Eggs and Balls


I wonder how it felt to be on the stands of the last Kabeberi Sevens tournament.

That Saturday, when the rugby tourney was slated to begin, I overslept and skipped my Saturday morning routine.

My Saturday mornings are usually for ‘Top Gear’, though not the Matt-Le-Blanc variety.

Saturdays are for walks to fetch the day’s paper – through a shrubby path and under a bridge, listening to my squelching feet.

Saturdays are also for eggs. I’m particular about how I make eggs. I like them almost to a crisp, crusty on the outside, soft on the inside.

My hands turn deft when it’s time to make my eggs. I become a pro. A maestro. I become Kaluhi, for chrissake. I crack the egg shell like I’m doing a heart transplant, prying it open, careful not to get any egg on my hands. It’s all in the wrist, really.

Then I load the egg into the hot pan, letting the yoke and the whites cuddle in the oily puddle. This is my favorite part; the sizzle, the warm smell of egg wafting upwards, and, as if on cue, Mom’s footfalls as she comes to check if I’ve torched the kitchen.

But I can never nail the egg flip. The thing splits up when I try to stick the landing. My eggs don’t have integrity, which is a shame because the egg could have ended up in a kitchen where they can do a majestic flip.

Sometimes I forget to salt my eggs. Other times I put chili sauce. I usually have the eggs while watching ‘Top Gear’. But If I see Matt Le Blanc I switch off the TV and read the newspaper instead. The new ‘Top Gear’ doesn’t go well with eggs, even if you preferred it sunny side up.

Eggs make me think of rugby, and vice versa. It’s weird. It’d be easier to say it’s about the shape of the ball. But I don’t think that’s it. My testicle is also oval-shaped but I don’t start thinking about my balls every time I beat an egg. Much better to think of Jeremy Clarkson’s balls.



That Sato, I overslept and missed ‘Top Gear’. I had my eggs while flipping through the Saturday Nation. The house was soaked in unhurried silence. The curtains didn’t furl, and the sun didn’t come out. Old Man was reading The Standard, Mom was at the dining table, peeling ngwace and listening to kigoco.

Usually I go straight to SatMag but I got arrested by the headline on page two: Fun and prayers to spice up Kabeberi Sevens in Machakos.

Turns out hundreds were flocking to Kenyatta Stadium, where, just four years ago, the place got dubbed Sodom and Gomorrah.

Remember Masaku Sevens? The rugby tourney turned moral wasteland?

The organizers of Kabeberi didn’t want a repeat of Masaku. They don’t want everyone getting drunk and having a go at it under the bleachers. And that’s why, for the first time in rugby history, the Kenya Rugby Union had partnered with the church, Christ Is The Answer Ministries.

Reverend Kariuki of CITAM welcomed the initiative, saying, “We want to redo the story that happened here a while back by introducing Jesus to the fans.”

They said that 200 young Christians were dispatched to Machakos to spread the word.

High school was my first encounter with playing rugby. I liked rugby for its sheer violence. Every match had enough drama and kicks and tackles to satisfy my sadistic ass. Rugby players walked around like gods, towering over the rest of us scrawny mortals. You didn’t want to get into a fight with a rugby player. They looked menacing even when they limped off the pitch with broken limbs.

When you’re in a single-sex boarding school – all the way in Maragua – only a few things can excite you. One of them is seeing the hot siren from English department ambling by in black trousers. The other is watching the Form Three who stole your Chemistry textbook getting slammed into the ground.

Rugby looked beautiful. I’d watched a documentary about rugby players once and how they train. Their exercise chart had sprints, weights, and leg movements meant to chisel their mazgwembez.

Then there was their diet: raw eggs. They drank the stuff like it was mango juice, didn’t even cringe.

It made me curious. I reckoned I could get the lean, hard look of a rugby player. So I inherited Old Man’s dumbbells and worked out religiously, pumping iron daily. I had ‘Eye of the Tiger’ on my playlist. I felt my body insist on itself so I had raw eggs after one of my workouts.

I did my best to keep it down, even though I felt like a Martian had gone down my gut.  Any sudden movements and the bugger would be shooting up like it’s goddamn Mogadishu.

After my training I gave the game a shot.

I wasn’t qualified for the big leagues but I joined some classmates for Amateur Hour one Wednesday afternoon, after class. I was among comrades. No one wanted to kill anyone. Someone read us the riot act, and the game kicked off pleasantly.

I loved how the ball turned me into a bull’s eye. I felt like a kid again, running away from the neighbor’s dog. I made some swift passes. I outran a fellow. I was feeling confident about my prospects in rugby. My team was up by five points, and I felt ripe enough to play in the school team.

Soon, though, the game restarted, and someone passed me the ball. My teammates were shouting for me to make a pass. But I reckoned I could make a dash for the try line. I hear a commentator at the back of my head:

“Muthaka with the ball now. He makes a run for it. He goes past one. Past two. Will he make three? My, that boy’s fast. And it’s only his first day folks.”

I didn’t make it, though. A boy called Ian Simon came out of nowhere and I ran right into his arms. He felled me like a tree. The sky was in my eyes. I was out of breath, and the ball escaped my grip. I landed on my ass and there was a snap in my wrist, I had sprained it.

My pain was only compounded by howls of laughter. I hobbled back to the dorm having decided that rugby was silly and it was much better to be on the stands.

After that incident, I didn’t attend a rugby match again, not even outside of school. Not Safari 7s or Kenya 7s or whatever.

My friends who have get all dreamy when they describe the noise and the bottomless beer and the numerous booty shorts. They boast of unbridled fun and the chance to see Biko Adema live in action.

But now the merrymakers were going to be sitting cheek-by-jowl with a Bible-wielding bloke, eager to get a word in about the Messiah. Doubtless the Reverend’s heart is in the right place. But what will happen to the 200 young Christians when they come face to face with all the hedonism? Won’t they get tempted to indulge? Will they have to look away whenever a short skirt walks by?

It’s like they’re putting rugby on a leash. Will they now disallow beer in the stadium? Will there be a staunch Christian at the gate, saying, “I’m sorry, miss, but you can’t go in with such a tiny dress”?

Maybe they’ll decide Jesus doesn’t like rugby’s brutality, and they’ll think to introduce helmets and shoulder pads, so that now Mwamba RFC starts to resemble the Texas Cowboys.

Whatever happens, you can be fairly certain that whoever suggests such a thing will be hit in the face with raw eggs.
Follow Mike on Instagram: mikemuthaka

Finding the key

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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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