Moments 2018


I turned 23 in July. That afternoon, Chronixx was set to perform at KICC. I didn’t go to the concert. Instead I took a road trip with some friends, up to a little sleepy town called Kumpa, and we listened to the ‘Chronology’ album on the radio.

I was doing 100km/h. The wind was in my hair. Chronnix was bang in the middle of ‘Selassie Children’. Past Kajiado, the horizon extended to rolling hills of dried grass rippling in a gentle breeze. The tarmac dipped. I took my foot off the gas. A cozy silence fell into the car. Someone belched up beer breath in the back seat. And we all went wide-eyed when a flock of white birds swooped low over the windshield.

This was my birthday gift: God’s handiwork, watermarked by a gorgeous blue sky.

At that moment I didn’t want to care that I hadn’t grown a full beard, or that I was falling back on my school work, or that I hadn’t yet struck that elusive pot of literary gold. It didn’t matter that I didn’t have a fine grasp of which way the wind was blowing. I still don’t.

Being suspended in uncertainty of my 20s was good enough.

I featured on Bikozulu’s blog. I wrote about life at 23, I thought ‘the gang’ would eviscerate me. I thought I’d drown in their vitriol: “Now who is this boy? And what have you done to Biko? Give the reins back to Biko or we’ll find you and lock you up in the dungeons.”

I was asleep when the piece went up. My pal, Chelsea, called to give me the news. It was like your aunt calling from the village to say, “Nimekuona kwa TV.”

Initially I’d promised myself I wouldn’t look at the comments. I cleaned my room to wade off the curiosity, I folded some clothes and went out for a walk. Then I read a book. But I quickly ran out of distractions. I caved in at around 7 p.m. and clicked the link.

Surprisingly the feedback wasn’t too bad. Only a handful of people wanted my head on a spike. The rest showered me with words of encouragement. One chic even asked me out on a date.

I couldn’t sleep all week.

She’s just not that into you. Get it through your head.

How many more blue ticks can you take? Don’t show up at her school. Don’t call her in the middle of the night. Don’t write her bleeding letters. Don’t align yourself with her dreams. Don’t watch ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ because you want a deeper emotional connection. Don’t say you weren’t listening when she said, “I’m only using you.”

And don’t act surprised when her ex shows up and rides off with her into the sunset. She doesn’t want a miserable, barely-interesting drunk for a boyfriend. Besides, she’s all the way in Belgium now.

And no, that’s not a sign from the universe that you should finally apply for a passport.

Let that story go, bro.

Hmm, I need new loafers.

A little sadness is good for the muse, especially when you load him up with coffee and tie him to a desk. The muse should be sad and lonely. Keep a dark cloud of insecurity over his head. Allow him only an hour of sunshine each day. Wean him on tales of ghosts and giants. Even the most innocent things should dampen his mood, like seeing a girl hugging her dad. Or a couple holding hands in the street, or a gecko scuttling across the fence. You’d do well to permit conjugal visits. Maybe you could have movie night on Fridays. But keep his heart broken. Put enough pressure on him, and soon he’ll bring out his bag of magic.

In the words of Dr. Gregory House: “Misery is better than nothing.”

Peering over the brink
I was on my knees at 3 a.m. The icecold floor numbed my knees. My arms curled around the ceramic toilet bowl, and my body convulsed with waves of vomit, a bitter brew of vodka and chips. My chest was burning. Some of the vomit was coming through my nose. I’d gone a bit too far this time.

How did I get home? And why did I send 200 bob to someone called Augustus? I don’t know any Augustus.

My bank balance was back to naught. I hated myself for spending all my money, so much, in fact, that I promised myself not to have another drink until Christmas. But that’s absurd.

I’m slightly drunk right now.

Boy, I can’t wait to write a book and dedicate it to all the teachers who refused to mark my compositions because my handwriting was illegible.

I cut my hair
I needed a change, and I thought cutting my hair was the way to do it. Nothing symbolizes a fresh start like a good ol’ haircut. But according to any girl below 25 it was a terrible mistake. Most of them weren’t shy to point out that my wild hair made me at least half interesting.

Forgive me, ladies.

I thought it’d be like the movies; guy joins the army, gets a haircut, spends his days doing pushups, and then comes back home a hero.

I’m putting off the pushups until January.

But I’m happy to report that the hair is growing back.

Hide your girlfriends.

Watching my sister on stage
She’s asleep on the couch as I write this. Her leg is sticking out from under the quilt. I recently asked her how it feels to be 19, and she said, “Nafeel nimekuwa 19 all my life.”

My sister sings. She wants to do nothing else. She’s particular about her craft. Her band members say she’s a perfectionist. Every instrument has to thrum in proper ebbs and flow. And every performance has been a display of her timeless voice.

I’ve seen her perform at various events: Be My Disco, Africa Dusk, Alamziki, High Club, Bantu, Bantu 2, Alamziki2, Tales of the Rough Book, Ongea Summit, and many others I can’t recall.

I’ve watched her silence crowds with her vocals. I’ve seen seas of undulating bodies rising up to give her a standing ovation. And I’ve introduced myself to some of them by saying, “That’s my sister.”

When a bunch of strangers are screaming your sister’s name, you really can’t help but tear up.

That girl makes me so proud.

Craft It, forever and always
This is has been one endless moment of passion and pain and joy and frustration. I never thought I’d be having so much fun when I began writing, four years ago. Heck, I never thought I’d become a goddamn columnist. Craft It has opened me up to new ways of narration. It has housed my art and taken it to school. ‘Dusty Rugs’ has been my playground and my classroom.

‘The Rug’ is where I’ve been making my bones. There were sunny days when I pummeled the deadline to a pulp, and there were cold, eerie days when I curled up in despair because I had no words. But, in the end, the story always came together.

And I have you to thank, dear reader, for making it worthwhile.

Have a Merry Christmas. Don’t drink and drive.
Follow Mike on Instagram: mikemuthaka

The Pursuit of Beauty
We’re going to need a new diary

Comments (8)

  1. Nduta Mburu

    A lovely read indeed. Merry Christmas too

    • Mike

      Thanks Nduta.
      Tuonane 2019. Happy holidays!

  2. El Oh

    What’s the fun in drinking if you don’t drive afterwards… Haha!

  3. NM

    I feel like you are my little bro and I just want to pinch your cheeks, tell you how amazed and proud I am at how much you’ve done then let your embarrassment do the rest.

    We want more in 2019, Mikey!

    • Bett

      Aww, you called him ‘Mikey’. (Sorry for butting in on this moment, hahha.)

      Happy Holidays, NM! See you in 2019, Inshallah.

  4. Bobo

    Nice article Mike you and Fra,meeeh,i fell like we are old buddies who much as we no longer talk,always relate to each others memes,lol i doubt if am making any sense….i love your writing and am always glaf i discovered you….hugs tupatane 2019…

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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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