Wednesday, 26 August 2026

THE LAND OF ‘MARRIED-SINGLES’

 

THE LAND OF ‘MARRIED-SINGLES’

The question of marital status appears on many official forms that we must complete occasionally. While it is a simple tick on one of the options for some people, it becomes a thoughtful as well as stressful unpleasant task for some. As may be the case for the divorced, so is it also for some in marriage whose marriages seem well sat on the fence. For them, neither ‘married’ nor ‘single’ seems fit. Perhaps an option for ‘married-single’ would fit best. The term "married singles" is today so common-place phrase in radio talk shows, social media debates, relationship forums as well as Girls Catch-up Meetings. Of her own making or not, a legally or traditionally married woman describing herself as such may be indicating a functional issue in her marriage. Chama day was last Saturday afternoon and as was usual, the meeting was in Savanna Coffee lounge in Upperhill. The Chama was now more than five years and so far, had purchased a 2-bedroom apartment on Waiyaki way, earning the chama 30K monthly. Save for investments, the women really needed the group for emotional release and support. And as they came in and sat at their favorite corner, five rings glittered on five fingers as the meeting began with growing intrigues of the stories behind their wedding bands. For Wangui, her husband hadn't worked in four years since his last contract ended and hadn’t found another job but didn’t seem so serious looking for one, yet he still demanded his shirts ironed and his ego massaged because, he was the man. That morning, Wangui had quietly paid the rent, bought the groceries, and transferred cash to his phone so he could buy drinks with his friends. Physically, she had a partner; financially, she stood entirely on her own. She anchored a home that seemed to fast lose its soul. Wangui’s was of cases where women step to fill the gap of "Absent Provider" men. Here, a woman bears 100% of the financial responsibility for the household and the children without male support. She is essentially a "married single". As Kamene walked in, her eyes seemed heavy with exhaustion. She had spent Saturday morning racing between a client meeting, a pediatrician's clinic, and an academic clinic. Unaware of their daughter’s high fever or their son’s performance at school, her husband was home nursing Friday’s hangover. He was like a guest in his own family. Kamene managed the chaos of parenting entirely alone. Kamene’s case is of men living like their fathers, completely absent from their children's lives resultantly making their wives "Married Single Mothers".  Such men often use the excuse of "hustling" or working late to completely detach from domestic and parental duties.  Kamene was a mother, she was a father, she was alone. Chao stirred her coffee, staring into the dark liquid. She lived in a sprawling four-bedroom house in Kilimani, yet she had never felt more isolated. She and her husband shared a roof, a surname, and a chore wheel, but nothing else. They hadn’t spoken a word of genuine vulnerability in five years. They moved around each other like polite strangers in a boarding house, fulfilling duties but sharing no warmth. Chao’s was a case of ‘Flatmate’ syndrome that makes a couple live like roommates experiencing a catastrophic breakdown of emotional intimacy. The women here share a roof, bills, and children with a man, but live separate emotional lives without vulnerability or companionship; the relationship operates purely on logistics and duty, unfortunately so, even their sex life.  They are simply "roommates with a marriage certificate." Nanjala adjusted her scarf, her smile tight. Her husband’s car hadn't been in their driveway since Wednesday; everyone in their social circle knew about the college girl he rented an apartment for across town. Yet, Nanjala refused to leave. The shame of a broken customary marriage and the nightmare of returning the dowry kept her anchored. She wore the ring like a shield against societal gossip, living like a widow behind closed doors. Nanjala was a victim of the booming "sponsor" and "Mpango " culture which runs alongside legalized polygamy. In Kenya today, It is common for married men to emotionally or physically desert their primary homes to live with other women or spend their weekends out, leaving their wives alone. Because the legal or customary process of divorce and returning dowry is complicated, stressful, and highly stigmatized, many women choose to stay in the marriage for the sake of societal standing or the children, while living a completely single lifestyle. Finally, Makena seemed to radiate a different kind of energy. Her wedding band sat next to a massive diamond she had bought for herself to celebrate a corporate promotion. She loved her husband, but she refused to be consumed by his shadow. She kept her own bank accounts, bought her own plots of land, and traveled with her girlfriends whenever she pleased. For Makena, the title was an option, not an identity. Her freedom and happiness were paramount beyond the marriage knot. Makena did not mind other fascinating romantic encounters occasionally just for the thrill of it and why not, she preferred to be more single than married. Makena is a case of highly empowered Kenyan women for whom marriage does not define or restrict them. They maintain their own social circles, financial assets, investments, and independent decision-making capabilities without being subsumed by their husband's authority. And so were the five rings, five marriage certificates and a common reality.  So goes the stories of the five and the conclusion that would largely blame it on the men of today, who hardly man-up. And as their Chama treasurer Wangui paid the bill, they all looked at each other, smiled through the intrigues of their stories, and toasted to the sisterhood of the married singles.

©Stephen Mungai

Saturday, 22 August 2026

LIFE RE-DONE

 LIFE RE-DONE (Missed on 9th April 2026)


For some people, life has turned out exactly as was planned or even better as imagined. We can call it luck but sometimes, it is out of intuition or good observations and consultations by which, these people seem to have been making the right decisions on and on. Some people also have faced disappointments as life did not turn out as envisaged.All in all, life happens and the strength to re-think it, re-shape it, re-plan it and re-direct it comes in handy when things are not falling into place as earlier planned. This applies to all areas of life and action is needed from today because time moves so fast so that someone cannot wait beyond today to make new plans. As a person is getting older, they realize how fast time is moving and that shows as hairs begin to grey, heads begin to bald and the swiftness begins to get slower. Worst still and in some cases, bodies may begin to develop health problems as one ages. But a workaround regardless of how things are is what is required to get to the next step. Time flies for sure and if parents can get this sinking in the minds of their children and young people, then the young generation can make their future better by using well the time in their hands. I recently reminded a form 4 student of the conversation we had with him as he was starting form one. I had told him to be careful not to waste his 4 years thinking that it was too long time, but to use it well for studies to attemp to shape his future. On the review talk, I reminded him of our earlier conversation and asked him whether he had used the last 3 years well. He did not quite convince me to have done so but I had another encouragement for him, that it was never too late to begin and that the place of realization of the need for change is the best place to begin because the future will always be shaped up by what we do today. So, be it education, be it relationships, be it business, be it nutrition, be it moving house, be it de-cluttering, be it new friendships or new collabos or partnerships... today always offers a new chance to begin afresh. A point I seen as difficult is single ladies or single moms beginning new relationships especially with so many men out there only interested in taking advantage of them and not wanting committed long term relationships. Nevertheless, It still happens for some and I think the secret is going on with your daily business and staying open to new friendships that could birth long term relationships. All in all, Job 14:7 says, 'there is hope for a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, and that its shoots will not cease.'  So, do not be afraid to start over and when it seems unlikely just do your thing as you keep the hope high.


@ Stephen Mungai

Wednesday, 19 August 2026

THE ECONOMY OF VIOLENCE

 THE ECONOMY OF VIOLENCE


Contemporary Kenyan crime is witnessing a disturbing shift of violent crime from spontaneous acts of passion, desperation, or political opportunism into a cold, calculated, and highly commercialized industry. Contract killing has emerged as a structured, market-driven mechanism for dispute resolution. At its core, this 'Economy of Violence' represents a lethal convergence of three structural problems: unchecked political impunity, extreme youth unemployment, and the systemic compromise of state security instruments. The assassination of clinical psychologist Dr. Victoria Mutiso lays bare this commercialized violence. As widely reported, subsequent investigation by the DCI unraveled a chilling operational matrix: a meticulously organized corporate hit funded by a 1.5 million Kenyan Shilling bounty. Investigation reports also seemed to link the motive to a valuable parcel of land in Athi River. It has been said that Dr. Mutiso had placed a legal caveat on the land freezing its possible fraudulent sale. The assassination is thought to have aimed to clear the hurdle and unlock millions in illicit property value.


Contract killings have risen from isolated occasional cases to a systemic crisis, and this has been made possible through the available infrastructure supporting the market like ease of weapon procurement and intelligence sharing. As illustrated in the Mutiso case, the execution team allegedly comprised active-duty police personnel who repurposed state-issued assets to carry out a private execution. This weaponization of the state apparatus makes it much easier for perpetrators of such crimes. Underemployed youth in slums are readily hired as killers, logistics personnel, spotters, and get-away drivers. In an economy where honest labor yields meager returns, a fractional payout from a million bounty represents a life-altering sum. The capitalists of violence exploit this vast labor pool, effectively transforming systemic economic disenfranchisement into a readily available mercenary force. This has also been the case where ‘goons for hire’ is now a smart way to beat political and competition rivals, often with hired police force as part of the system.


I have no idea how far the legal systems can be compromised, for say, acquisition of illegal property but a failure in the legal systems may help to increase cases of contract killings. If so, wealthy cartels could in effect bypass legal systems simply by eliminating the human obstacle. This structural shift signals to domestic and international investors that physical survival, rather than statutory law, is the ultimate determinant of commercial security. Dismantling Kenya's economy of violence requires looking far beyond the immediate trigger-pullers to aggressively target the capital sources and systemic enablers. Routing out compromised state officers like in the police force could be a good beginning for resolution. The risk becomes more serious as we head into next year’s polls but perhaps, we need to all raise a voice against violence and Killings well also in line with the capital command of God, ‘Thou shall not Kill.’


©Stephen Mungai

365 QUESTIONS TO THE BALLOT BOX

 365 QUESTIONS TO THE BALLOT BOX


The countdown clock at the election headquarters clicked down to exactly 365 days. There was one year left until the General Election. Outside, the city of Nairobi was full of nervous energy. A tense electioneering period was starting. At a busy bus station in Downtown Nairobi, 34-year-old Osoro adjusted the mirror of his 14-seater minibus, nicknamed The Future. Painted on the back was a new slogan: The Youth Vote is Not for sale. "One year left, Osoro," shouted Marcus, a driver from a rival route. "Are you ready for the drama?" "The drama has been here for months, Marcus," Osoro replied, tapping his steering wheel. "But this time, we aren’t just cheering from the sidelines. We are calling the plays." Osoro belonged to a large network of young entrepreneurs and digital content creators seeking to influence voting patterns of the youth. For years, they watched the same old politicians change alliances. But 2026 was different. The hard economic times had forced new political spaces open. This year, young people did not care about political personalities. Instead, they cared about food prices, digital taxes, and tech jobs. A few kilometers away, inside a high-tech digital room in Kilimani sat Malik, a senior strategist for the ruling government party, stared at a wall of screens. The monitors showed real-time data from TikTok and X. Suddenly, a red alert flashed on his screen. "Sir," one of Malik’s colleagues said quickly. "The SisiNiNumbers hashtag just passed two million views. They are sharing a public audit on the cost of living." Malik rubbed his temples. In the past, campaigning was simple. You just made alliances with local leaders, hosted big stadium rallies, distributed free t-shirts, and won the votes. But now, more than half of the voters were under thirty, and they lived online. "Run our counter-story," Malik ordered. "Talk about our big road projects in the West and Central Kenya." "We tried, sir," the analyst replied quietly. "They replied with drone videos of the many other stalled road projects." The war was on in digital spaces that looked likely to influence the coming polls. In Mombasa, Chef Yusuf looked out at his crowded restaurant. Political workers from a political rally sat at separate tables. They all ordered his famous coastal food while loudly promising to improve the business sector. Yusuf just smiled and focused on his cooking fire. He knew that for the next year, everyone would be hungry for power and so, promises would keep on coming but for him, his work took priority. In his sitting room in Bungoma, Sikhole watched TV with so many election stories focused on political alignments just one year away from elections. For him, there were more than 365 questions in mind regarding that election. His mind raced. How different would it be? Are these political alignments not only for power hungry politicians? Would there be a digital influence by the youth? Would the youth vote or just keep making noise on social media? Will any Presidential candidate be strong enough to remove Ruto? Do alternative voices have meaningful agendas? How about the church? Will the church again be used as a mobilizing platform? Will we ever have a leader that does not lose trust after elections? Sikhole could not answer most of the questions, but he hoped that the future would be better for future generations. 

Back in Nairobi, Osoro drove ‘The Future’ through the thick evening traffic. His phone buzzed with a notification from the SisiNiNumbers app. It showed a digital countdown clock that matched the official election clock. 364 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes.

He later parked his minibus in his CBD pick up point for the last trip as he looked at the crowd of commuters rushing home. The long walk to the voting booth had officially begun.


©Stephen Mungai

Wednesday, 5 August 2026

OF ELDERS, ROLE AND RECOGNITION

 OF ELDERS, ROLE AND RECOGNITION


Electricity problem was yet to be fixed by KPLC for the third day now. In Baba Kamau’s living room, the kerosene lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the walls on every corner. Around the wooden table sat Baba Kamau, a village elder for thirty years—and some family members. News of the State House announcement had traveled fast, and the village was awake with debate. "Three thousand shillings," Baba Kamau said, holding up three fingers. His voice trembled slightly, not from age, but from quiet pride. "For thirty years, I walked these ridges to settle land disputes and comfort grieving families for free. Now, the government sees us. They will even pay for hospital cards for us and our families." Kamau, the son, a 28-year-old motorcycle taxi rider, leaned forward, his helmet still resting on his knee. He didn't share the old man's warmth. "Three thousand a month, Baba?" Kamau asked, tapping his fingers on the table. "That is one hundred shillings a day. It cannot even buy a packet of maize flour and a packet of milk anymore. How does the government celebrate giving you the price of a loaf of bread for a whole day's work?" Wanjiku her last born daughter who was a schoolteacher, nodded in agreement, though her concerns ran deeper than the math. She thought of the smartphones that the elders had been promised. "It is not just the money, Kamau," Wanjiku said softly. "Think about the timing. The big election is next year. Suddenly, one hundred thousand elders across Kenya are being given state phones and money. When the politicians come campaigning, whose side will the elders take? The side of the village, or the side of the person signing the payroll?" The room went quiet. The elders had always been the moral compass of the community, trusted because they belonged to the people, not the state. Mama Kamau, now an older woman, who was sitting direct opposite side of her husband broke the silence from the corner. "My worry is the treasury," she sighed, adjusting her shawl. "We have seen the cash transfers for the orphans and the elderly delay for months. If the government is struggling to pay those who are already on the program, where will they find billions of shillings every year to sustain this new list?" Baba Kamau looked down at his calloused hands. The questions hung heavy in the air, transforming a moment of celebration into a mirror of Kenya's wider anxieties. The stipend was a historic recognition, but in the hearts of this family, it came wrapped in the heavy price of living, the shadow of politics, and the uncertainty of tomorrow. And as the debate goes on, many questions remain unanswered; Are there enough elders still available and respectable enough to guide the younger generation? Do they actually do it? Do they command enough respect to be heard and to lead? Maybe a monthly payment would bring back the elders as guide to the people towards good living community relationships. Is the role of the elders still active in communities and villages. What about in cities? Is the role better played in churches? All questions standing, a good standing of elders in society will be positive for everyone. That is also so in the bible where like 1 Peter 5:1–3, the elders are charged to be shepherds of God’s flock, watching over them, not lording it over those entrusted to them, but being examples to the flock. What’s your thought?


©Stephen Mungai

Thursday, 30 July 2026

A SLICE OF TOMORROW

 A SLICE OF TOMORROW


The quantum-rail shuttle hummed smoothly, gliding into Nairobi Central Station at precisely 08:00 AM, exactly as the digital timetable predicted. Katiku stepped onto the platform, breathing in the crisp morning air, which was completely free of the diesel exhaust that had choked the city just a few years ago. He commuted daily from his home in Kibwezi which was now a 40 minutes trip. The efficient rail system and the superhighway roads were only a dream in the past. Much water had gone under the bridge and unlike his father's days on road, there were no bribes to pay to police officers demanding cash at arbitrary checkpoints on the trip that then took about 4 hours. As he walked from the station, above him were towering vertical gardens that filtered the sunlight, casting a dappled green glow over thousands of commuting citizens. Since the implementation of the decentralized ledger system in 2034, every public shilling, corporate contract, and government tender was logged on an unalterable, open-source registry. Corruption had not just been outlawed; it had been made structurally impossible. As a senior technician at KPLC, Katiku’s job was to monitor electricity distribution hitches in Nairobi metropolis and respond with quick fixes. He walked through the sparkling glass atrium of Kenya power centre, his footsteps echoing on recycled obsidian tiles. Kenya was now the primary tech and green energy hub of the continent, a beacon of efficiency where public funds actually built public infrastructure. He sat at his desk and activated his regional grid surveillance interface. A minor flag danced on his screen—an anomaly in the east region that meant power blackout for several customers. In the old days, such a discrepancy would have meant a lorry with field technical staff is sent to the area after repeated customer complaints who would have been in the dark for days or weeks. Katiku tapped the anomaly, zooming into the blinking area and within seconds, the system diagnostics revealed damage to northlink distribution substation. On a few commands into the system, the automated maintenance drone had already been dispatched and was three minutes from completing the repair. No human energy, just machine response tools. The rest of the day was to keep eye incase a mishap cropped up again. When evening came, he smiled, closing the system knowing that his work kept the capital city metropolis fully powered. Later on, he was back in the train on his way home to Kibwezi. The high-speed rail line cut a sleek path toward Mombasa, cutting through a landscape where the forests were expanding, the schools were fully funded, and the future belonged equally to every citizen. Kenya had finally become the nation its ancestors had dreamed of—whole, prosperous, and entirely transparent. So is the faith and to it, we add hope because hope does not dissapoint as Rom 5: 5 better said.


@ Stephen Mungai

Wednesday, 22 July 2026

NAVIGATING THE MAZE

 NAVIGATING THE MAZE


In a few minutes David was in the next Matatu towards Kahawa Wendani and alighted a few minutes later. His mind raced. Kahawa Wendani was a chaotic maze of high-rise apartments, narrow alleys, and unmarked shops. Finding one hidden room without an address was close to impossible. He dialed Sarah’s phone again. “The subscriber you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.” Switched off. "Come on, Sarah! Pick up!" David said silently. He now needed a lead and from Joyce would it probably be. Joyce knew the campus social circles. He called Joyce, the friend Sarah had been angry at. "Hey, David? What's up?" Joyce answered rather casually. "Joyce, where is Sarah? Do you know any illegal clinics in Wendani? The ones students talk about?" David asked, his voice full of panic. Joyce's tone also shifted to an instant panic, "What? Why would I know— wait, is Sarah...?" "She’s at one right now, Joyce! Her phone is off. If you know anything, any building, any name, tell me now!" David said, now sounding impatient. "There’s... there’s a place people whisper about near the Matatu stage, behind the grocery shops. A multi-story flat with green gates. They call the guy 'Doc,' but he isn't a doctor. David, don't let her go in there" David ran past the food stalls, his eyes scanning the maze of concrete buildings. Every alley looked the same. Dusty paths, hanging laundry, and hundreds of doors. "Green gates... green gates..." He spotted it—a faded, rusting green metal gate tucked behind a row of wooden kiosks. The building looked rundown, with no signage. He sprinted inside the courtyard, his heart in his throat. He didn't know which floor, which room, or if he was already too late. He pounded on doors and shouted Sarah's name on every floor, but his cries only met blank stares from residents and other business owners. When he finally forced open the door to the hidden clinic on the third floor, the room was empty except lab coats, and a stethoscope hanging on the wall above the table, cluttered with all manner of things. Sarah was already gone. Panic turning into cold dread, David raced back down to the main road and hailed a motorbike to Sarah's apartment complex. He took the stairs to her third-floor unit in a desperate blur, his hands shaking so violently he could barely slide his spare key into the lock. He threw the door open and stopped dead in his tracks. Sarah was there, sitting on the edge of her small sofa, wrapped tightly in a thick fleece blanket despite the afternoon heat. She looked utterly drained, her face completely pale, staring blankly at a cold cup of tea on the coffee table. "Sarah!" David choked out, dropping his keys as he rushed to her side and knelt on the floor. She flinched slightly at the sound, her eyes slowly focusing on him. A tear rolled down her cheek, but her voice was a flat, exhausted whisper. "I almost did it, David. Sarah said sobbing. "The Doctor threw me out after you called" David embraced her and let out a long sigh of relief. "Am really sorry Sarah" David said, " Thank God you are safe"


©Stephen Mungai

POLITICAL SURVIVAL

 POLITICAL SURVIVAL


Honorable Mwangi stared out the window of his Kileleshwa penthouse. It was only 5:00 AM, but his phone was already buzzing relentlessly on the nightstand. For Mwangi, this was not a sign of duty toward his constituents, but the raw hum of political survival. A new day of maneuvering had begun, and honesty was a luxury he could not afford. His first meeting at 6:30 AM took him to the dim, discreet corner of a luxury hotel in Westlands. A foreign investor sat waiting, flanked by a nervous local real estate developer. The objective was simple: clear a protected urban wetland for a massive shopping mall project. Mwangi sipped his cup of coffee as the developer slid a heavy, bulging manila envelope beneath the table. "The first tranche, Mheshimiwa," the man whispered. Mwangi felt the weight of the crisp, tightly banded one-hundred-dollar notes. He flashed his well-rehearsed, fatherly smile, patted the envelope, and promised that the NEMA environmental clearance certificates would be on their desks by the next day. ‘The frogs and birds of the swamp had no vote in the upcoming election, but this cash would certainly translate into votes.’ Mwangi thought. By 10:00 AM, Mwangi’s swapped his designer jacket for a collarless Kitenge shirt. Escorted by a convoy of three pitch-black, tinted V8 SUVs, he rolled into a dusty, impoverished settlement in his constituency. He had planned a meeting with local leaders in the area social hall. The hall was full when he got up on the stage to address them. He explained how corruption in past regimes had left ordinary citizens to starve but that he and the government were working day and night to fix things up. The crowd roared and cheered. After the meeting, safely shielded behind the tinted glass of his vehicle, he gestured for a local youth gang leader to step inside. Mwangi pulled a thick stack of cash and pressed it into the young man's hand. "My rival is holding a rally here on Saturday," Mwangi whispered coldly. "Make sure it gets loud, chaotic, and disruptive. No casualties, but enough commotion to dominate the evening news." The afternoon was reserved for state bureaucracy, the most lucrative discipline of all. At 2:30 PM, Mwangi sat in the air-conditioned boardroom of a government ministry. On the table was the allocation of a multi-million-shilling tender for specialized medical equipment. The chairman of the procurement committee, a loyal ally that Mwangi had personally placed in that seat, gave him a knowing nod. This deal going as planned would have thirty percent of the total project value wired as a kickback to an offshore account in Mauritius for Mwangi. The fact that the equipment was substandard and likely to fail under pressure was a problem for future patients, not him. By 7:00 PM Mwangi arrived at an exclusive, members-only cigar lounge in Kilimani to meet his digital strategist. On the laptop screen before them lay manipulated audio clips and fabricated financial documents framing his primary political opponent in a career-ending scandal. He had to end the rival’s career in good time before elections and things were going as planned. It was well past midnight when his V8 finally turned into the heavily guarded driveway of his mansion in Runda. In his wood-paneled study, he poured a glass of whiskey, walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked down at the glittering lights of the city below. He had lied, cheated, compromised the environment, financed political violence, and jeopardized public healthcare all in a single day's work. He raised his glass to his own reflection and smiled. It had been a highly productive day in Kenyan politics and tomorrow, he would do it all over again because, how else would he defend his seat in the coming elections? Survival was key.


©Stephen Mungai

Wednesday, 8 July 2026

DIGNITY A DAY

 

DIGNITY A DAY


It was still dark as his alarm went off and footsteps outside were already increasing as it was normal at the hour for people to rush to their workplaces. Inside his ten-by-ten timber room, Juma sprang from bed, wiped his body with a wet rag and dressed up. He adjusted the collar of his crisp, white shirt. It was frayed at the edges, but he had spent an hour the night before pressing it with a charcoal iron box until the seams were sharp enough to cut. Juma was a security guard at a high-end mall in Nairobi’s Westlands area. Every day, his journey was a stark transition between two completely different Kenyas."Baba Mwangi, please hurry up so that you are not late for the work," his wife, Wanjiku, called out gently, handing him a plastic cup of tea. "I think I have enough time. With early police control nowadays, traffic is not that bad on Juja road," Juma replied with a small smile. He drank the tea quickly, hugged his young daughter and stepped out into the bustling Nairobi morning. By 8:00 AM, Juma was standing at the entrance of the gleaming glass mall. His job was simple yet exhausting: stand straight for twelve hours, smile, and scan every luxury vehicle that passed through the security barrier. To many of the drivers, Juma was invisible, just a uniform that opened gates. They would roll up their windows, ignore his polite "Habari ya asubuhi," and drive past without a glance. At 2:00 PM, a sleek black SUV pulled up to the gate. Juma stepped forward, holding his handheld metal detector. He bowed slightly, maintaining his professional posture. “Good afternoon, sir. Kindly roll down the rear window for a quick check," Juma said in clear, courteous Swahili. The driver, a well-dressed businessman on a Bluetooth call, didn't look at him. He tapped his steering wheel impatiently and revved the engine. "Young man, open the gate. I am in a hurry. Do you know who I am? “Juma felt the familiar sting of humiliation. It was a phrase he heard too often—an attempt to erase his presence and worth because of the uniform he wore. But Juma looked the man directly in the eye, his expression calm and resolute. “I respect your time, sir," Juma said, his voice steady and polite. "But my job is to keep everyone inside this mall safe. That includes you. “The businessman paused his phone conversation. For the first time, he looked at Juma. He saw the immaculate alignment of the guard's nametag, the unyielding posture, and the quiet pride in his eyes. The tension in the air softened. The driver slowly rolled down the back window, allowed the check, and as the barrier lifted, he gave Juma a brief, respectful nod. “Thank you, officer," the driver said. Those three words carried a massive weight. Juma stood a little taller as the car drove through. Later that evening, the heavy Nairobi rain began to pour, turning the city roads into gridlock. Juma’s shift ended at 8:00 PM, but by the time he navigated the flooded roads and crowded matatus back to Mathare, it was nearly midnight. His boots were caked in thick, dark mud, and his shoulders ached from the hours of standing. He scraped the mud off his shoes at the doorstep before entering his dark room. Wanjiku was awake, waiting by the small kerosene stove. She poured warm water into a plastic basin so he could wash his feet. As Juma sat on the edge of the bed, watching the steam rise in the small room, he looked at his clean shirt hanging on the wall. He did not own the land he lived on, and he did not have a wealthy title to his name. But as he looked at his family sleeping safely, he knew that his dignity did not depend on the cars he scanned or the wealth of the people he served. It was carried in his honesty, his resilience, and the unshakeable respect he demanded for his labor and his humanity.


©Stephen Mungai



Wednesday, 1 July 2026

THE ANSWERED CALL

 THE ANSWERED CALL


The phone kept vibrating, the buzzing sound scraping against Sarah’s raw nerves. The practitioner stepped closer, his face darkening with impatience. "I told you to turn that off. Now." He said. Sarah’s hand shot out. Instead of hitting the end-call button, her thumb slid across the green icon. She pressed the phone tightly to her ear, her knuckles white. "David?" Sarah whispered frantically. "Sarah? Sarah, please don't hang up. I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been distant. I’ve been terrified, but I talked to Tabitha. She made me see things clearly. We need to talk. I’m coming over to Wendani right now." David was on the other end, his voice breathless and cracked with emotion. "David, you're too late. I’m... I’m not at the bedsitter." Sarah said softly, a sob escaping her throat. On the other side of the line, David heard the sharp, metallic clink of a tray moving. He stopped walking. "What do you mean you're not home? Sarah, where are you? What is that noise?" David sounded very worried. "Hang up that phone! Are you crazy? You want to bring the police to my doorstep?" The practitioner tried snatching Sarah's arm, his voice a harsh whisper. David heard the strange man's voice through the speaker. Panicked, he began to shout. "Sarah! Who is that? Are you at a clinic? Don't do anything, please! Tell me where you are!" Sarah was now crying openly, shrinking away from the practitioner "I couldn't face my parents, David. You weren't picking up... I didn't know what else to do." The Practitioner aggressively grabbed the phone from her hand "This session is over." He said. He disconnected the call, throwing the phone onto the chair. He glared at Sarah, his demeanor completely stripped of any professional pretense. "Get your things and get out. You are a liability. I don’t risk my business for dramatic University students" The line went dead with a sharp click. David stood frozen on the pavement, the phone still pressed to his ear, his heart hammering against his ribs. The cold panic in Sarah’s voice and the harsh, threatening tone of the man in the background echoed in his mind.“I didn't know what else to do.” He knew exactly what she was doing. He had heard the rumors on campus about the shady backstreet rooms hidden inside the residential blocks of Kahawa Wendani. He stood still in a moment of shock and confusion. He knew that he needed to act very fast to save the baby or atleast save sarah from the risky procedure. He felt a heavy hate on himself for abandoning her. "Stupid, David. So stupid. You left her alone." He kept muttering to himself and immediately decided he would look for her. He sprang up and ran towards matatu stage, praying that he would make it before the damage was done. 


@Stephen Mungai

Wednesday, 24 June 2026

HEART OF A MAN

 HEART OF A MAN


Augustine was an ancient philosopher and the bishop of Hippo Regius which is said to be the modern-day city of Annaba in Algeria. While reflecting on his youthful shenanigans, he was dumbfounded about how inclined to evil he and his friends had been. In his confessions, he writes as follows, “Near our vineyard stood a pear tree laden with fruit that was plentiful but unsightly and unpalatable. We young men set out in the dead of night—having spent the time until then playing ruinous games in the streets—to shake down and carry off this fruit; we did so without a shred of shame or decency. We hauled away huge loads, not to eat them, but to throw them to the pigs. And if we did eat a little of it, it was only because doing so allowed us to commit a forbidden act. Behold my heart, O my God—behold the heart upon which You had mercy in the depths of its wickedness. Behold, let my heart now tell You what it sought there: that I was evil for no reason, and the only cause of my malice was malice itself. It was loathsome, yet I loved it; I loved my own ruin, I loved my transgression. It was not the object that caused my fall—no, I loved the fall itself; when, in the depravity of my soul, I plunged from Your firm foundation into ruin, I did not crave some shameful object, but the shame itself. I lacked justice—indeed, I loathed it—and I was stifled by malice. For I stole what I already possessed in abundance—and of far better quality, too. Nor did I wish to enjoy what the theft procured for me, but rather the act of stealing itself and the sin.” Augustine’s confession seems to be of a man standing on the border of good and evil, ashamed of the senseless evil of his past but also focusing on a transformation into a virtuous life. What does his confession remind you of? Did you have a mischievous childhood also or are you still inclined to occasional thrilling ungodly escapades? My boyhood was equally mischievous. As boys for instance, to buy one mango, we would give the seller a bigger bill so as to force him to look for change and, in the meantime, drop as many as ten mangoes into a paper bag eventually buying 10 mangoes for the price of one. Snatching bread from smaller kids sent to purchase bread from local shops also thrilled us as boys. Did we need those things? No. But the inclination to evil was fun and thrilling. And so are the inclinations powered by selfishness and ‘who cares?’ attitude of modern-day times. Just how does someone judge the Sh. 65M in cash discovered in the house of Nairobi County Chief of Urban Planning, Patrick Akivanga? Did he direly need all the money and allegedly get it through dubious means? Maybe not. What of those who keep secret partners behind their real partner’s back? What of the small debts that someone refuses to pay, not for lack but just not feeling like? What of the conspiracies for wrongful gain? Jeremiah 17:9 describes the human heart as deceitful above all things and desperately wicked, but the good thing is that we always know what is right because God’s laws are written in our hearts reducing our duties to just obey it. May God help us to stay on the path of obedience.


@Stephen Mungai

Wednesday, 17 June 2026

THE HIDDEN ROOM

 THE HIDDEN ROOM

Days crawled too slowly for Sarah. She was so stressed and David's absence made the situation so unbearable. Sarah got to a point where she could not take it anymore. She began to seek information on how to get rid of it and with time, she got a contact and made all arrangements. It was not very expensive. It was only Sh.15,000 between her and her freedom. The planned day came. The air inside the room was heavy with the sharp smell of cheap disinfectant masking damp walls. Sarah sat on the edge of a vinyl-covered examination table, her fingers digging into the fabric of her handbag. The practitioner was a man in his late forties wearing a faded, unbuttoned lab coat over casual clothes. He didn’t look up from his desk as he scribbled on a plain notepad. "You said on the phone you are two months along?" He asked. "Two, maybe three. I… I’m not entirely sure. The method I was using failed." Sarah said, Her voice trembling. "Methods fail all the time. That is why this place exists. But let us be clear before we begin. Once we start, there is no turning back. Do you have the money?" Sarah Nodded, reaching into her bag "Yes. The fifteen thousand shillings. It’s all here." She placed the envelope of folded cash on the desk. He picked it up immediately, counting the bills with practiced efficiency before sliding it into his drawer. He stood up and walked toward a metal tray covered by a worn towel. The metallic clink of instruments made Sarah’s stomach twist. "Good. Lie down on the table. Strip from the waist down." "Is… is it safe? Will it hurt?" Sarah asked. She was very afraid more so after noticing the rusted edges of the tray. The practitioner turned to face her. "Young lady, you came to me. If you want safety guarantees and a soft bed, go to a referral hospital. Of course she knew that such a request in a government facility would make them call the police on her. "I just want it over with. David isn't speaking to me. I can't do this alone." Sarah said with tears welling up her eyes. The man seemed annoyed. "David is not here. Please lie down. If you tense up or scream, it makes my job harder, and you will bleed more. Do we understand each other?" Sarah slowly lay back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling tiles. Just as the practitioner picked up a syringe, her phone vibrated violently inside her handbag on the chair. As she reached out to it, the screen lit up with the caller ID: David. The Practitioner frowned pointing at the bag, "Turn that off. No distractions." Sarah stared at the flashing screen not knowing whether to pick it or not. "But why David, why?" She thought. Maybe he was too late. A simple procedure was the only licence to her freedom. "Leave me alone, David" She returned the phone back to her bag. She was almost a free human being.


@Stephen Mungai

REVIEWED FOREIGN AID PROTOCOL

 REVIEWED FOREIGN AID PROTOCOL

The small, sun-drenched nation of Karachua now stood at a crossroads. A new solar grid that would be capable of powering four of its twelve provinces was the latest foreign aid package. But the ribbon hadn’t even dried before the attached demands arrived: open the protected coastal waters to deep-sea trawlers and devalue the local currency to favor imports. President Kuraiha was pressed with the stark contrast of his country’s realities echoing around him. So far, he could not underestimate the impact that foreign aid had had on moving his country forward. Talk of eradication of the last remnants of polio, roads that connected rural farmers to urban markets, hospitals stocked with medicine and schools with enough textbooks for learners. Yet, with every receipt of such capital, a piece of Karachua’s sovereignty felt quietly bartered away and worse, Karachua seemed to be losing grip in control of some important pieces of its being. The President’s economic advisors were locked in a tense standoff. The Minister of Finance argued the necessity of the funds, pointing to the industrial boost that the funds would create and employment opportunities that would be created for the youth. Without the aid, the fragile economy would buckle, and inflation would quickly outpace wage growth. Conversely, the Minister of Agriculture warned of the impending devastation to local communities. Opening the coast to industrial fleets would starve the local fishermen who had sustained coastal villages for generations. "They give a tilapia on one hand and take a Nile perch with the other," the Minister had cautioned during a late-night cabinet meeting. " We risk becoming tenants in our own land if we accept these conditions" To Kuraiha, the reservations of the agriculture minister made a lot of sense. The terms of the foreign aid protocol had been reported by the local media houses and was causing public protests especially from the would-be affected coastal communities. The president remained with no options than to find a third option, a balance between rejecting and accepting. He could not simply reject the aid and condemn his people to preventable hardships, nor could he blindly accept terms that compromised the country's future. He initiated a series of closed-door negotiations, leveraging Karachua's strategic geographic position and its rich reserves of critical minerals. He proposed joint ventures with regional development banks and smaller international donors to ensure competitive bidding, refusing to be bound to a single geopolitical power. Kuraiha pushed back on the currency devaluation arguing that a stable local currency was essential for domestic businesses to thrive and transition Karachua from an aid-dependent state to a resilient, self-sufficient economy. He compromised by offering tax incentives for foreign tech investments, provided the corporations hired and trained a majority-local workforce. Ultimately, Karachua accepted the infrastructure aid, but on their own terms. The solar grid was built, but the fishing water remained fiercely protected. The nation had walked a tightrope, balancing the life-saving need for external resources with the fierce, non-negotiable demand for self-determination. The publication of the new aid protocol quelled the unrest seeming to be a better path for the nation. Henceforth, any development deal would only be taken with an ultimate gain assured for Karachua.


@Stephen Mungai

Wednesday, 3 June 2026

THE BOARDROOM WITHIN

 THE BOARDROOM WITHIN


Janice had a small catch up meeting with her friends at Java TRM on a Saturday afternoon. With her friends Eva, Emma and Lucia, such a catch up had become a norm for several years now. This was a college friendship that had stood the test of time. Eva and Lucia already had families. Emma always said that relationships were not her thing and would rather enjoy the blessings of singlehood. Janice was still dating Tom since college. And as the friends sat down to do their orders, the engine room of Janice's mind was at it again. It never seemed to sleep. Inside her psyche, a simple decision like choosing on what to order on such a date required a full boardroom meeting of clashing impulses. "We deserve the Chocolate Fudge cake and chocolate blush milkshake. We love anything chocolate. You know?" Her sweet tooth whispered, salivating and waiting for the wonderful bite and sip "It has been a brutal week. Softness is a human right." Janice's muscles retorted, enjoying the comfort the Java House offers "A brutal week? Not really." Janice thought. She knew that she had been sitting behind her desk the whole week trying to balance off her workplace accounts. Minimal movements. That week, she had only skipped the gym twice. That was not as bad as a whole week without gym like sometimes happens. "Sugar is a toxin, not a reward. Order the dawa drink and a bowl of fruit salad." Her blood vessels said. "Dawa tastes like grass clippings," Sweet tooth whined. "Exactly," her heart said. "But it builds character through mild suffering." Janice didn't know who to follow. There were now two competing parties within her. One said, "If we eat the chocolate, our cholesterol spikes, then at some point, the heart will get tired, we gasp for air, then faint right on the tile floor, probably be no more." The other group said, "Dying? Who lives forever? In some fifty years, everyone in this house will be dust. The Chocolate flavor context is statistically irrelevant." The Social Dilemma for Janice was real. She blinked, staring at the menu booklet. "If we are dust, then nothing matters, so eat the Chocolate Fudge cake!" Sweet tooth cheered. The internal voices screamed over each other, a deafening chorus of restraint and indulgence, terror and apathy.

"Chocolate Fudge cake and chocolate blush milkshake " Janice said aloud to the lady taking orders. The inner boardroom went dead silent.

"Cake?" Blood vessels muttered in disgust. "That is the compromise of a coward."

"We only live once" Sweet tooth offered weakly. "And we should enjoy the short life"

Sweet tooth won and Janice enjoyed the delicious cake and milkshake. And when their meeting was over, she walked out into the sun, entirely at war, and entirely at peace.


@Stephen Mungai

Wednesday, 27 May 2026

DAVID'S BLUEPRINT

 DAVID'S BLUEPRINT


Saturday morning arrived with a quiet, sharp clarity that Kahawa Sukari only experiences before the public transit buses start roaring down the service lane. The music system was silent, replaced by the low, rhythmic scratching of a ballpoint pen. Sunlight cut through the window from the balcony illuminating a living room that looked dramatically different from the night before. Tabitha had forced order onto the chaos; the clothes were folded, the mugs were washed, and the scent of freshly brewed ginger tea filled the air. The initial paralysis of the shock seemed to have worn off. David had taken an A4 notebook from the coffee table next to the Sofa. Tabitha’s words from Friday night still echoed in his mind: 'We must accept things as they are.' His sister watched from the kitchen counter as he drew precise columns across the first page. Tabitha smiled to herself. This was the old David trying to construct a scaffolding around his shattered world. He divided the page into three columns: Logistics, Finances, and Sarah. "You can’t spreadsheet your way out of a pregnancy, bro," Tabitha said softly, leaning against the doorframe with two mugs of tea.
"That's not the case, Siz," David replied, his voice raspy but steady. "I'm trying to survive it and if I don't write down clear plans, then the panic will definitely come back."
Under Logistics, he listed clinics that he had learnt over the internet, comparative costs of prenatal and delivery packages as well as probable baby delivery date. Under Finances, he listed his savings account balance which was initially for his planned trips but now would be used for Maternity and Infant Care. But when his pen hovered over the third column—Sarah—the point remained suspended in the air. How do you quantify an injured heart and how do you map a timeline for reassurance? Tabitha looked at the page, then at David. "The plans, numbers and timelines are the easy part, Bro" Tabitha said, setting him tea down right next to the notebook. "Look at the third column, David. You need to call her. No more 'all will be well' scripts. Tell her you were terrified. Tell her you're still terrified, but that you are there."
David swallowed hard. He picked up his phone, his fingers hovering over her contact name. The routine of the past two weeks had been a coward's loop: call, deliver a hollow platitude, hang up, panic. But now, he had to call her confident of a plan and way forward.He pressed the dial and it began to ring.

@Stephen Mungai

Wednesday, 20 May 2026

THE GREATER HARVEST

 THE GREATER HARVEST

The room was heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and sweet persuasion. Beautiful faces leaned in close, their voices a synchronized chorus of temptation. Each one offered a different version of a golden future of romance, utterly irresistible. "I am already bound to another," you pleaded, lifting your hand. The ring on your finger caught the light, a silent witness to a permanent vow. Yet, they only smiled, brushing the gold aside. "A ring is just a token," one whispered. "You would make the perfect partner." The air felt thick, like a trap closing in, but with a sudden surge of resolve, you broke free from the crowd and stepped out into the open air of the street. Before you could catch your breath, a vehicle pulled up to the curb. Inside sat your past—your former love, smiling alongside their family and a few faces from your own family. They seem to be coming from a commitment event of your former person. Surprisingly, no malice in their eyes, only a warm, collective peace. They called out a hearty greeting, acknowledging your presence with genuine joy, before driving off into the sunset. The past had moved on, beautifully reconciled, leaving you standing in the present. Suddenly, the scenery shifted. You were standing in a grand mansion, alive with the sounds of laughter, music, and celebration. Tables heavy under the weight of exotic foods and flowing drinks. Your best friend was the host, and the rooms were packed with everyone you had ever loved, friends from every season of your life and the deep roots of your family tree. As you drifted through the crowded halls, you shook hands, embraced, and shared lighthearted jokes. Every corner revealed another familiar face eager to greet you. It felt magnificent to be valued, to feel the warmth of mutual affection. And why shouldn't you? These were the souls you had poured your life into. You had championed their dreams, supported their burdens, and made lasting contributions to their happiness. They loved you for it. They appreciated you. But as you looked closer, you realized something vital: they were full. They were satisfied. They loved your presence, but they no longer needed your rescue. You walked toward the exit as a quiet emptiness beginning to settle in your chest despite the noise of the party. Just before the threshold, two men stepped into view. They motioned you into a quiet, shadowed anteroom away from the music. These two you don't seem to remember, but they spoke of the past with deep gratitude. They reminded you of an organization you had once supported, a seed you had planted long ago. No memory but then came the ask. "We need you," one said softly. "The children with disabilities in our care need a teacher. Just a few hours a week. A regular presence." The weight of the request hung in the quiet room. You didn't give an immediate answer, promising instead to send a word in the coming days. That night in your bedroom as you lay staring at the ceiling, the pieces of the journey clicked into place with terrifying clarity. The temptation of romance, the closed chapters of content loved ones. Your old mission fields were fully harvested. But the world was still crying out in some forgotten corners of humanity. There were souls waiting for a teacher, a helper, a lifeline. All you need is to look around because the Lord is calling you to make a positive contribution to humanity. Can you hear His voice calling? Matthew 9:37-38 still stands true, 'The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.' Are you there?


@Stephen Mungai

Wednesday, 13 May 2026

TIME AND CHANCE

 

TIME AND CHANCE


And it was morning and it was evening on day one, day two up to the sixth and God rested after completing the creation work, so goes the Bible. How fast mornings turn into evenings these days....and weeks roll onto weeks. And that day you walked into your new school smelling of newness. Every piece of clothing was new from top to bottom. And more in the tin box as you joined form one. Much water has gone under the bridge since then but the events of that day remain as good memories. But a statement has a tendency to come to your mind many times.....'if I was to go back there, I would use my time in school differently'. And how different we are because, some would study harder but still some would think that they studied too hard unnecessarily, meaning that given another chance, they would not work as hard. What about that day you got your first job in that company? If you were to go back there? That opportunity cost? You still count today and think that it may have prevented you from further studies or maybe it made you not pursue business that may have put you in a better place today. There is still a percentage of people who feel like they wouldn't change a thing but would still do things the same way, were the years to be rolled back. But what if we think on the lines of God placing you where you are at a time like this so He can use you to fulfil His purposes? Would we be wrong? Am not sure it fits very well but someone used the analogy of beard in men to explain achievements in life and his most important explanation was timing. Men dont grow beards at the same time. Some at 14, some 18, some 24 or even 30, meaning we don't achieve our goals the same time as others. Some dont grow beards at all meaning that it may be true for some never to achieve goals. So? Set and stay put on the grind working to achieve your goals. Naturally, some will achieve in good time but some will take years to come by but important is to stay on to it. And God has His final way as He says in Ecclesiastes 9:11, 'I have seen something else under the sun: The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong, nor does food come to the wise or wealth to the brilliant or favor to the learned; but time and chance happen to them all.' And so will everyone have their time and chance. So, be attentive to see chances.


@Stephen Mungai


Wednesday, 6 May 2026

THE PRIVATE PLACE

THE PRIVATE PLACE

I close the door behind me and bounce over a few shoes lying behind the door on the narrow corridor leading to the living room. The mug from which I had sipped tea last night still lies on the coffee table next to my now favourite sports magazine and so does a tiny box of biscuits. I remove the 2 remote controls on the couch, lie on my back staring at the ceiling. The bunch of clothes on the recliner seat still waits for me to fold though becoming smaller, ever since I placed them there from the clothing line. I have been picking clothes from there to wear or iron. And those clothes stand as a tiny monument of my procrastination. But who cares. With whom do I have a contract to place everything in order? This is my space. My private space where I make the rules and if what goes wrong, I am the judge, the jury, and sole audience member. And for food, I can eat cold leftovers directly from the container while standing over the sink, staring at a patch of peeling wall paint and feeling more home than in office space where compliance to order comes not in question. And that is the beauty of living alone that should be enjoyed by those who find themselves so anytime in life. That tells us why alone living people's homes rarely find themselves on social media statuses. These spaces remain not as curated aesthetics but rather, messy reclamation of freedom and autonomy. Of course, the rules are different for couples or roommates because they have to be co-authored and likely to make one lose their freedom or just a chunk of it. That hardly means that living with people is a bad thing. No. Actually, the advantages sometimes surpass alone living by far. That said, it does not take away everyone's need for a personal private place for rejuvenation. That place of control and with personal rules. That place feels so free. It could be a private office somewhere. Office workstation or just an office drawer where you throw in papers, pens, neckties, lipsticks, earrings, coins...literally all and no one accesses it or has a right to. It may be that personal bank account with which you can do all you wish. It may be an upcountry home you visit for a few days to unwind or your wardrobe in which clothes interact as they wish. These real places allow people to be real, and real away from the pressures of life and demands of the public eye. Sure, there is a gritty, honest joy in being unobserved. It is peaceful when social media does not know every corner of your home or office. Sadly, there are people whose homes we can describe having never been there. That steals their peace. For real. And so recommends the book from heavens in 1 Thessalonians 4:11-12 "make it your ambition to lead a quiet life: You should mind your own business and work with your hands". Need I say more?


@ Stephen Mungai



Thursday, 30 April 2026

BETTER HUMAN RACE

 BETTER HUMAN RACE

 

That science and technology have provided a betterment of the quality of life for the human race is not debatable. Health as an example. Better medical equipment, facilities and pharmaceuticals, if accessible, provide longevity of life better as where these resources are absent. Sometimes, such ideas challenge our belief that our days on earth are specified by God and none lives a second more than what was written of their days by God. Or how does this faith fit with UN reports that place average life expectancy in Africa at 64.2 and EU commission placement of average life expectancy in Europe at 81.7? Could God be giving Europeans more life than He gives Africans? That is debatable but the difference could only be that better quality of life results in longer life expectancy. On and on though, the human race keeps bettering itself all over. A case in point also is last Sunday's London marathon where Kenyan Sebastian Sawe ran under 2 hours at 1:59:30 as well as Ethiopian, Yomif at 1:59:41. The third person also broke the previous record of 2:00:35 held by the late Kelvin Kiptum. It is interesting that for many years, it was believed that it was humanly not possible to run a full marathon in under 2 hours. This was the reason that Kenyan great marathoner, Eliud Kipchoge undertook the Ineos challenge in Austria in an unofficial race with over 40 pacemakers, laser guided pace car and custom designed shoes to run under 2 hours. He sure did with 1:59:40 and interestingly, Sawe exceeded that time. Before his death, Kiptum said he could run 2:00 and was preparing for the 2024 Rotterdam Marathon. His death caused a lot of suspicions especially towards Eliud Kipchoge, people thinking he might have feared for his under 2 hours record. What of the sponsors of Eliud who invested so much to prove under 2 hours was possible? Then comes sawe and debutant Yomif in a normal race to prove that no special conditions are required to run under 2 hours. If it is true that Kiptum was killed for fear of his abilities, then the killers remain with egg on their face after Sawe's spectacle. Lesson? Because the human race gets better, then there's a need to develop the inner faith that you can do better, at least better than yourself. That belief could be key for better performance in the tasks and projects you undertake. And if anyone is a believer, then scripture confirms that, 'I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me' Phil 4:13.

 

@Stephen Mungai

Wednesday, 22 April 2026

OF THE PROPHETS, FEAR AND LOSS OF FEAR

 OF THE PROPHETS, FEAR AND LOSS OF FEAR

Mammito's skit that seemingly imitates Prophet Owuor was not only courageous and fearless but seemed very defamatory on the leader and faithfuls of his Holiness and repentance ministry. Doning similar to the Prophet's white outfit and with similar long beards, the comedian uses words in congruence to utterances of the prophet in past events. The daring comedian's skit has raised heated debate in social circles and invited the wrath of Owuor's congregants, some of whom have gone ahead to issues ultimatums to her to pull down the skit from her social media pages. She has also been threatened with court proceedings and I stand to see what happens to her hereafter or whether she will yield to the threats to apologize or pull down the videos. The story forces me to reflect or notice how preachers over the years have been imitated by comedians endlessly. Preachers seem to only come second to politicians as source of content for imitation by comedians and you ask yourself why? A politician can say all sort of outrageous things especially promises and insults to competitors in an attempt to woo voters to support them. On the other hand, a small bunch of preachers seem to also say outrageous things without being questioned or doubted especially by their followers. I stay on the side of not doubting anything that any preacher says because if one says they spoke to God directly or shared whatapp chat with God, who am I to doubt? If I have no way of proving it, then I let it be like the sayer said. The bottomline is that anyone can talk to God directly without going through the prophets or preaches and the holy bible has clear instructions from God and is where we can learn God's ways or prove it true or false, what the preachers say. Many strange things have been said by preachers on pulpits and it seems like those who proclaim strangest of things receive the greater number of followers. That is how the 310 preacher still enjoys great following and media coverage until today. Whatever the case, we need to be wary of false prophets as warned by Jesus in Matthew 24:11,24. One reason I choose to stay on the fear side away from mocking or pointing fingers at men of God regardless of what they do is the story of Elisha in 2 Kings 2:23-24. It tells of Elisha being mocked by youths who yelled, "Go up, you baldhead!" Elisha cursed them in the name of the Lord, after which two bears emerged from the woods and mauled 42 of them. Whether a similar thing happens to Mammito or not, I stay on a wait and see. Whether if nothing happens proves someone as a false prophet is also not for me to judge.

@Stephen Mungai