1. The Two Types of Students in Every Higher Learning Institution.

In every institution of higher learning, there are these two kinds of students. On one side there are the focused, bright minds, sincere brave souls, confident voices, and pure hearts. Students who want more than just papers. They crave personal growth and dream of a better society.  They burn with the fire of national development.  And oftentimes they are engaged in leadership forums, research presentations and innovative hubs.  And when they speak, you fill the world moving to the promised land.

Then, here is the other group. Same campus, same timetable, different mission. They are present yes, but not presentable. Students who cannot be even in charge of themselves. Leave alone their rooms. They are not in charge of their bodies, but always available foe noise. Faked vibes. Rumors and trends. Never seen in rooms that requires sense.

Truth stands alone. Students who carry there bodies around like brands, and students who carry their brains like headlights cannot share same table. It is oil and water. Because performance and potential will always separate.

Now the only question that matters here is, where do you belong? Can you sit with those who are presentable, those shaping and driving the conversations, holding space, commanding respect? Or are you still watching life from gallery? Can you lead or you are just lost?

Yes, we can.

1.  A Vibrant Life: Before the Storm (Exam Prep & Mental Health)

A month before exams, life is always vibrant as always. No academic pressure inasmuch as you did the CATs. No stress, except the obvious ones: Sleeping less, no upkeep and so on. And somehow, you tend to dominate this space physically or online.

But once the exam timetable is out. Game over. This time now you go through 300 PDF pages. Cram like your life depends on it. And even switch up your playlist because that is exactly what friends in friendzone always do.

The mentality we all have is absolutely correct. Vibes matter and so grade matter. But how about your mental health? Have we ever though about this? If yes, do you have a solution?

One of the best ways to navigate this “storm” is through planning. Plan your days. Vibing time, productive time and study time. Keep them realistic. This will enable you be more flexible in all directions instead of trying to swallow the whole syllabus in a night. Keep this in mind, protecting your peace of mind before and during exam season is the real success.

Most importantly eat your Managu, to fuel your brain, walk, rest and sleep.

And of course, exams hall can sometimes sound empty. But you are not the only one feeling the emptiness and the pressure. So, open up and heal. Don’t keep it in heart. Please note, exams are test of knowledge, not a measure of your worth.

2. Familiar Families that Exist in Every Lecture Hall.

No matter who the lecturer is, strict or not, emotional or not. No matter the course, professional or not. No matter the program and the unit. No matter the year of study, these familiar families always exist in every class. These students remind us that campus is much about personalities and books.

1. The Front Bencher.
Always on time to class. Take notes, and always have an idea about the next class. Lecturers secretly love the, but of course, they cannot show.

2. The Back Bencher.
Always late, tired and complaining about the time. No notes. Gets nothing. Sleeping, only wakes up to clap in time to shout and clap when the class ends.

3. The Googler and AI Professional.
Challenges the lecturer oftentimes by reading tuff questions from Google and AI models.

4. The Class Comedian.
Always in the middle and front. Turns serious momenta into a joke. They keep the class on. though annoys Doctors.

5. The Professional Borrower.
So annoying students. Never has a pen, book, ruler and so fundamental academic requirements. But always borrow one, returns nothing.

6. The Group Work Ghost.
Phones off whenever there is an assignment or a project. But reports in presentation or submission day.

7. The Last Meeting Gurus.
Never attend classes but shows up during CATs and exams and attains admirable grades than half of the class. A legacy.

3.  Just Love It. It's the Real Assignment. 👌

Just love it when people overthink about you.

Be proud. If they say you’re abnormal, accept the abnormalities. That’s premium rent-free space you’re occupying in their heads.

Personally, I enjoy it. Because that’s a tough homework for them — an assignment with no mwakenya. And maybe, just maybe, that’s how my family is wired. Yours too.

Real friends? They don’t care about the noise. As long as you’re breathing, smiling, saying hi — you’re good. No stress.

But neighbours and some “concerned friends”? They must understand every step.

“Who visited?”

“What’s in the Uhuru bag?”

“Why are you different?”

Sometimes it looks like care, but truth is, it’s a red flag. Know the limit.

Lesson? When they’re concerned, let them be more concerned. Let them analyse your past, your present, even draw charts about your “change.” Because yes, you’ve changed. So what?

As long as you know your mission, your goals, your principles — Mama don’t mind them.

And Bro, make stories. You’re already the main character.

4. The person you live with today could be your future lecturer, class teacher, or even boss.

Forget about parents for a moment. Let’s talk about aunts, uncles, cousins, and even roommates. These are the people who, at first, shower you with love and care. They’ll ask, “Mark, umeshiba?” or “Mary, pads ziko bado?” They make sure you don’t feel shy or left out.

But fast forward two or three months—suddenly every small mistake is on you. That same uncle’s wife who used to smile now complains that you’re eating too much. That roommate who used to share is now hoarding things and disturbing your peace with loud TikTok videos.

It’s easy to feel discouraged. But hey—don’t cry, and don’t start questioning why your “lovely uncle” got married. Don’t blame the hostel or the catering department either.

This is just life rehearsal. A training ground. Learn patience, tolerance, and respect. Because how you handle these little storms will shape how you’ll survive in the bigger world ahead.

5. "This was my worst experience.

I met Rodah in third year. Same class, same course, same lecture halls. We had seen each other since admission but never really talked—until one day I joined a project group she was already in.

Exchanging contacts felt normal. Then she texted me first—2 a.m. I thought it was about the project. I replied. That’s how the late-night conversations began. At first, it was all professional. Then one day she sent a picture. Then a video. Private ones.

From that moment, everything shifted.

My professionalism—gone.

My focus—gone.

My drive for innovation—gone.

Before I knew it, I was deep into the kind of content that wastes time, breaks hearts, and drains energy. And the worst part? It showed. My results, my face, my energy—everything screamed “lost focus.”"

Lesson? Don’t let anyone you’ve barely interacted with control your future. Protect your space. If the conversation starts shifting left, be wise enough to stop it.

6. Most of us are quick to point fingers at African leaders.

We say they are tribal. Choosy. Concerned only with “their own.”

And yes—sometimes that’s true.

But here’s the uncomfortable question:

How can we change tribalism at the top if the incubators of future leadership—our universities, colleges, and TVETs—are still tribal to the core?

I’ve sat in meetings where students gather not to build ideas, not to push growth, but to whisper:

“Sisi Wakisii hatu-support…”

“Waluhya waungane na Luo…”

And I wonder, what future are we building?

How different are we from the same leaders we accuse every election season?

If this thing is still alive in our classrooms, in our debates, in our clubs—then don’t expect it to die in parliament.

Because campus is the rehearsal stage.

And what we practice here, we perfect later.

So maybe the question is not, “Why are our leaders tribal?”

Maybe the real question is, “Why are we still tribal when we are supposed to be the generation of change?”

If we don’t fix it now, we’re only preparing to repeat history.

7. You know what love really feels like?

It’s not always those Instagram-perfect beach dates or candlelit dinners.

Sometimes, it’s holding hands while going Downtown just kununua Sukuma.

Picture this—

The two of you strolling side by side, palms mmh locked, weaving through the noise of matatus hooting, boda guys rushing, and mama mboga calling out her prices sometimes. You laugh at the chaos, yet somehow in the middle of all that noise, there’s silence between the two of you. A silence that feels safe. Secure.

You dodge a pothole, she squeezes your hand tighter.

You stop to bargain for sukuma , she adds tomatoes and onions.

You carry the paper bag, she carries the vibe.

And just like that, an ordinary errand becomes a memory.

Because love isn’t always about luxury.

It’s in the small gestures—sweaty palms, shared glances, the comfort of knowing that even the simplest things are sweeter when done together. One.

So yes, tonight it’s sukuma wiki.

But in her eyes, it’s more than food.

It’s partnership. It’s romance. It’s us.

I love you Sweetie.

8. Hostel life is noisy. It’s Messy. 

Sometimes even chaotic.

But truth is—it’s also one of the best classrooms you’ll ever sit in.

Sharing a room teaches you things no lecturer can:

How to tolerate someone’s habits.

How to share costs and survive on little.

How to create friendships that might open doors tomorrow.

Your roommate becomes your family away from home.

They’ll remind you to eat, share notes when you oversleep, and check on you when you’re down.

Yes, hostel life can be tough. But it’s also the place where we learn resilience, patience, and the real meaning of community.

Because in the end—it’s not just a hostel.

It’s a training ground for life.

9. Gym and Expensive Diet Plan?

Some of us think fitness is locked behind a 5K gym membership. Others think it’s about those diet plans with names we can’t even pronounce.

But the truth? Staying fit here is cheaper than a loaf of bread.

Take a look around.

The stairs in the library we avoid every morning—that’s our treadmill.

The football pitch we pass on our way to the class—that’s our free gym.

Even the open lawns where people rehearse drama—those can be our training grounds.

Push-ups, squats, planks—these cost nothing. A hostel room is enough to break a sweat. Walking to class instead of squeezing in a matatu? That’s free cardio.

And let’s not lie—beans, eggs, bananas, sukuma wiki… they’ll keep us strong more than that “special” meal worth 500 bob in town.

Listen—fitness isn’t about money.

It’s about discipline.

It’s about small habits.

It’s about showing up for yourself daily, even when nobody’s clapping.

Because consistency will shape your body more than gym mirrors ever will.

10. Have you ever attended a meeting and felt more secured than the last one?

Have you ever walked out of a room feeling redeemed—like you’ve discovered a new part of yourself?

Have you ever left a meeting convinced it was the best one ever, because of the value and ideas shared?

Yesterday, I attended the Rongo University Writers Club meeting. And to be honest, it touched me in a way no previous meeting had.

I’ve been attending these sessions, yes, but maybe I wasn’t fully present. Maybe I hadn’t discovered myself. Yesterday changed that.

One key point we carried home—

“Never again introduce yourself as a student. Avoid it, unless otherwise.”

That struck me.

Because the truth is, we are more than students.

We are professionals in the making.

I am a Communication Professional | Storyteller | Media & Journalism Enthusiast | Curious about Society.

And that’s who I am—not just “a student.”

So to anyone still stuck in the mindset of, “I’m just a student”—

No, you are not.

High school students are students.

We, here, are professionals preparing to step fully into the world.

A vibrant new year!!

11. Last night, I caught myself scrolling.

Scrolling. Scrolling.

Till the blue light was the only sun my eyes had.

It’s crazy how our beds—places meant for rest—have turned into digital prisons.

Phones under the blanket.

Eyes wide awake at 2:43 AM.

Heart racing over things that don’t even matter tomorrow morning.

Sleep is gone. Peace is gone.

And yet, we convince ourselves, “Niko tu sawa. It’s normal.”

But truth is, it’s not normal.

We are draining our minds.

We are killing our productivity.

We are sacrificing rest—just to consume noise that adds nothing to our lives.

Our parents didn’t have this struggle.

They had real nights. Dark nights.

Not this artificial day that never ends.

So let me ask you today,

Who are you becoming in the silence of the night?

A student of purpose—or a slave of endless scrolls?

Because one thing I’ve learned—

The phone won’t sleep for you.

And the dreams you’re killing now may never return.

12. Campus/ College Silent War.

In every campus or college hostel, there’s always that silent war. Two or more ladies start as “besties,” sharing meals, stories, even outfits—but sooner or later, disagreements creep in. One wants silence, another wants loud music. One is neat, another careless. One borrows without asking, another complains without end.

Utaona mtu anaandika “roommate wangu ni kama dada yangu,” yet deep down, kuna kutoelewana hazisemwi. Soon, whispers turn into cold wars. Arguments flare up over toothpaste, clothes, food, or even boyfriends.

But here’s the truth—sharing a space with someone is never easy. Mtu ni tofauti, tabia ni tofauti, upbringing ni tofauti. Sometimes, the disagreements break friendships forever. Other times, they build patience and maturity you can’t learn from books.

So if you’re in a hostel, learn this: boundaries save peace, and respect saves relationships.

Roommates don’t have to be enemies, unless you let small issues grow into unmovable mountains.

13. It’s a mirror.

Campus is not just about exams, strikes, and graduation gowns.

It’s a mirror.

It reflects exactly who you are—and magnifies it.

If you come here with discipline, the system will sharpen you.

If you come here with focus, the environment will stretch you.

If you come here with hunger, opportunities will find you.

But—

If you step in with vibes, campus will only give you more vibes.

If you step in with pride, it will expose your emptiness.

If you step in with laziness, it will multiply it.

Some of us think we’ll “redeem ourselves” after graduation.

That the gown will somehow erase the wasted years.

No.

The gown is just fabric. It doesn’t lie.

Because campus doesn’t lie.

It only reveals your truth.

After four years, the question will be simple:

Did you build a foundation—or did you just waste time?

Campus doesn’t lie. Life doesn’t either.

14. This wasn’t the first time I heard the word Portfolio.

But that afternoon, the way my course mate said it—holding the mic with confidence—made it sound heavier than it ever did.

I imagined it was a file. Like the one we used in high school to keep past papers.

Or maybe a folder with valuable documents, because the word itself sounded… valuable.

But here was the twist:

How does one even create a portfolio? How special is it? From the way he spoke, it felt like a mountain only the brave could climb.

And yet—this is what I understood that day:

A portfolio is simply a collection of what you’ve been doing. Real work. Something you can point at and say, “This is me.”

It’s not about impressing friends.

It’s about creating proof—proof that you’ve done something, proof that you can deliver.

Even blogging is a portfolio. Even your side hustle. Even that one project you poured yourself into.

So, yes, my imagination was right.

It is a file.

It is a folder.

But most importantly—it is you.

15. If you’ve already lost your direction at the University, College or TVET—

don’t think graduation will suddenly put you back on track.

Some of us know deep down we messed up.

Instead of rebuilding, we worsen it.

Reckless living, empty vibes, careless choices…

hoping that when we finally wear the gown,

when the cameras click and the captions read “Finally Made It,”

somehow life will reset.

Truth is—it won’t.

The gown won’t redeem you.

The selfies won’t rebuild you.

The celebrations won’t restore what you lost.

“The corrupt treasures you’re chasing won’t guide you.

The rituals and shortcuts you’re holding onto won’t fix you.

They’ll only speed you up towards the wrong end.”

Time is now.

Not tomorrow. Not after graduation.

Now is the time to pause.

To re-align.

To find your true direction.

Because life after school is real _ though've not been there_

and only discipline, purpose, and God’s grace can redeem what you’re building today.

16. This life is funny.

Imagine securing an admission, not to be valued like a river that quenches thirst, but to be viewed like a swamp that disturbs everyone’s peace.

See, some of us come to campus with purpose:

To study.

To explore wisely.

To taste independence.

To unlearn and relearn.

But others?

They join to be seen.

Not for impact. Not for growth.

But for recognition, fake applause, and a personal brand that no one can take seriously outside the gates.

The truth is simple: time is a mirror.

It always reflects what you feed it.

You can spend four years chasing vibes, faking accents, skipping classes—

And the mirror will reflect you back:

No career. No foundation. Just wasted years.

Or you can spend those same four years building—

Reading. Networking. Sharpening your edge.

And the mirror will reflect that too.

Campus doesn’t lie.

It doesn’t cheat.

It only reveals who you chose to become: Excellent. Good. Average. Poor. Or worse.

So here’s the challenge:

Look in the mirror. Do you like the person staring back at you?

17. Not every student looks broke.

Not every student looks stressed.

But trust me, almost every student carries a hidden weight. A heavy weight.

Some of us walk into class with bright smiles—but deep inside, we're battling unpaid rent, sleepless nights, or a loan balance that never reduces.

We sometimes scroll our phones like everything’s okay—but that call from home reminded us there’s no money for supper.

It’s easy to think everyone is fine—because people hide their pain well.

But step closer, and you’ll realize:

University, college life is more survival than vibe.

So if you’re privileged, don’t mock. Don’t ask,"Hamnanga mpaka lini?"

To you my friend. Stop hiding your struggles. Don’t  hide. Keep in mind we're just sailing in different boats. But same storm.

Kindness is free. Empathy is gold.

18. University vs TVET. Degree vs Diploma.

Why are we fighting each other online?

We all come from the same struggles. Hustling for fare. Calling home for upkeep. Waiting for HELB like a miracle.

Yet instead of supporting, we throw shade. We laugh at others’ paths. We forget that not everyone failed to qualify—some simply chose to build from the ground up.

I’ve observed;  in classes where diploma and degree students learn the same units, same projects, same skills. But pride creates a false wall.

Let’s break it down. Because in the end, your attitude will matter more than your title.

19. Here’s the reality:

Not every degree holder will be rich.

Not every TVET graduate will be broke.

Life doesn’t follow those rules we fight about online.

I’ve seen diploma students shine beyond academics because they carried less pride and more hunger. I’ve also seen degree students sink, trapped in entitlement.

So what really counts?

Character. Skill. Humility.

The day we stop mocking each other, we’ll build stronger networks. Because five years from now, the “mtu wa TVET” you laughed at may hire you.

Tables turn. Respect is free. Let’s start there.

20. The problem with us students is pride.

A certain category of us believe university is a “higher calling” and TVET is a backup plan.

But let’s think for a moment…

The same way we spend sleepless nights chasing degrees is the same way TVET students sweat through plumbing, tailoring, carpentry, and wiring classes. Yet, when it’s time for real life? When your father needs a leaking pipe fixed, or your mother needs a decent dress tailored—who do they call?

Not you with your degree.

And here’s the truth: we come from the same homes, eat the same food, share the same struggles. Yet online, we disrespect TVET brothers and sisters as if our future will run without theirs.

Let’s be honest—skills are what drive the world. Degrees open doors, but tools build the house.

So stop the shame. Stop the mockery. One day, that “mtu wa TVET” you look down upon will open the very door you’ll walk through. Respect is free.

21. Sometimes I wonder…

Why do we laugh at TVET students? Why do we treat them like “second-class” scholars?

Truth is, most of us are blinded by titles. We think a degree makes us superior. But life has a way of humbling pride.

Because when a mother needs her leaking roof fixed, she won’t ask for your degree. When a child needs a school uniform stitched, no one will care about your GPA. When electricity goes off in the middle of the night, a TVET graduate with tools will be the hero.

And here’s the irony: we all share the same struggles. Same HELB stress. Same sleepless nights. Same dreams of making it in life. Yet, online, we mock each other.

It’s sad. Because one day, tables will turn. The one you ignored in class discussions, the one you shamed for taking a diploma—might be the one to offer you a job or fix your home.

So let’s drop the pride. Whether degree or diploma, we are students chasing the same sun. Different paths, same sky.

22. Days to Come...

That jembe you’re holding today will feed you, your family, and even relatives tomorrow.

That tailoring machine you’re bent over, the plumbing tools, the carpentry hammer… one day, they will open doors for you.

So what’s the point?

Stop walking with shame. Stop talking with fear. Walk with purpose. Speak with confidence.

You have no reason to zip your mouth just because degree students are debating. Your future may outshine theirs — even if, for now, their present seems brighter.

To my TVET brothers and sisters who sit shy, silent, and passive in the presence of campus students:

Don’t shy away. Don’t shrink.

Hold your tools with pride. One day, time will prove you right. And when that time comes, even those who look down on you will bow.

23. A friend of mine enrolled for Journalism at diploma level. 

Honestly, I thought he would be separated — a different class, different lecturers, maybe even a “lesser” program compared to degree students.

But to my surprise:

They sat in the same chairs.

Attended the same lectures.

Handled the same projects and discussions.

And gained the same skills.

The only difference? A title.

“BSc in Journalism” vs. “Diploma in Journalism.”

But here’s the twist:

Many diploma students often do better — not just academically, but in life. Why?

Because they carry less pride.

Definitely,

Titles may differ, but skills and character are what truly set you apart.

TVETs understand deeply the value of humility, hard work, and focus.

25. Campus vs TVET: A Reality Check.

Recently, I came across a comment in a HELB group that made me stop and reflect:

"Goons wa campus walidhani hatutapata HEL*P*."

For so long, we campus students have looked down on our brothers and sisters in TVET.

Facebook groups turn into battlegrounds after disbursement. And truthfully? Campus guys always think they’ve “won.”

But let’s be real for a moment.

Have you ever seen your father hire a degree electrician to fix wiring at home? Or a plumber with a degree? Even a veterinarian holding a degree? Personally, I haven’t.

The people we laugh at online will be the ones who keep our lives moving in the real world. We all come from similar backgrounds. Yet the TVET brothers we mock are the ones who will support us — even when we hold our degrees.

They may not wear ties or sit in offices. But they eat, drink, work hard, and live with dignity.

So, let’s stop the online disrespect.

Because one day, one of them will be the one opening the door for you. For me.

26. No. It belongs to everyone.

Obvious. There’s this group of students who managed to attain university entry grades — and now believe this institution only belongs to them.

No. It belongs to everyone.

This chronic habit of disrespect between us must end.

“Mtu wa diploma ananiambia nini?”

“Mtu wa TVET anaongea nini hapa!”

Really? Imagine being in the same school, sitting on the same chairs, yet looking down on another student just because they enrolled in a different program. You’re ruining everything — your relationships, your networks, your future connections.

I’ve seen it, especially in debates and group discussions: 46+ students won’t even allow 45- to raise their eyebrows.

Surely. That’s stupidity.

We are all equal before these mighty institutions. And remember this: not all failed to attain the entry grades. Some simply decided to build a stronger foundation by starting from diploma.

Respect is key. We rise by lifting each other.

27. Mirror Day.

Today is not just another day on the calendar. It’s a mirror.

A mirror that reminds you of what you’ve done all week—

and a window that dares you to peep into the next one.

Sunday is both a full stop and a capital letter.

It pauses your rush, then whispers: “Begin again, but wiser.”

If Monday is the chase, Sunday is the breath.

If Tuesday is the grind, Sunday is the oil.

If Friday is the climax, Sunday is the calm.

It’s not a day of laziness.

It’s a day of alignment.

Your spirit realigns, your thoughts reorganize, and your heart rediscovers balance.

So, sit down. Reflect.

Ask yourself: What did I plant last week?

What will I water in the next?

Because Sunday is not for wasting.

It’s for sharpening.

Happy Sunday, my people.

28. Seriously!

There’s no way you expect Maggie to do everything for you in the name of broke. No way. You can’t be a burden to someone’s daughter.

Just as you started pampering her at the beginning…

Just as you once said, “Baby don’t worry.”

Just as you said, “Pesa na chakula hakuna shida.”

Bro, carry on. You were a cool kid at the start — remain that way.

Maggie, don’t over-serve him. If he made promises back then, hold him accountable. Just ask: “Baby, what’s our plan today?” — and then pause.

What do we mean?

When we initiate relationships, we should stop experimenting recklessly.

Stop faking intensity with promises and materials you know you won’t sustain after bonding.

Bro, let’s be honest. Play steady. Always. Because when you switch up, Maggie will eventually say:

“He’s no longer like before.”

And in that “longer” she means — he’s no longer a provider.

Our marriages must work. Not on fake foundations, but on truth, consistency, and real commitment.

1. Jennnifer Let's Talk.

Not every password hide “dirty talks.” Not every lock screen seals away club videos or unwanted messages. Sometimes — and more often than you think — those passwords are protecting something far more valuable: work reports, financial transactions, client data, professional reputation, even simple personal order.

But here’s what happens: you see your husband, your boyfriend, your partner with a “complicated” password, and your heart immediately jumps to suspicion. “He must be hiding something.”

Truth? Most of the time, everything is in order.

I’ve lived it myself. Some of my past relationships ended not because of betrayal, but because of misunderstanding. A partner convinced that my lock screen was proof of secrets. And when someone has already convinced themselves of a narrative, you can’t calm them down.

So I did the only thing a man who values his peace can do — I opened the door, and let them walk away.

Yes, it cost me relationships. But it saved me peace of mind. And sometimes, that’s a fair trade.

Here’s the fact: many ladies confuse passwords with cheating. But the reality is this — men often use complex, unpredictable passwords to safeguard what actually sustains their lives: their work, their money, their progress, their freedom.

Jennifer, maybe it’s time to shift perspective.

A lock doesn’t always mean a lie.

Sometimes, it simply means a man is serious about his responsibilities.

Protect your peace. That’s the real password.

2. Men’s Passwords vs Women’s Passwords.

By now you’ve probably seen that trending reel: “Men’s passwords vs Women’s passwords.”

Women’s locks? Simple. Straightforward.

Men’s locks? Complicated like a manual transmission — reverse gears, zigzags, almost an engineering project.

It’s funny, yes. But here’s the danger: when jokes like this start shaping how we think.

Especially my sisters who consume these reels like gospel — believing every lock hides a secret.

Truth is, those locks meant nothing then, and they still mean nothing today.

I’ve seen people go into full “detective mode.” Hours of testing, snooping, researching — only to unlock a phone and find… nothing. A wallpaper. A few memes. Ordinary life.

So why sacrifice your peace of mind for suspicion? Why let reels dilute your dignity?

Relationships are not built by cracking passwords. They’re built by trust, respect, and communication.

So, laugh at the reel, but don’t live by it.

Because no lock screen is more valuable than the peace you carry inside you.

Protect your peace. That’s the only password that matters.

3. We Find Our Peace Online.

You see me every day with earphones in. Music loud. Always on TikTok, always scrolling, always “busy.”

And you think, “This guy is antisocial. Or he’s just addicted to his phone.”

Truth? That phone never rings.

No one checks on me.

No M-Pesa message.

No, “Hi bro, just checking in.”

Nothing.

So music becomes my escape.

Scrolling becomes my therapy.

Memes become my medicine.

We forget this:

some people don’t choose addiction, they choose survival. The internet becomes the only place that distracts them from how lonely they feel.

Kindly,

Don’t just say, “We are all online too much.” Some of us are online because it’s the only place we feel alive.

4. "You know what brought you here."

A classic line.

Thrown at us during form one orientation.

TVET. College. Uni.

Delivered with a straight face. Like we’re in for a military drill.

But just give it time.

A few weeks later... tulia.

That table? It flips itself.

Rules? We bend.

Dress code? Tunatoa fashion week.

Punishments? “Not here bwana.”

Freedom? Overdose.

We even brag about it:

“No canes.”

“No prefect nonsense.”

“Hata principal hawezi niambia kitu.”

We’re walking free. Talking big.

Knowing every trend.

Every celeb scandal.

The latest music, fashion, and even gossip from schools we’ve never stepped in.

We’re plugged in more than Wi-Fi.

Because this is higher learning… and higher living.

Our peace matters. Our pace matters.

Zero pressure. Just vibes. You know.

5. “Mpenzi staki mimi, mapenzi ya Mungu imenitosha.”

That’s the anthem of heartbroken sons and daughters of Zion. The chorus we sing after a relationship hits us like a lorry.

And it’s fine. It’s normal.

But let’s be honest—betrayal doesn’t write a memo. It doesn’t book an appointment. It just lands. Out of nowhere.

One week after you’ve shouted, “Baas! Mungu bariki na wengine pia ”—boom. You start catching strange vibes. Phone calls, different sounds. Hugs lighter than paper. The chemistry? Evaporated.

But because you’re human—you push. You force. You convince yourself, “Hii lazima ifanye this time.”

Only for the whole thing to collapse like a mabati kiosk in a storm. The fuel you burned never powered the engine. It only smoked the air. Wasted.

So you let go. And it goes.

Then comes Sunday. Church vibes. Worship on point. Suddenly—tall, dark, handsome appears. Sharp suit. Voice like honey. Drops one verse and you’re like:

“…but only say a word, and my soul shall be healed.”

Sis, you’ve found him.

But that’s exactly where the curse begins. Because sometimes what heals the soul can break the heart again.

Lesson? Stop forcing love. Stop swearing over heartbreak. Stick to your heart—it knows better than your fantasies.

6.  When I joined campus to refine my profession: 

Communication & Journalism, I thought publishing would be easy.

You write. You send. You get published. Simple, right?

But reality slapped me.

I sent emails to Africa’s biggest media houses—Daily Nation, The Standard, The Star… guess what? Not even a single response. Silence.

And that silence cuts deep. Because it’s not just rejection, it’s you questioning if you’re even good enough.

One day, my mentor said something small that changed everything. “Your email is your handshake. If it’s weak, nobody will trust what you carry.”

That day I went back, watched endless YouTube tutorials, rewrote my drafts, and learned the art of sending clean, concise, professional emails.

And slowly… things changed.

The first article I saw published in The Standard? I almost framed it. The first "byline" in Daily Nation? I kept rereading it like it was poetry.

Because behind that one line of credit was "years" of rejection, learning, unlearning, and refusing to quit.

And the spirit continues. I’m still learning. Still growing. Still sharpening this profession.

Listen—every small skill counts. Even that one you’re ignoring might be the bridge between silence and your biggest breakthrough.

7. Nobody knows if this will offend you or not. But bro—this is about us. You and me.

“No one understood what was happening inside me. Not even me. I wasn’t drained financially, or socially—it was deeper.

I was emotionally unavailable. Spiritually empty. Mentally disrupted. My skin even looked smoother, but it was just a fake vibe.

Weird dreams started haunting me—monsters, shadows, things chasing me. I couldn’t explain.

All this began after I met her. A stunning, fascinating city girl. A cool kid who gave me everything to keep me locked in. But years later, I learned her past—a messy history. More than four exes.

Steven’s voice cracked as he told us this in the Square. He never said it outright, but his lesson was clear: be careful who you tie your soul with. Some connections carry poison.”

1. Struggles are not written in bold letters on people’s foreheads. No.

You’ll sit next to someone in class, laugh with them, even share, chips kuku, yet deep inside they’re fighting wars you can’t see.

No imagination here;

One brother is wondering how to survive the next semester with fee "infinity."

Another sister is thinking how to face even a supper with nothing in her pocket.

Someone else is carrying heartbreak, trauma, broken trust, or a family that only calls when they need.

Struggles are real. Yes,

But what makes us stronger is how we carry them. How we handle them in heart. Do we let them break us? Or do we allow them to mold us?

Life will always throw weights at you, sometimes heavier than your body can carry. But here’s the truth:

You’re not weak. You’ve survived before, you’ll survive again. And forever you'll.

So?

So breathe. Take that walk. Laugh with friends. Cry if you must. But don’t let struggles write your story. They’re only a mini paragraph. You still have chapters to go.

2. There comes a time in growth when you crave silence.

Not depression. Not hate. Just privacy.

Your own quiet space.

Your mum will ask, “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

But you only shake your head. No words.

Relatives will whisper, “Moses amenyamaza tu sikuizi. Haongei.”

Even in class, you attend only because no friend can sign attendance for you.

Group projects? You’re always “sick” or “busy.”

Then boom — another season shows up.

Energy. Laughter. Engagement. Attending every event.

This is what we call social development.

Even your dog sometimes raises its head when called… and goes back to sleep.

It’s normal.

3. Not every smile is safe.

Even yours.

Some smiles don’t lift you.

They drain you.

They quietly discourage you.

They kill dreams… slowly.

I had a friend once — always smiling at my wins. Always clapping for my academic progress. Or so I thought.

When I planned to move higher in my education, I organized a fundraising. Invited her. Three months before. No response. No support.

Then, one evening, a message landed on my phone.

By accident.

Not even meant for me.

“Wanadhani wataweza na vile Ruto ame pandisha elimu. Anyway, wacha wajaribu. Na mimi pesa yangu siwezi toa.”

That’s when it hit me.

The same smile I trusted… was the same one wishing me to fail.

Not every smile is safe.

Some people celebrate you in public and bury you in private.

Sometimes the enemy isn’t across the street.

They’re sitting right next to you, smiling.

4. Stop behaving like that M-Pesa customer who’s been using the line for 10+ years…

But still only qualifies for Fuliza, not M-Shwari.

You’ve been “enjoying life” for years, shouting to anyone who cared to listen that you’re a career woman.

Well…

Now you’re here, questioning every part of your body why you’re invisible.

Let’s be honest — you spent your prime dancing with fake intentions.

You ignored the real deal.

And when it finally slipped away… you couldn’t even trace it.

This is not just about customers and M-Pesa.

It’s about you.

Be wise.

5. One time…

I actually thought of ending it all. Yeah, suicide.

Thought came… then pfft… vanished.

Next time, I was like, “What if I just disappear tomorrow?” No letter, no goodbyes… just vanish.

Then I asked myself… vanish to where exactly? That thought too… gone.

Then I planned — when I finish school, I’m out. No coming back home. No connections. I’ll live my life on my own terms.

All this?

Started after a slight punishment from Dad.

Yes, I messed up… but I didn’t admit. Swore it wasn’t me… until he came with solid evidence.

Unshakable. Concrete.

Ever been there?

When you’ve been caught red-handed but pride is still holding a press conference in your head?

Anyway, when I’m done with school…

my plan is still in the drafts folder.

6. Do you have,

Have you had this kind of parents/guardians... who always will ask you to serve them tea but thermos and cup is right beside them?

Meanwhile, you're relaxing.

They're boring. Annoying. Chocking, aren't they?

"Kwani wewe huoni chai na cup hapo?"

"Chai siiko hapo. Huyu pia."

We always whisper such statements from hearts. And when we stand to serve them? Hearts heavy. Funny part?

That tea or any other meals...Anything_ served must always leak out.

But listen

Tenda wema nanda zako. Just serve. Be free. For they bare your life with them.

Curses or blessings?

Choose you now.

And the beauty part?

It's a Win Win Game. They bring home, you prepare and serve. This is cheaper bwana. Serve, serve, serve.

7. Some friendships are built on convenience.

Others are built on care.

And the truth is—you’ll only know the difference when life becomes heavy.

When you’re broke.

When you’re low.

When you can’t offer anything back.

That’s when you realize…

Some people only loved you when you were useful.

Others loved you even when you had nothing.

Nairobi will show you this. Campus will show you this. Even your own village will remind you.

The friend who always said “tutachange kesho” suddenly disappears when the bill lands.

But the one; only the one who whispers, “Chukua hii 50 bob usilale njaa” — that’s the real one.

Friendship is not about who laughs the loudest at your jokes whether in a club or church.

It’s about who answers your call when your world feels silent.

So today, stop counting friends. Start weighing them.

Because in this life, it’s not about how many people surround you—

It’s about how many would still stand when everything else leaves.

8. No one cares when you grind.

And honestly? It’s nobody’s business.

Let’s break it down.

You can be struggling in school because of a fee balance of Ksh 500.

Yet your uncle drives home from Nairobi after burning 10K in fuel.

Does he ever say, “Give me your class teacher’s number, let me sort this”?

Never.

Your mother can be lying helpless on a hospital bed.

No money for treatment.

But your aunt is busy building her next apartment in Mlimani.

They won’t pause.

They won’t care.

Until you die.

Then they’ll suddenly put 80K aside for a casket.

This is the reality.

Even worse—most grudges we carry were never ours to begin with.

They started before we were born.

Yet today, you come home and hear,

“Mose, nisikupate kwa nyumba ya kina Juddy!”

And just like that, family bonds are broken—forever.

The same people you expect to lift you are the ones watching you bleed.

The same fence, the same gate, the same borehole.

But each roof stands alone.

The painful truth?

No one cares.

But then—friends you never knew you’d meet?

They’re the ones asking for your CV.

Not your uncle who’s a manager at Safaricom.

9. We say we want change.

We chant. We post. We shout in rallies.

But truth is… most of us don’t want change.

We want benefits.

We want that job because ww ni cousin wa mheshimiwa.

We want that tender because tribe yetu iko juu.

We want shortcuts—faster, easier, juicier.

Then when leaders do the same at the top,

we cry, “Corruption! Nepotism! Tribalism!”

But leadership is a mirror.

What they do there is what we do here.

So maybe the problem isn’t them alone.

Maybe the problem is us.

Change won’t come from State House.

It starts in your house.

Because whether you know it or not,

the next generation is watching us—

and they’ll inherit exactly what we normalize.

10. We love calling African leaders corrupt.

True, they loot. They eat. They forget us.

But let’s be honest—how different are we?

In school, welfare money disappears.

In committees, contributions vanish.

In hostels, someone eats shopping and says “nitakurudishia.” You wait...

Yet the same us are the first to shout:

“Hawa viongozi ni wezi!”

Corruption doesn’t start in parliament.

It starts small—where you are.

With that shortcut. That lie. That little theft.

So if we want a clean Africa, let’s first clean ourselves.

Because leadership is not position—

It’s character.

And character starts with you. Us.

If we can't, I better walk away from home political arenas. Reframe.

And be the change once back.

11. Today, especially as men, we live on alert mode.

Not by choice, but by necessity.

No shame.

No tears.

No guilt.

Just standby. Because we know—tomorrow belongs to those who prepared for it today.

And it’s not just about being prepared. It’s rehearsals before the real attempt.

So my neighbor, relax. Usiseme huyu amerukwa na akili. Zii. I’m just sharpening my survival skills. Don’t mind if you see me talking alone.

Because truth is, inflation is chewing us alive. Prices go up, salaries stay still. And by late 30s, when investments should be blooming, some of us are still struggling with basics and school fees.

To make it worse, even love sometimes doesn’t heal. Some lovers become thorns. Adding stress. Offloading every little peace we had left. You can leave the office smiling, but the moment you step into your car—everything is gone.

Alert mode becomes the only way.

Yes, you’ll be tempted to leave. To quit. To abandon what you started.

But then again—who are we?

We are fighters. We are survivors.

We sharpen our scars into swords.

12. You can’t mix love with jealousy. You just can’t.

And don’t get me wrong—nobody says jealousy is evil. We all understand the feeling. We’ve all felt it. But the real question is: to what extent?

You’ve probably seen those skits on TikTok or Facebook. A mother-in-law calls her son-in-law just to check in on the family. Then suddenly, the wife fakes bedroom noises in the background—trying to prove there’s a side chick.

That’s not funny. That’s insecurity dressed as love.

Yes, jealousy lives in relationships. Especially now, when a simple phone call can change the mood of the whole house. But if you can’t control it, you’ll lose more than love. You’ll lose peace. You’ll lose respect. You’ll even risk losing the business you’ve built together—because trust me, no marriage cracks while the company remains firm.

Not every phone call deserves your ears.

Not every contact saved deserves your suspicion.

Listen to your heart. Not your paranoia.

Because real love builds. Jealousy destroys.

13. I don’t always shout.

Mostly, I just smile and keep moving.

But truth is—like many men—I fight battles in silence.

I can sit with you in a café, laugh the loudest, even look sharp in photos…

but deep inside, I know the weight I carry.

Bills that don’t add up.

Dreams I can’t fully fund.

Expectations from family and society—“Be strong. Be a man. Don’t cry. Don’t break.”

So I walk around with invisible wounds.

Not because I don’t want to speak,

but because the world has taught us that a man’s pain must be hidden.

That’s the thing about us—

we can be dying inside, yet still make sure everyone else feels safe.

So if you ever see me laughing, or drinking, , respect that laugh. Respect that glass please

It might be the only weapon I have left in this war.

14.I don’t always shout.

Mostly, I just smile and keep moving.

But truth is—like many men—I fight battles in silence.

I can sit with you in a café, laugh the loudest, even look sharp in photos…

but deep inside, I know the weight I carry.

Bills that don’t add up.

Dreams I can’t fully fund.

Expectations from family and society—“Be strong. Be a man. Don’t cry. Don’t break.”

So I walk around with invisible wounds.

Not because I don’t want to speak,

but because the world has taught us that a man’s pain must be hidden.

That’s the thing about us—

we can be dying inside, yet still make sure everyone else feels safe.

So if you ever see me laughing, or drinking, , respect that laugh. Respect that glass please

It might be the only weapon I have left in this war.

15. I don’t always shout.

Mostly, I just smile and keep moving.

But truth is—like many men—I fight battles in silence.

I can sit with you in a café, laugh the loudest, even look sharp in photos…

but deep inside, I know the weight I carry.

Bills that don’t add up.

Dreams I can’t fully fund.

Expectations from family and society—“Be strong. Be a man. Don’t cry. Don’t break.”

So I walk around with invisible wounds.

Not because I don’t want to speak,

but because the world has taught us that a man’s pain must be hidden.

That’s the thing about us—

we can be dying inside, yet still make sure everyone else feels safe.

So if you ever see me laughing, or drinking, , respect that laugh. Respect that glass please

It might be the only weapon I have left in this war.

16. For many of our uncles, aunts—even our own brothers and sisters—Nairobi has always been painted like a Jerusalem.

The city of “success.”

The city of good life.

The city where dreams are harvested like ripe mangoes.

But from what you and I have seen, here’s the real capital:

A Nairobi where someone pays 20K rent, yet sends zero shillings back home.

A Nairobi where private school fees drain every coin, yet pride won’t allow them to admit, “Mtoto wangu angesoma bora shule.”

A Nairobi where salaries vanish into matatu fare, rent, and fast food—leaving nothing to build, nothing to invest, nothing to send back.

The myth? That living in Nairobi equals progress.

The reality? Many are just surviving—carrying debts on their backs, but carrying big titles on Facebook.

Let’s stop fooling ourselves. Nairobi is not milk and honey.

It is a mirror. It won’t give you what you haven’t worked for.

It only exposes your priorities, your pride, and your reality.

So before you clap for someone “making it in Nairobi,” ask yourself—

Is it true progress, or just survival in a rented house of 25K with nothing at home?

Nairobi doesn’t lie.

It only magnifies who you already are.

17. There’s this illusion that Nairobi is a promised land.

Ati ukiingia Kanairo, you’ve made it.

Ati ukivaa suit na kushika newspaper kwa stage, maisha yako imepangwa.

Mmh! Ground? Ground ni different.

Behind the city lights, there’s another Nairobi.

One full of fake accents, overdressed hustlers, and silent battles.

You’ll meet watu wanaishi Kileleshwa, but rent is paid by loans and pledges.

You’ll meet watu wanafika office 7 a.m. sharp, but supper last night was black tea and strong hope.

You’ll meet couples who post #CoupleGoals, yet last night they fought over 200 bob fare.

Nairobi is a mirror.

It forces you to choose who you want to be—

A pretender polishing an image,

Or a hustler embracing the struggle.

The truth is—

Nairobi won’t give you anything you haven’t worked for.

It won’t change you.

It will only expose you.

So before you rush to Nairobi to “make it,”

Ask yourself:

Are you ready to face a city where people clap for you during the day,

But laugh at you in the evening?

Because in Nairobi, mtu hujibeba.

And if you can’t carry yourself,

The city will carry you into depression.

18. A Letter from Home.

To our uncles, our aunts, our brothers and sisters—

Nairobi has become your promised land.

You live in rentals that swallow at least 15K every month.

You wake up at 5am to chase jobs that consume the best years of your life.

On the surface, it looks productive.

But look closer—

Your salary disappears into rent and matatus.

The rest goes to private school fees.

And yes, we know the pride that comes with saying, “Mtoto wangu anasoma private.”

But home feels your absence.

You rarely visit. Policies, distance, and excuses keep you away—

Unless it’s a burial.

And even then, you don’t stay beyond two days.

Why? Because rent is waiting.

Worse still, you send nothing home.

Every time we call, you say there’s no money.

Your contribution only comes in funerals.

Never in school fees.

Never in hospital bills.

Never in the small struggles that actually sustain life.

Back in the days, our grandparents wrote us letters.

Today, we write you through guilt and silence.

So listen, uncle, auntie, brother, sister—

Come home before home comes for you.

Carry the responsibilities you were meant to.

Stop waiting for burials to be your excuse to contribute.

Yes, Nairobi shines.

But remember:

If you forget home,

Home will one day remind you—

Even inside your 50K apartment.

19. Some of us are not here by our own strength.

We’re here because the community gathered, contributed, and pushed us forward.

And when I say community, I don’t just mean the people from your village.

It could be your church, your neighbours, your extended family, or even strangers who believed in you enough to drop something small for your future.

I once saw a student who wasted this grace.

He only came home drunk—

Every December, every April.

He was a thorn in the entire town.

Noise. Fights. Drugs. Even crimes too heavy to mention.

The same community that once raised funds for him was now raising eyebrows against him.

Don’t be that prodigal son.

Don’t spit on the same hands that lifted you.

Understand the expectations placed on you.

Remember why there was a fundraising ceremony in your name.

And drop this lazy mentality of, “Kazi ni connection.”

Yes, it’s about connections.

But connections start right here—by how you carry yourself, by how you respect people, by how you serve.

At the end of the day, one truth stands:

The community must reap.

20. Our Biology teacher once convinced us that lumen is the hardest part of the human body.

We nodded. We believed. Because that’s what the syllabus said, and that’s what science had proven.

But life has its own syllabus.

And today, I know—lumen is not the hardest part.

Think about it.

We’ve played tournaments every semester—games that begin and end with bruised bodies and bruised egos.

We’ve signed and unsigned contracts, sometimes twice in a year, chasing dreams, chasing stability.

We’ve rehearsed until our throats cracked, sat exams that mocked us, failed tests but still stood tall to prove we’re not failures.

We’ve clicked secret tabs late at night, attended hidden online lectures, lived double lives in search of freedom.

We’ve mastered styles unspoken, lived stories untold.

We’ve analysed moans and silences, stumbled into houses we never planned to sleep in, drowned bottles we promised never to touch.

We’ve ridden roads reckless and safe, carried weights heavier than textbooks.

So no—our teacher was wrong.

The hardest part of the human body isn’t lumen.

It’0. s the heart that still beats after all this.

It’s the mind that still dares to dream after disappointments.

It’s the spirit that refuses to break despite contracts, failures, and scars.

Lumen grinds food.

But life grinds us harder.

21. “How do you expect me to love you when I don’t even love myself?

How do you expect me to give you the whole of me when I am only half a man?

How do you expect me to navigate the Indian Ocean when my boat is already sinking?”

I wish I could love you the same way you...

I wish I could carry the same depth of feeling you carry.

I wish I was ready to walk with you. But the truth is — I can’t.

Not because you’re not worthy. But because I’m not whole.

I don’t love who I am. I hate my own life. Everything in me feels useless before my eyes.

And if I don’t see value in myself, how can I truly see value in you?

If I let you into this chaos, I won’t make you full. I’ll only reduce you to half — just to fit into my brokenness.

Would you really want that in the name of love?

That’s why I’d rather set you free. You are pure. I am far from it.

Go your way. Live fully. Don’t sink with me."

I honestly wish more men — elders, age-mates, and even younger brothers — could learn to say these words to women who have already revealed their genuine intent.

Instead of using them, draining their hearts, and abandoning them…

We should learn honesty. Definitely, truth may hurt, but it heals faster than betrayal.

Think about it.

22. In this generation, everyone is in a race.

At 17, you already feel late. At 22, you feel all finished. Why? Because social media has turned life into a scoreboard.

You scroll and see weddings, cars, degrees, businesses. Then. Suddenly, your own journey feels slow. Slower than chameleon.

But here’s the truth: delay is not denial. Some flowers bloom in the morning, others in the evening. Both are beautiful, both are on time. All seductive.

John and Naomi, stop punishing yourself for not running Stacy's race. Life has no universal calendar.

When your time comes, you won’t need to force it.

Remember: it’s better to arrive late than to arrive empty. And direction is more important than speed.

23. Most of us think love is tested on the good days. The flowers, the dates, the happy Instagram captions.

But the real test of love is hidden in the storms.

When money is low.

When stress is high.

When tempers flare.

When silence feels heavier than words.

That’s where you know whether someone loves you, or just loved the convenience of you.

If someone only stands with you in light, but disappears in the dark, that’s not love — that’s comfort.

Real love fights with you, not against you.

So don’t just ask, “Do they love me?” Ask, “Do they love me enough to stay when it gets tough?”

The Generation’s Struggle is a three-part story following Purity and Kelly — two students caught between the promise of education and the harsh realities of campus life in Kenya.  

  From personal loss to Gen Z protests, their journey explores grief, resilience, and the hope of shaping a better future.  

“Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.”

Purity had read Nelson Mandela’s words countless times in newspapers, on posters, and in books. Yet, in the quiet Kisumu dawn as she walked to school, those words felt distant — almost empty. She spelled them out slowly, one by one, hoping they would sink in. But the weight of the wisdom refused to settle.

She searched for meaning in the faces around her — in her neighbors rushing to work, in the crowded port city, even in her own reflection. Still, no answer came.

In her small flower-scented room, a soft melody played from a corner. Once, music had been her escape. Now, she no longer enjoyed the sound — only the lyrics. She remembered the relief of the last school bell, when she could finally breathe after hours in the sweltering classroom, her uniform drenched as if she had spent the day in a steam bath.

School had been both a blessing and a burden. Purity often sat alone, lost in thought. On the outside, she looked perfect — neat hair, polished shoes, dutiful smile. But beneath that calm surface lived exhaustion and loneliness.

When her KCSE results finally came, they brought a rare light. Her parents beamed, calling her “our sweet little black-eyed girl.” She walked proudly through Kisumu’s busy streets, her heart swelling with dreams of a brighter tomorrow.

But dreams fade quickly. The promise of education felt like smoke slipping through her fingers. She admired Kenyans like PLO Lumumba and Laban Ayiro, not for their wealth, but for their wisdom. Yet discouragement slowly crept in. The system felt broken, and she feared she would be swallowed by it.

Then came the knock on her door.

It was Kelly — her old classmate and dearest friend. His calm presence was a contrast to her storm. They hugged warmly, memories flooding back of late-night study sessions, whispered prayers, and their shared determination to succeed.

But when they sat down, the weight of reality returned.

“What’s your plan, Kelly? University is just a month away,” Purity asked, forcing a smile.

He shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t have one.”

Purity frowned. “Come on, you must have something in mind.”

“I’m serious,” Kelly said quietly.

The room fell silent. The air outside thickened, heavy with the stillness before a storm.

Purity sighed. “I don’t even know if I want to go. Varsities are a mess. Students are dying… my own Aunt Emily was killed in Nairobi. And no one is doing anything.” Her voice cracked.

Kelly held her as she cried. He didn’t need to say much. He, too, carried doubts — about the protests, the killings, and a country that seemed blind to its own children’s suffering.

Yet, as they sat together, one thought remained unshaken: education was supposed to be their key, their weapon, their hope.

But could it still be?

To be continued...

The silence between Purity and Kelly was heavy, broken only by the hum of the city below. At last, Kelly spoke.

“Purity, the truth is, I don’t know what to do next. Maybe my dad has a plan. Maybe not.”

Purity gave a weak smile. “At least you’re honest. As for me, I’m… tired. Tired of hearing education is the answer, when our universities are falling apart.”

Her voice grew sharper. “Students are dying, Kelly. Do you know how many? Bodies dumped, families silenced. Even my Aunt Emily — gone, just like that. And the authorities act like nothing happened.”

Kelly clenched his fists. He had no words strong enough to heal her pain. All he could do was hold her hand.

Then he said what had been weighing on his mind. “And what about the protests? Gen Z filled the streets — students, our peers. Some never came back. Wasn’t it about more than the Finance Bill?”

Purity nodded. “Yes. It was about everything: unemployment, expensive education, the new funding model, a government deaf to our cries.”

“Exactly,” Kelly said. “Knowledge is power — they say that. But in Kenya, education feels like a race to nowhere.”

The room fell quiet again. The storm outside had begun, rain drumming against the window like restless thoughts.

Then came another knock at the door. This time, it was the house help with an envelope. A letter.

Purity’s hands shook as she opened it. The handwriting was her father’s.

Dear Lovely Daughter,

I know how deeply Aunt Emily’s death has hurt you. I wanted to write earlier, but I hesitated — afraid my words would fail. Still, I need you to hear this.

Do not let grief take away your future. Do not let pain bury your dreams. I know our government is unstable, and I know universities are struggling. But remember what you fought for, what you prayed for, what you deserve.

I have already made arrangements. Your room at Egerton University is ready. Kelly’s father has done the same for him.

I will not pretend that life will be easy. But believe me, Purity: life is not meant to break you. You must rise, for yourself and for those who believe in you.

Your Mommy and I love you. Always.

Your Daddy,
Mark

When she finished reading, Purity sat still, the letter trembling in her hands. Kelly said nothing at first. He simply looked at her, his eyes mirroring the storm outside.

Finally, he spoke. “Purity, maybe your dad is right. Maybe education is still our weapon. Maybe it’s the only one we have left.”

Purity wiped her tears. For the first time in weeks, she felt something flicker inside her — not certainty, but the faint outline of hope.

👉 To be continued in Part 3: Will Purity and Kelly accept this new beginning, or will their doubts pull them back?

The letter from her father stayed on Purity’s lap long after the words had been read. She wanted to believe it. She wanted to trust that walking into Egerton University would mean a fresh start. But the weight of reality pressed harder than hope.

Kelly broke the silence first. “So… what now?”

Purity looked at him, her voice barely steady. “We go. We join campus. But Kelly, let’s not lie to ourselves — it won’t be easy. You’ve seen the news. Strikes. Suicides. Killings. Nothing has changed overnight.”

Kelly leaned back, running his hand over his face. “I know. But maybe, just maybe, we can survive it. And if we survive, maybe we can do more than that — maybe we can fight for something better.”

The next weeks were a blur. Admission letters. Shopping trips with half-empty wallets. Last-minute errands. Then came the journey — the long road to Njoro, where Egerton’s gates rose tall, guarded by both promise and doubt.

On her first night in the hostel, Purity couldn’t sleep. Laughter echoed from the corridors. Music thumped from another block. Someone cried quietly in the next room. She lay awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if she truly belonged here.

Across campus, Kelly sat in his own bare room, thinking of home. He remembered his mother’s worn hands, his father’s tired face. Their sacrifices had brought him here. But for what? To study in a system that valued grades more than lives?

And yet — when morning came, they both showed up. Lecture halls packed with faces, some hopeful, some hollow. The smell of dust and chalk. The rush of feet across campus paths.

Purity glanced at Kelly across the crowd. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the weight felt lighter. They were not alone.

The struggle had only begun — the mess of balancing fees, food, safety, and sanity. But here they were. Present. Breathing. Choosing to try.

Because sometimes, survival itself is resistance.

“The time for the healing of wounds has come. The moment to bridge the chasms that divide us has come.” This was the spark that ignited a raging inferno within young Kenyans. A fire that burned bright, fueled by full desire for change.

This truly was the sunrise of a new era, heralded by all Generation Z in Kenya. As Nelson Mandela wisely said, “The young people of today will be the leaders of tomorrow.” And we were ready to lead. “God does not give the rich and let the poor starve." Without exception and inclusion of grass, we wisely knew how He portions out wealth and poverty. All in His best portions. And others will not trick us and lead us astray.

In the informal settlement of the Capital, meet Bondi and Godi, university graduates with hearts full of hope and minds full of definite plans. Brothers raised by His grace. They had to workday and night just to provide their younger sisters a bread _ Chunky kids with a sweet broad looking _ Till the sun faded, and city buildings spun darkness for its wondering beam. They could race out like athletes in Olympics determined to take the medal home, onto the highway for a living.

Now, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold, they often perused the pages of the newspapers. And streamed online. This was their most evening fascinating pleasure. Oh, how fascinating it was! How they enjoyed new contents! Sitting beneath their old, shuttered house, on their icy bed, watching.

With a glance, they flapped a page. A page with a bright headline, “FINANCE BILL 2024/25.” But couldn’t understand the dynamic language of the new finance bill 2024/25. Regardless of their quality education, both frowned. Frustration and despair crept in. “Safe, safe, safe — we are not safe,” their hearts pounded with loss and disparity. “What does this mean?” Bondi sighed. “I do not get it,” like a tireless worker often lamented, Godi.

Now the brothers read line by line. One by one with racing thoughts, beating hearts. They read about it on the highway, on their way to work. They read it and read it but could not understand it, and they read about it again. Then perhaps, they just stared at the newspapers spelling out the letters. Spelling out more about bill policies.

They knew that they need to understand these policies, for they are the new suckers. Not even for their good, but for the good of the country and generations yet to be born. They could spend countless seconds and minutes and hours and days online and on newspapers. But the dense language often left them feeling like a solitary soul, adrift in the cosmic sea. They still muttered to themselves. As life seemed to become real once again, after_.

A great block of ice settled in their belly. It kept melting there day in day out, while at work. The so called, “janta.” It was a special ice. It kept melting, sending trickles of cold, all up and down their veins and capillaries. It never got less or low, depleted neither. They remembered with bitterness where they had come from. When they could sleep in the Sahara. No parents, no fees, no water, no nothing, every other thing died.

For days, they tried to figure the finance bill puzzle. Even on straying their eyes on screen but to no avail. Instead, they smelt a rat. A heavy weight started to burden their hearts. Bondi and Godi had both borne witness to the blight of misguided policies, in the neighboring country. Their late father’s words echoed in their minds. “Majesty could order his soldiers just to get him ladies’ breasts, then he eats the breasts like a wild animal.” Their late father Mzee Mwangi once with bitterness sighed them, during his evening days. And now they could feel the skin on their forehead tingling, their warm blood rushing through a new course, their bones aching with a familiar old pain. The awaiting hardships.

The brothers hailing from the gritty streets of the ghetto, decided to involve all their companions. They ignited a spark that spread across the nation. Inspiring other young Kenyans countywide to stand tall. They further created online communities primarily on X space. Where young minds discussed and debated the new finance bill 2024/25 and other multitude youthful trials. A debate that was fuelled by passion and intellect.

Certainly, all members Generation Z gained a deeper understanding of the bill. Its implications. A bill to benefit old bananas, stunting young suckers. “Bread, pampers, cars... are basic necessities, yet we feel stagnant and unproductive,” they often lamented on their social media page _ X. “Whatever hour you walk there, door shut. From office to office we went, hand in hand, presenting them here_ our case_ knocking there, young man make sure...” That was their journey from office to office. Seeking for a golden opportunity. An opportunity they used to work for some day.

Those days, government had abandoned virtues of courtesy, transparency, accountability, fairness and winning ways. All went out of style in the government’s eye and heart. It was good to be bad and to be greed. To increase tax and mismanage Kenyans funds. Time to leave upcoming stars on torn up leather jackets. And taking them back to slouch around with toothpicks in their mouth, to sniff glue and ether. And to be addicts. Surely, young talents were abandoned, their dreams stifled, their potential squandered.

The communities fully gained hope for brighter tomorrow. With each online meeting and discussion held, the Generation Z confidence grew with one spirit. Several days after digestion, the meeting inspired them all to stand and fight for their space. A special space to grow. “We are the young suckers that grow when the old banana dies.” Their collective minds knew the intentions of the government. Somehow good but adversely horrible.

Now Godi and Bondi prepared and brushed their night-dark hair, bathed in rose petals sweet. Drawn golden rings, necklace. Cotton shoes down their feet. Carried a Kenyan National Flag and White Doves each. They looked like clowns, each on the same white shirt captioned “We Reject Finance Bill 2024/25.” With one intention, they came out with dark and angry face and threatened the government with their fingers.

Their collective voice roared louder, hundreds of thousands times the lion's roaring on twenty-sixth of June twenty twenty four. Echoing from Nairobi Streets to the crowded city CBD to the National Parliament. Where, the performance was performed, and the winners were rewarded even before they were announced.

And other cities and towns within the “Sahara,” were not different each Tuesday and Thursday. Local media platforms were engaged in amplifying thunder voices.

Guns fired. Jails were everywhere. Tear gas filled the noisy air, temporarily all day, all eyes went blind. But they remained resilient like phoenix rising from the ashes. Their memorable protest roared their demand for transparency, accountability and a government that truly represented their needs as young Kenyans.

Their tireless efforts over several days, marked by sacrifice and hardship certainly bore sweet fruits. Despite facing deaths, injuries and abductions, they succeeded in their struggle for space, recognition and a place among Kenya’s prominent.
A room full of Kenyan policymakers, intelligent and caring individuals, heard the message. A message that was delivered with a sense of urgency and desperation. And conspired in their favour. And as a result, the Finance Bill was ultimately rejected. Poooh!

Godi and Bondi and their fellow activists continued to advocate for change, ensuring that their voices were heard on time and respected, as they continued to mourn “Shujaas” who peacefully fought for change. True soldiers who sacrificed their lives for a better future of the nation.

Generation Z is a generation with dreams of a better Kenya, led by bright stars. They fought and brought a beacon of hope back within our borderline. Their journey is largely a testament to the power of education and indomitable human spirit. They need a nation where dreams can take flight. As they continue to fight for justice and equality, they inspire all citizens including Generation Alpha to believe in the possibility of change, despite the face of life.

During that phase of adversity, the mighty power of education and knowledge and online networking including the use of smartphones and collective actions transformed our great nation. Young people significantly played a crucial role in overcoming the awaiting despair and hardships.

As they continue dreaming big and doing big and working hard hand in hand and fighting for a better tomorrow. Now Godi and Bondi inspire faith. Their plans and wishes will become reality. Together, they lead our nation out of darkness into a future filled with hope and light.

In Father’s Dilemma, a bright young student, Michael, torn between science, hope, and justice, faces the harsh realities of Kenya’s struggles. Encouraged by his late mother’s wisdom and supported by his father’s love, he dreams of transforming society. But when youthful passion collides with political unrest, tragedy strikes—leaving his father with nothing but a shoe and the haunting memory of his “Prince.” 

He flew out of his dimly lit living room with wet and wild eyes. He raced through the busy streets of Mombasa and clawed through bits of garbage, glass, and bricks. Then he lifted up a white shoe—the shoe his “Prince” wore.
“Oh, here is his shoe, the shoe my P-p-prince wore. But Prince, where could you be? Where have you gone? Where can I find you?”

His name was Michael. He was seventeen, with a walnut face and bright eyes that reflected tomorrow. A boy who walked with encyclopaedia-like knowledge, especially in Geography and Physics. He believed that investing in education was investing in the future of Kenya and the world.

Michael lived in a pleasant house with a green garden and a discreet servant. His room was extravagant—furnished with a library of books, a wooden armchair, and a guitar. He had a warm, fine, simple yet complex voice—a summer voice that even the deaf could feel.

Every morning, as the sun rose like a jewel from the horizon, Michael stood by the window, lost in thought. He remembered how suddenly his hardworking, loving mother, Ferril, had passed away in her early forties. Her words echoed in his mind: “Education is the key to unlocking the potential of everyone in the world.”

He recalled the day before she boarded her jet, when they had their last deep conversation in their small library.
“Mom, how did you navigate your studies in those days?” he had asked.
“Well, son, we struggled by all means to get an education. It wasn’t a walk in the park.”
“What challenges did you face?” he pressed.
“There were countless challenges—political instability, economic hardships, personal struggles. Yet, we pushed forward.”

She reminded him: “All dreams are valid. Learn daily. Gain digital skills—one to three online skills will add value. Courtesy and diplomacy will open doors.”

Her words sharpened Michael’s mind instead of dulling it. He carried her wisdom in his heart as a warm wind blew from the Indian Ocean. “She is gone now,” he told himself. “I have to get up. I have to be bold.”

One day, Michael walked two kilometers from the beach to town to visit his friends—Jim, Kim, Limo, and Kerry. All of them were bright, hopeful, and determined. Their slogan, “Education is the passport to the future, for tomorrow belongs to those who prepare for it today,” kept them united even after high school.

The five friends excelled in science and geography, once demonstrating their innovations at a school conference. They invented new mechanical technologies and dreamed of transforming society.

At home, Michael’s father returned each evening, a successful man with expensive taste. One night, over orange juice in their well-decorated sitting room, he listened to Michael talk about their inventions. Proud and impressed, he promised: “Now I’ll sponsor everything you do. Every idea you have, I’ll support financially.”

Michael was thrilled and rushed to tell his friends. But at the laboratory the next day, the atmosphere was tense. His friends were fixated on the new Finance Bill, which they believed would harm young people’s progress. For more than a month, it became a nightmare.

“This is a dangerous, unpredictable puzzle!” Jim shouted. The group decided to join the protests that were spreading nationwide. Michael hesitated but eventually agreed, perhaps due to loyalty or peer pressure.

The next morning, Michael prepared carefully—bathed, dressed in white cotton shoes and a necklace his mother had bought him, carrying a Kenyan flag. He wanted to join his friends in the Mombasa protests.

At the breakfast table, he asked calmly:
“Daddy dear, may I go to town? To march the streets of Mombasa with my friends—for justice and equality?”

His father’s face grew stern.
“No, son. You go nowhere. The wild are out there. Guns and jails are everywhere. It’s not safe for you, my Prince.”

“But Dad,” Michael pleaded, “I will be in the company of my friends. Others will join us too. Please, Dad. We just want to fight injustice and make the country fair.”

“No! I fear those guns will fire,” his father replied, his voice trembling. He tried to redirect him: “Go to the library instead, explore new knowledge.”

The atmosphere grew heavy. His father, though fearful, smiled faintly, thinking his son had obeyed. But moments later—BOOM! A thunderous explosion tore through the city.

Michael’s father rushed into the chaotic streets, clawing through glass and bricks, calling out desperately:
“Son! Soo-ooon!”

All he found was Michael’s white shoe—the shoe his Prince had worn. He fell to the ground, broken. His tears ran dry, his voice cracked:
“Prince... we will once meet.”

Mercy was a very beautiful and gifted girl who lived in an old thatched house with her caring parents.

At primary school, she was admired by many. She excelled in all scientific contests, passing each one with flying colours. This not only encouraged her but also inspired her companions.

One morning, the Cabinet Secretary of Education visited her school. He was accompanied by a professor from one of the most prestigious universities in the country, along with other prominent officials.

Before finishing their address to the assembly, the professor asked:
"What would a student do in the future to repay the government if he or she were given full sponsorship today?"

It seemed like a complex question to most students — but not to Mercy. With determination, she raised her hand and answered in a clear, confident voice:

"Yes, Professor, I would strive to excel. I would engage my peers in all significant matters. I would create farms and firms to help us. I would buy my own laboratory apparatus and invent unique technologies. I would create employment and invest in education. No matter what it takes, I will renovate our land."

“From the broken streets of Kimara to the heights of success, Shammine’s Mask is a powerful story of resilience, hidden identity, and transformation. It’s a tale that shows how even in the darkest corners, hope can return with the brightest light.” 

She lived in a big old house that her great-grandmother had built. Once a fancy home in the neighborhood, it now had threadbare carpets, a leaking roof, and not enough light to brighten all its rooms. Still, Amina Juma—known to many as Juma—enjoyed her environment. In her dimly lit room, she relaxed with her beloved pet, Hamza.

Her room was furnished comfortably but not tastefully—a small library of scores, a still stool, an old stove, and a guitar. What delighted her most was Bongo Music. During her high school days at Marian Secondary School, she won countless trophies in Bongo Star Search. Her soft, melodious voice sounded like a Tanzanian bulbul—a summer voice that even the deaf could hear.

At twenty-five, Amina had walnut-toned skin, bright eyes that reflected hope, and sun-bleached, oak-colored hair. A striking young woman with intelligence and resilience, she lived in her crumbling home in Kimara, Dar es Salaam. Juma was always alert, like a soldier with a finger on the trigger. Fear of insecurity haunted her community, yet complaints to the police were ignored.

Life in Kimara was harsh. Young girls feared walking after sunset, dreams were abandoned, and youths often slipped into substance abuse. Still, Amina remained strong. She exercised daily, running three kilometers to Kimara Shopping Centre, where she met her friends. But her peace was shattered one day by thick, dark smoke. Her great-grandmother’s house had been attacked. Though her neighbors survived, Hamza was nowhere to be found.

Heartbroken, she sought refuge at her friend Rehema’s home—a humble iron-sheet shelter where a warm grandmother cared for her grandchildren. Despite poverty, they welcomed Juma with open arms, sharing food, stories, and comfort. Life became a daily struggle: selling fruits, walking long distances for water, and facing hunger. Yet bonds of sisterhood grew between Juma and Rehema, who dreamed of escaping poverty through education.

Rehema, though living in hardship, shone at school. She was a brilliant student, always helping her classmates and excelling in symposiums. In the evenings, she studied by dim kerosene light while Juma supported her with assignments. Their grandmother prayed tirelessly for them, even as the family endured leaking roofs, hunger, and despair.

Despite poverty, the girls and their neighbors built a strong community of hope. They shared meals, laughter, songs, and dreams beneath the shade of a mango tree. Juma became like an elder sister to all—teaching, guiding, and even forming the Kimara Choir with the children.

Two years passed. Juma worked as a housemaid, sacrificing her youth so Rehema and the children could live with dignity. Slowly, things began to change. But the greatest transformation came unexpectedly.

One morning, unfamiliar visitors in blue uniforms arrived. They were from Bongo Star Search (BSS). To everyone’s astonishment, Amina Juma stepped out of a white Prado, no longer the struggling girl they knew, but the Deputy CEO of BSS.

“I’ve been observing your struggles for two years,” she announced. “Now it’s time for change. From next year, every child will join school. We’ll fully sponsor your education, provide healthcare, and build new homes.”

The community was stunned. Tears of joy rolled down cheeks. Then came her revelation:

“My true name is Shammine Sakama, not Amina Juma. That old house was my great-grandmother’s. I lived there quietly to understand your pain. But now, together, we will rise.”

The crowd erupted in praise. Hearts pounded with joy. At last, the people of Kimara saw hope—not as a distant dream, but alive before their eyes.

Leadership contributes to problems in Africa. According to Japhace Poncian and Edward Simon Mgaya (p106) African continent is experiencing problems in dependency, corruption, underdeveloped infrastructure and production sectors due to poor leadership; even though we pretend to have adopted. Our land is reach in capital (Greg Mills.), but poor choices has drowned us into problems. This paper will firstly identify key reasons on how leadership contributes to problems. Secondly, the paper will focus on how leaders promote economic hardships. Finally, we will use our personal experience to explore possible responses.

Corruption and mismanagement of resources. Collection and proper use of revenues remain one of the major challenges fueling continental problems. Revenue collection is very vital to the government (Chijoriga, 2012), but it is the same government officials that are diverting public funds for personal gain thus, undermining development projects and eroding public trust. Below writings; Mbah, 2013; Afegbua & Adejuwon, 2012; Mills, 2011; Mills, 2010; Heleta, 2007 have held African leaders responsible for much of the continent’s economic, political and social woes, under revenue management. Additionally, reports from Transparency International consistently highlight high levels of corruption in various African countries that has resulted in the loss of billions of dollars, that could have been invested in essential services. (Patrick Bond 2006) Ultimately, Africa is poor, because its economy and society have been ravaged by local elites who are often propped up by foreign powers.

Lack of good governance and accountability continues to raise a concern about the effectiveness of economic diversification due to authoritarians’ tendency to disregard rule of law, increasing disparity. Poor leadership has for so long failed to guarantee economic prosperity to our countries since other essential economic activities including agriculture, craft making, and fishing (Conrad, 2005) have been undertaken. According to Mbah, C. E. (2013), authoritarian tendencies continue to create an environment where leaders are not held accountable for their actions, which hinders development. Additionally, most African countries such as Uganda have weak institutions and judiciaries thus, weak checks and balances.

Failure to prioritize continental development. One of Africa’s economic problems is fostered by leadership that has little to no vision in adjusting intra-African trade. Instead, they prioritize their enrichment and political power over citizens. Unfortunately, intra-African trade has declined from 22.4% in 1997 to 12% in 2011 UNCTAD 2013, in Zonke, 2014: p. 89. Critics argue that (Zonke, 2014) due to corruption and mismanagement of resources; continental trade has become more costly than global trade. This results in inadequate investment in education, healthcare, infrastructure and many other vital sectors in our countries. To add, reports from African Development Bank reveals the persistence of problems is attributed to the failure of some leaders to prioritize development, especially intra-African trade. This, therefore, calls for a unified investment in human capital and infrastructure including technology.

Japhace Poncian and Edward Simon Mgaya says that lack of visionary leadership hinders development, intensifying problems. More than five decades after independence, African states has been revolving in cycle of conflicts, that stun leaders off development. As a result, they become blind focusing on the conflict, leading to destructive governance, enabling dictated politics, corruption, clientelism and politics of patronage (Mbah, 2013: p. 143). For us to shut down our problems Africa needs leaders with a long-term vision for sustainable development. This said, it is imperative that we have a long-term strategic planning and a focus on prosperity. The continent’s vulnerability to global economic shocks and climate change underscores the need for proactive and visionary leadership. And that according to World Bank, our average GDP per capita is lower than global average GDP per capita depicting widespread poverty and severe economic disparity.

In today’s 21st century, Africa needs to create strong and lasting governance and leadership institutions that can "Outlive the lifespan/service term of leaders. This is very significant because many African countries have been lacking coherent, strong and long-term institutions that can withstand any external and/or internal challenges” such as tribalism and nepotism. Favoritism based on tribal or familial ties often leads to the appointment of unqualified individuals to positions of power. This undermines meritocracy and fuels social divisions. According to studies on political science in Africa, this practice can exacerbate ethnic tensions and contribute to political instability.

For instance, in our country Kenya, there are countless families that cannot afford medical care, school education and, basic needs like water. These sad moments are often experienced in Northern Kenya and some part of Northeastern Kenya. Since independence 1963, these regions are only considered during campaigns. Thereafter, they are forgotten, a sense of despair being left. They have for long tested hardships beyond economic level. We would advocate for clear strategies from elected leaders to provide citizens what citizens deserve.

Africa is constantly continuing to experience harsh realities of life despite gaining independence over fifty years ago. This paper has argued that Africa’s problems has more to do with its internal weaknesses, notably its bad leadership. Despite severe efforts to address leadership and governance challenges, there have not been any tangible outcome from our leaders. This paper has highlighted core foundation of poor leadership and how effectively it fosters problems. It has been argued that although we pretend to adopt to the situation, corruption and mismanagement of resources, lack of good governance and accountability, failure to prioritize continental development, lack of visionary leadership and, tribalism and nepotism are the major fuel to our problems thus harming us.

References: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1zi1inAGcGBgMTZjnGdBiEpO-R5rnutVT/edit?usp=drive_link&ouid=109852133187826222925&rtpof=true&sd=true 

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1A6JYFozt6aLzufAG6zbN1bJgayxQM-i3/view?usp=drive_link