The Last Dance

As though I haven’t talked about my people enough already, here’s another eye-rolling reminder that I am married to a man whose moniker in my stories is GB. 

We have two children, Muna is seven and is in grade one. 

Njeeh is two, he’s now wearing Spiderman underwear and is about to learn Kikuyu. Oh, he’s also still sucking his thumb. You should see the young chap: His right hand goes in his mouth, his left hand goes exploring in the Spiderman underwear. He’s usually amazed with what he finds down there, he-he. 

Parenting these children is a shared two-person responsibility between GB and I. It’s not a neat 50-50 split – and it never will be – but there is a supportive split that I am grateful for.

When it comes to Muna and school, this is how GB and I have split the responsibilities: he gives money, I give time.

He pays for her school fees and every other school-related expense such as bus, lunch and clubs.

I commit my time – I make most of the school runs in the morning, I sit with Muna for homework and revision, practising handwriting and words for spelling tests, I get her books to read then sit in while she reads out aloud. 

We also handcraft those ridiculous assignments that CBC is constantly asking us to craft. (The last item we handcrafted was a traditional music instrument, a shaker. We crafted it from wire and from bottle tops I’d collected after a family hangout in Karura. One day, I imagine they’ll give us a weekend to build a grass-thatched house that a family like yours can live in.)

Giving my time also means that I attend most of the school functions that a regular primary school like Muna would ask us to attend: parent-teacher conferences at the end of the term, project presentations, music recitals, school concerts and dances, more dances and other dances, a dance at the project presentation. 

What fascinates me is that these functions are scheduled at prime time on a tight weekday: Wednesday 11 a.m. Or Friday 12 p.m. Never Saturday 10 a.m. You must plan your entire workday around attending the school event.

GB’s and I arrangement works beautifully for us because he’s a corporate suit, fully employed and managing teams. I am a creative writer, partly self-employed. It’s not that my time is less valuable than his (although sometimes it feels like it is) but because I work alone and mostly for myself – I can dance around my deadlines and move things around my schedule to create time for our baby. 

I attend these functions because this is how I express my love to our daughter, this is how I show my support as a millennial parent. I imagine that for her, there’s nothing more reassuring than looking out into the ocean of beaming faces, an ocean of unbridled parental love, spotting me and thinking to herself, ‘That haircut makes her look like a Ugandan man.’ 


I also attend because Muna’s threatening tone always suggests that if I don’t attend, she’s running away from home. 

It’s with this in mind that last Friday, 9 a.m., I’m sitting in the big hall at Muna’s school. I’ve arrived early so I’m sitting in the aisle seat of the third row, I’m directly in front of the decorated stage. We usually have these concerts in the small hall but today we have it in the big hall because we’re celebrating a big milestone – the school is turning 20 years old. 


Someone in the school felt that it was a fantastic idea to pencil this in for Friday 9 a.m. (Why not Saturday? Why?!) We were informed that the concert would run from 9 a.m. to 12 p.m. but I’m now a veteran attendee, I know it’ll run from 10 a.m. to a little after sunset, we’ll be lucky if we get home in time for Citizen’s evening news. 

Muna hasn’t had homework in the last two weeks because they’ve been working very hard preparing and practising for the dance they will showcase today. 

All this dedication, this breaking a leg, you’d imagine they’re backup dancers for a Beyoncé concert.

At 10 a.m. the MC calls the day to order. A prayer, some housekeeping announcements and off the concert goes. The schoolchildren are wearing colour-coded matching polo shirts and black trousers, it’s quite ceremonial. 

Every grade in the school gets a chance to get up on stage and dance. (Every. Single. Grade. Even the babies like Njeeh, the ones who wail from stage fright.) When the children are not dancing they’re reciting a poem in English and Kiswahili, perhaps a Bible memory verse, a skit but there is dancing before and after.

I don’t mean to sound nasty and unsupportive but most of this dancing is lousy. Lousy and repetitive and not particularly entertaining – the moves are wearisome, the choreography is unimaginative. 

I know I shouldn’t be saying this as a parent because we love our children and we acknowledge them for all their hard work and talent, we support the teachers for their patience in attempting to make diamonds out of this coal, but buzz words aside, this dancing is lousy.


Still we clap hard and beg for more, we take out our phones to shoot more videos and photos than we will know what to do with. Some of us are already sharing to our Instagram and WhatsApp stories, we are millennial parents after all, this is what we do, this is how the private moments of modern parenting are broadcasted – we hashtag and share no matter how mundane, no matter how lousy. 

And so the children dance.

And dance.

Sweet heavens, they dance. 

I stay put in my third-row aisle seat, smiling hard because… because this is what we signed up for. 

Then finally, at what feels like the darkness of 8 p.m. has descended upon us, the MC says the birthday cake is being brought on stage, ‘But first, let’s have one final dance from the dance club!’

This is the point where I completely loose all my patience, I want to stand from my seat and yell out, ‘Oh for the love of God, please, no more dances! No more! Can we just cut the bloody cake and go home?!’

Everyone will be stunned into a deathly silence from my outburst. There will be uncomfortable coughs and murmurs, side eyes. Someone will already be thinking of a hashtag for their Tweet later. 

The horror on Muna’s face will be the last thing I remember because this is the day she will run away from home. 


An edited version of this story first ran in the Saturday Nation on November 19, 2022. It ran under my ‘Culture’ column.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

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A boy called Mike
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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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