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When the Future Stood at the Door, My Echo, Jamo.

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I once talked about the Butterfly Effect. That small flap of a butterfly wing in Africa — insignificant as it may seem — causing a tornado in Brazil. Small action. Massive consequence. One vote. Your vote. We keep pretending it is small. It is not. It is the tornado. I am appealing to the youth. We need your votes in large numbers. Not noise. Not hashtags. Votes. Can we, just this once, be the generation that forces change? Can we educate our people on the consequences of bad political choices? Because bad choices don’t disappear. They mature. They knock. As I sit here with my pal Jamo, still a bit hesitant about this “new leaf” he wants to turn, I can feel something brewing in him. An eruption of change maybe. Or indigestion. Hard to tell with Jamo. We make our order and sit. The music fills the air — quiet, cold ambience. Classy. Elegant. The kind of place where mistakes are made politely. We take small sips of this tasty whiskey. I feel it burn my tongue. That raw barrel feel. For a...
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Even Giants Fall — And Echoes Knock at Six

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 Have you ever wondered what happened to the New Generation brothers? The mall stands like a sore thumb. A reminder that all is vanity. A reminder that even giants fall. Goliath did. And when he fell, the Philistines were ruled by the Israelites. That’s how David became king. It’s past midnight and I’m burning the proverbial midnight oil. I hear the sound of my buck intimately trying to ride the does… the sound of kids bleating. I have always wanted to own a ranch. I have watched Yellowstone from season one to the finale. The last episode was a kicker. I nearly shed tears. It pained me how they killed John Dalton. It was not how I envisioned it ending. And it happened in the first episode. I nearly stopped watching the damn series. But I felt I owed it to my Mr. Dalton to see it to the end — and with that curiosity, I learned something new, something so profound that it made me smile. That was just an imaginative dream I have when I haven’t had a pint. So where were we? Jamo h...
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Formless, 5.5 Billion and Another Wife for Jamo

 Lately I’ve been wondering what I should dream about. Maybe I should have become a teacher. Because there are lessons that clearly need to be taught. And retaught. And drilled into thick political skulls. I never liked politics. Still don’t. But it is what it is. No pain, no gain. And politics is my pain. A pain I share with over 350,000 people in Taita Taveta — according to the last census. Yes. 350,000 of us. And for those 350,000 souls, we receive roughly 5.4 to 5.5 billion shillings annually as equitable share from the National Government. Billions. Let that sink in. And before the Tutam choir begins warming their vocal cords — relax. It’s not about how much you receive. It’s about how you use it. From that 5.5 billion, over 2 billion goes to salaries. And when I say 2 billion, I haven’t even added the decimal points. Meaning it’s more than that. Shout “2 terms!” all you want. Facts don’t bend. Wakujaa has failed this county. And Mwaruma is not a spectator. He is inside it. ...
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Jamo and the Damsels: A County That Keeps Marrying Promises

 So I have this friend — let’s call him Jamo. Yes, Jamo, not Jemo. Ghetto names, Msee wa Kayole -Eastlands edition. The kind of guy who didn’t chase women; women chased him. Not because he was trying too hard — the man just existed. Worked with an NGO as some data analyst wizard. Money ilikuwa mingi. Resources zilikuwa pletty. And as good friends — let’s be honest — we helped him “manage” those resources. Never benefitted him much, come to think of it. We mined his life like a quarry and built our own castles elsewhere. Not proud of it… but he never seemed to mind. Then came 2013 or thereabout — the day my boy Jamo shocked me. He called me: “Bud, let’s meet at our favorite water spot.” We weren’t goats, so I knew exactly where — Class 3. Found him there with a bottle of Yohana Mtembezi, the black one. We celebrate roots — not red coz we ain't Red Indians, we are black men with stories. A drink or two after, is then he drops the bomb. “I’m settling down… I’m devolving.” Damn!...
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“Aii Mum, si ni Mkenya”

 I was reading a post on X the other day. Or rather—I started reading it. I can’t even remember the exact wording now, but let’s not dwell on my memory. I hear 50 years is a proper kick in the nuts—even upstairs. You lose some things. Hair included. My mind isn’t as sharp as it used to be. Jeez… I’ve even forgotten where I was going with this. Ah yes. The daughter. So this daughter comes home from school, excited—bubbling over about something that happened during the day. One of those moments parents pretend to be listening to while mentally checking tomorrow’s bills. Then the mum asks, casually, without malice: “Alikuwa wa kabila gani?” And the daughter answers, confused: “Aii Mum, si ni Mkenya?” That innocence. That clarity. That generation of my dreams. Why can’t we just be that? Kenyans. Funny thing is—even in small societies, the disease survives. Take us here in Taita Taveta. To an outsider, we are one people: Taita Taveta . Simple. Clean. If only they knew. ...
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If I Were the Only Voter That Counted

 I woke up this morning with a dangerous thought. If I were the only voter that counted—just me—would my choices be based on personal benefit, or on what is good for the community? That question refused to leave me alone. Just the other day, I was walking past a station in Voi town when I found a group of women crowded outside. Curious, I asked the attendant what was happening. “Wametoka kwa mkutano wa siasa, wanangoja pesa.” Ah. Sonuts started playing in my head. But as I walked on, I passed another group. This time the tone had changed. “Kwani hawatoi kitu hawa?” And pa! —or was it wa! —the light in my head switched on. We can’t keep lying to ourselves anymore. We are the problem. I am the problem. You are the problem. I recently watched a video making rounds of the incumbent governor, Mheshimiwa Andrew Mwadime. Funny thing—the video speaks only about how calmly he talks, how he listens, how he helps individuals. I don’t disagree. Helping matters. But let me ask a painful questi...
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The Fog, the Fire, and the Choice Before Us

 So here I am—another year older, seated quietly, celebrating the little joys of life. A gift from God, of course. Who am I not to be grateful, even when times are tough? Ni January, my friend. Much has been said about me. But what about you? My Taita people. Is it WANTAM… or have we quietly slipped into TUTAM? Across the country, there’s a thick fog in the air. Smoke everywhere. You can’t see the fire, but you can feel it—burning slowly, deliberately. Campaign fires have been lit once again. And though my eyes are teary, I can still hear. I can still sense. The blindness that covered us in previous years—madongo gha funywa—is lifting. This time, something feels different. For once, we are saying—in one voice—that those who know must educate those who don’t. That ignorance is no longer an excuse. That change is not optional. It is necessary. But for change to come, we need clarity of purpose. I hear names being whispered loudly now. Mwashako of Wundanyi. Senator Mwaruma. They are s...
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WANTAM — But Who Will Lead the Change?

It’s been a while. A moment of silence, reflection, and resilience. Lets start by wishing our readers HAPPY MADARAKA DAY!!! Sometimes, just being present—juggling life, parenting, work, and the chaos of social media—is a full-time job. Connecting with some of you over the past months has been one of the highlights of this journey. But let’s be candid—it hasn’t been easy. Learning to accept ourselves, and allowing others to do the same, especially in public spaces like this one, takes courage. And as we try to live, laugh, and love…people are dying. Yes—dying in our hospitals, more than is expected, more than is acceptable. We keep asking the same questions, raising the same issues. But it seems our leaders have grown immune to the cries of their people. Let’s talk about the audacity of it all—County Cabinet Secretaries willing to hand over county payrolls to the National Government. Is this not the same Constitution that gave power to the people through devolution? Now they want to cen...
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The Gem We Know, The Gem We Ignore

 As a county, we know what we have— The Congo of Kenya! A land rich in resources, yet exploited and used. Our cries of injustice echo through time, but deep down, we know—our tears of exploitation are of our own making. We have forgotten a simple truth: a community must be built by us, not for us. Time and again, I am reminded of the smallest unit of a community— the family. If it is broken, if trust and structure within it cannot hold, then what hope do we have? What future do we build? Generations continue to be trapped in cycles of poverty and misery , not because we lack potential, but because we have refused to take responsibility for our own growth. The Rise and Fall of a Visionary I am looking for the founder of New Generation. A man whose name may no longer be spoken in pride, but whose impact cannot be erased. Despite the fall, he deserves a round of applause. Many know his story—how he built men, inspired businesses, and touched the lives of both men and women alike. H...
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Ubuntu Reimagined: Building a Future from Home

 I sit here surrounded by family—my pillars, my safe haven. The year's struggles fade for a moment, replaced by the comfort of the basic unit: family. It’s in this simplicity, this unity, that I find clarity. Parenting is no small task; it’s the duty of raising a generation that will carry the weight of what we’ve failed to fix. In the old days, boys learned from men, and girls learned from women. Lessons weren’t left to chance; they were deliberate, definitive, woven into the fabric of daily life. But that fabric tore when the Kaburus—colonial opportunists—introduced us to their way of life. We took their systems, their charades of democracy, and left behind something more sacred: Ubuntu . The idea that I am because we are. Now, it’s every man for himself, and we see the results—a fractured society where unity feels like a relic of the past. Take a moment to consider the impact of our choices. While we dream of national change, our cradle—the county—crumbles. How real is this figh...
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