I expected. I thought her eyes were too far apart, and her nose was pointy. This wasn’t how I pictured Eve, not since the day I first heard the tale at Twin Birds Academy.

And then I thought: What about Adam? How might he have reacted to this kind of surprise?

He’d be blissfully asleep in the Garden of Eden, lying on the grassy meadows. His Adonis-like body would be resting under beautiful skies and fresh lemon smells. He’d be surrounded by every kind of animal and every type of tree.

Meanwhile, God would be plucking out his rib and molding it into a woman.

And Adam would wake to find her there, in all her naked glory. He’d run a hand over his waxy hair, studying the curves on her body, slowly licking his lips.

Then he’d see her far-apart eyes, and the pointy nose, and he’d burst into a fit of laughter. He’d laugh so hard the animals would stop in their tracks to look at him. His laugh would reverberate all through the Garden. Even the serpent – out of sheer malice – would laugh, even though he doesn’t know what’s funny.

And then Adam would look up and say, “Nice one, Big Guy. Let’s try that again. How about you go back into my rib and get me the real Eve?”
Mike blogs at www.mikemuthaka.com

The Krest Files
From Russia, with Vodka (and chapos)

Comments (1)

  1. Joy Ruguru

    His eyes were so red they could have stopped traffic. Haha, now there’s your story

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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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