This is home

I bet you have never been to Kaplong. Hell, I bet you have not even heard about it before. I would not blame you, though – Kaplong is a sleepy little nondescript town that no one talks enough about.

We were down there over Easter (me, my siblings, our personal persons and our children) and I can assure you that the essence and spirit of this little town still blooms magnificent in our hearts and minds.

Someday we will write songs about it. 

Kaplong is in Bomet County. We are in an election year, so I think you should know that our incumbent governor is Dr Hillary Barchok. He is, uhm, handsome in that Kipsigis way men like him are handsome. If you close one eye and look at him through the tines of a fork, you will agree that he looks like Morris Chestnut, what with his bald head and wild eyebrows, that dewy skin the colour of ground coffee. 

Barchok is seeking a second term in office. 

Telling you who our Women Rep and MCA is will burden this story with more details than is necessary. What is necessary though, is that we have not had county water running from our taps since the last General Election. They said they had to cut the supply when building the tarmacked roads that fed into the villages – ours included – but that project was completed years ago and still no county water.

Kaplong is about three and a half hours away from Nairobi. It is lush with postcard-perfect greenery, the air smells richly of cattle.

To get to Kaplong, you will take the shorter route through Limuru Road then left into Mai Mahiu, around the Escarpment, through Narok and past Bomet, keep driving on straight, no turns. 

You will know you have reached Kaplong when you get to the end of the road. Quite literally. 

Kaplong is a T-junction border town at the end of the road. We have landmarks – there is one National Oil petrol station that has been there since Moi days, there is that hospital run by nuns where our firstborn sis was born and high schools that make it to the best-performing list. There are also several kiosks that have been hammered in using a special atmospheric brand of laissez-faire.

Kaplong does not have much to offer, I am afraid. None of the major retail chains or coffee houses have set up shop in Kaplong. We neither have a variety of petrol stations nor malls with escalators.

Escalators, my goodness! I can imagine hoards of locals leaving home giddy and dressed up to go ride the escalators up and down, all day, up and down, up and down. They will leave their poor cows unmilked, chickens unfed, laundry unfinished. 

There are no tourist resorts in Kaplong to speak of. No nightclubs with a social media following. No vacation rentals listed on Airbnb. There is no one from Kaplong who has put us on the worldmap.

Kaplong is… Kaplong. 

Anyway, at the T-junction, take your right and follow the road. In about seven kilometres, two of which are off the highway, you will reach the village of our dairy farm. 

This is our home. 

My retired parents live on the farm with their cows and our little brother, his name is Philip but everyone – every Kenyan, he-he – calls him Philo. 

(‘Little’ here means he is younger than I am, he is the second to last child in our family of seven. I am the fourth, the middle child. You know how middle children are, don’t you? Our cows are the step brothers and sisters my Ol’Man is yet to formally introduce us to. But as of this moment, I am confident that he dotes on them more than he does us. As a middle child, I am embarrassed to admit that I am jealous of how much those cows are loved.)

Years ago, the family sent Philo down there to think about his life choices but the farm – and the cows, Kaplong itself – cracked open several unexpected choices about his life.

Philo has matured into the farm manager. He is the cog on the wheel the farm runs on. He is dedicated and diligent, self-driven – you will hear him every morning before sunrise, steel gallons in his hands knocking against one another, gumboots melching the soaked grass, heading down to milk the cows. 

Millenials are always harping about being able to work independently in a team with little to no supervision – ha-ha – but Philip exhibits these ethos so beautifully and so naturally, with such easy grace. Even his hands are calloused, his skin is leathery with sunburns but he is not throwing a fit about SPF.

Philo has gathered a treasure trove of knowledge whose experience cannot be traded for any academic smarts. 

He is now a cow whisperer. He knows which cow is a bully and which one likes to be rubbed on the neck in affection, what to say to soothe them. He knows how to regulate the frequency of his energy around them.

He knows how much dairy feed they each take on a daily basis. As he took us on a tour of the farm, speaking in that urban sheng that Kaplong has failed to erase, he said to us about milk output, ‘This cow gives us 40 litres and this one 50. This one is not lactating so it’s only 30.’

I was impressed. 

Philo is teaching us a lot about surrendering to the unfamiliar and trusting that doors will open, especially in places where you imagined there was no door.

Kaplong, our sleepy little hometown. 

Yet for everything it is and everything it is not, Kaplong is the only place in the world where I can be a child again.

Here is something no one tells you: when you grow up and become an adult, when you take on another’s last name and your love births children of your own, you stop being a child yourself. 

There is no duality here – when you become a parent, you are no longer a child. 

Let that sink in for a second. 

You are the parent, your children are the children. 

Let that sink in for another second.

Your children are looking to you for comfort and safety, warmth, for direction about what to eat and what time to sleep, how to label their emotions and express their feelings, solutions to all their problems. They are looking to you for decisions about where to go to school and the value system they will adopt. ‘What God should we pray to?’ they will ask. ‘What do we say when we pray?’

You are their home. 

You are, to a great degree, now living for them. 

The weight of this responsibility is as terrifying as it is gratifying. 

I am a little pissed that I had to learn this years after I became a parent myself. 

GB’s retired parents live in Nairobi. When we visit them, it is as though GB folds himself into the cocoon of time: he takes on the demeanour of a nine-year-old boy. GB becomes…what’s the word? Not moony. Not dream-like. Argh, English fails me, let me describe it then. It is as though he is speaking through the glass wall of a distant past. Even his voice becomes squeaky, his mannerisms pubescent.

There are instances when his beloved parents engage him not as Baba Nani but as Baby Nani. And guess what? Everyone seems to take delight in this. At some point during the visit, I imagine GB will climb onto his mother’s lap and put his thumb in his mouth, ha-ha.

In Kaplong, with my parents and their cows and our home, I, too, am like a little girl again. I am a child.

I take all my masks off, I show my shortcomings, my ugliness. I am no longer stoic, I allow myself to cry. I allow myself the pleasure of letting someone else take care of me and make decisions for me. Hell, to even think for me. Mummy, what are we eating for supper? Or, Daddy, my eye is paining. 

In Kaplong, I am not any of those professional credentials I throw at you, I am not my achievements – or my disappointments – no matter their degree. 

I am not Mrs Kinyatti, neither am I Mama Muna or Mama Njeeh. 

I am Flora. 

Just Fra.

An edited version of this story first ran in the Saturday Nation, under my Culture column. It ran on May 7, 2022

Photo by Illiya Vjestica on Unsplash

To Valentine
Njeeh is born

Comments (6)

  1. Chebet

    Wow I miss Kaplong…spend like all my childhood there…
    Philip has impressed me….yaani he can milk…ata sina comments…He has surprised me.
    That photo!!

    • Bett

      I know, right?! Quite the pleasant surprise. So you and I must be neighbours, aye? I will look for you someday, we have chai together.

      That photo is dope but it’s not mine. Thank you for reminding me to be crediting them from Unsplash, where I get them for free.

  2. bankelele

    May you put Kaplong on the map.

  3. Vincent Kiplangat

    Hello Florence, I stumbled upon your book through the Instagram stories of Just_Ivy. What a great book. Kaplong and specifically Kamirai is my home. I get nostalgic memories through this blog. Oops, you forgot to mention that we have our own Filla Rosa Kempinsky at Kaplong. The drive down to Kaplong is always refreshing.

  4. Moraa Valentine

    This was so beautifully written Bett.

    When you talk of your farm, I imagine running my own farm someday. The farm for anyone who enjoys the farming is like living and working in paradise.

    There is something special about being cooked for by your mum. In campus when I avoided going home, my mum could entice to visit her by promising to cook all the meals specifically chapo and managu

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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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