The Art of Proddy

This is how it happens.

You land a job straight out of college at a major Company. You’re just another cog in a very large machine, but at least you’ve got your foot in the door.

You rent a shitty apartment in the outskirts of the city, one you can barely afford, because you know the money will eventually come. You get married because, well, that’s what everyone is doing, and she moves into that same shitty apartment.

You’re dead broke, but now there are two of you. You’re in it together, and somehow, that feels good.

Side note: No one will ever fuck you the way she did in that shitty apartment ever again. Not even her.

So, you work your asses off and slowly dig yourselves out of the hole.

Things start looking up. Life becomes a little more comfortable. And just when you think you’ve finally found your footing, you have your first child.

You move houses. You move to a more scarcely populated estate. You are paying triple the rent you were paying in that shitty apartment. And just like that, you’re broke again.

So you work harder. Longer hours. You start making serious money, which only makes you realise just how much more money you could be making.

Then comes child number two. And, once again, you’re broke. Only this time, it’s a different kind of broke. You’re leveraged. A fancy way of saying you’ve accumulated things to show for all your hard work: the house, the cars, the lifestyle and all the stuff.

Somewhere along the way, you’ve lost sight of those naive dreams you once had. The things that mattered when you were starting out.

But you’re moving too fast to stop and ask yourself the difficult questions.

When is enough actually enough?

And, more importantly, what’s the point of all this shit?

Child number three.

Then, one day, roughly five years, you look around and realise you’ve finally made it.

You’ve reached that supposedly glorious point in life where, for the first time, you can actually afford your own existence.

And in that mystical sweet spot, where you believe you’ve finally wrestled life and all its infinitely complicated challenges into submission, you’ll often find the ultimate plot twist waiting for you:

Find your wife of 18 years, in your bed, with one of your closest friends. That’s the Paradox of life.

Follow my series of “My Thoughts” as we move through the different aspects of life, the things we fear to say aloud, and the truths that need to be questioned, explained, or completely debunked.

Episode One: My Thoughts on Being a Man.

For starters, let me begin by asking a simple question:
Is there really a formula to life?

Does every man have to walk the same path to be considered successful?
Must pain be hidden for us to be called strong?
Must silence always be mistaken for maturity?

Society hands men a script very early in life:
Provide. Protect. Endure. Repeat.

But rarely does anyone ask the man himself whether he is okay carrying all that weight. Rarely does anyone teach men how to heal, only how to survive.

Some men are drowning quietly behind laughter.
Some are fighting battles they can never explain.
Some are trying to become good fathers without ever having seen what one looks like.

Being a man is often spoken about through responsibility, but not humanity. Through pressure, but not peace.

Maybe strength is not found in pretending to have it all together.
Maybe true masculinity is in accountability, kindness, discipline, emotional control, and still having the courage to keep going when life humbles you.

These are just my thoughts.
Not facts. Not commandments. Just reflections from one man trying to understand the world and his place in it.

To be continued…

MY THOUGHTS…

by Mutwiri Njeru-Baranya.

I watch him wear a brave disguise, 
A smile that masks the truth in his eyes. 
It shines enough to hide the pain, 
That cracks beneath the quiet strain. 

His laugh is light, but echoes deep, 
A sound that barely lets him weep. 
His silence, louder than the crowd, 
A whisper buried in a shroud. 

He speaks of dreams that slipped away, 
Of glory lost along the way. 
The world just shrugs, with no reply: 
“Be a man, for real men don’t cry.”

So he folds his sorrow, neat and tight, 
And hides it far away from sight. 
He walks ahead, no sign, no clue, 
A storm beneath a sky of blue. 

How many more walk just like him, 
With broken hearts that hide behind a grin? 
And still we repeat, not knowing why, 
The words that teach our men to die.

By George M. Njeru | Life & Hustle in Kanairo

If you’ve lived in Nairobi long enough, you know one thing: this city is a character all by itself. There’s no ‘one’ Nairobi Character. It never sleeps, never slows, and never runs out of stories. From the blue collar mansions of Runda to the mabati corners of Kayole, the Nairobi guy is hustling, surviving, and somehow thriving.

Let’s take a quick ride through four very different lives that all share one heartbeat: the Kanairo grind.

1. Mr. P. C. Otieno – The Runda Don.

Mr. Otieno doesn’t wake up, he rises. Birds sing, curtains open themselves, and Alexa greets him with, “Good morning, sir.” His green tea is imported, his cat Tofu eats better than most comrades. His biggest stress is whether his driver remembered to fuel the car with V-Power, of course.

He’s the kind of guy who complains about inflation, not because he’s broke, but because it might affect the price of imported cat food. His meetings happen in glass towers that smell of sanitizer and soft life. His lunch is sushi in Westlands, where the bill could pay rent for an entire block in Kayole.

Evenings find him by the pool with whiskey in hand, tweeting about leadership and posting #TBTs with captions like “grind different.” But deep down, he’s still the guy from Jericho who got lucky. He knows how to say “Wooza bossie” when the vibe calls for it.

2. Mr. Juma – The Civil Servant.

Then there’s Juma from Embakasi Village, Mtu wa system. The man knows JKIA better than his own kitchen. He’s up by 5:30 a.m., ironed uniform sharp enough to cut bread. His thermos of tea? Legendary. You don’t joke with it. That tea is so powerful, it can power a flight to Kisumu.

He reaches the airport at sunrise, signs the rosters, gets the daily briefs and starts his day with his usual phrase, “Hapa hatuna mchezo na security.” Even colleagues know not to argue with Juma. He once made a Minister remove shoes because “rules are rules.”

His phone is always buzzing. WhatsApp groups, family messages, KRA reminders. During lunch, he scrolls through TikTok, laughing at videos of funny pranks and saying, “these boys are mad.”

His evenings are characterized by traffic on Mombasa Road, a quick round of pool at the local pool house. That’s when his patience is tested. But he just leans back, shoots his pool and goes home. He cranks up some rhumba, and whispers, “One day, I’ll retire in the village and keep goats.”

Still, tomorrow morning, he’ll be back at it; guarding the skies, one bag-search at a time.

3. Davi – The Matatu Donda!

Davi,  the energy plug of the streets. The man doesn’t walk; he bounces. He wakes up in Dagoretti, freshens up in record time, and is at the stage yelling “Tao! Tao! Wawili Tao!” before the sun is even fully awake.

His matatu, “One Term”, is more lit than clubs in Roysambu. Strobe lights, gengetone beats, and unmatched attitude. Davi runs his Matatu like a pro. Collecting fares, cracking jokes, shouting “Shukisha!” with the authority of a President. Besides, in Dagoretti they call him Ghetto president.

He’s got punchlines for days:

“Madam hakuna stage inaitwa hapa.”

“Bro, umepanda 2025 edition, fare ya 2022 ime-expire!”

Between dodging kanjos and negotiating with cops, Davi still dreams big. Someday, he wants to own his own fleet of matatus with Wi-Fi, tinted windows, and maybe his face painted on the side. Because in Nairobi, even chaos has ambition.

4. Msyoks – The Garbage King of Umoja.

Finally, meet Msyoks, the man who keeps Nairobi breathing. He wakes up at 5 a.m. in Kayole, walks hastly towards Umoja, his five year old mkokoteni in tow. One wheel leans, the other one squeaks, but it still rolls strong through this road every morning.

In Umoja, Msyoks is a neighborhood celebrity. Everyone knows him. Kids wave, mama mbogas call out, dogs don’t bark at him when he whistles down the street. His “mkoko” has graffiti that proudly reads:

“Nairobi, Shamba la Mawe!.”

Msyoks doesn’t just collect trash; he collects stories. He knows who broke up, who moved out, who still hasn’t paid rent. But he minds his business, mostly.

When the sun sets, you’ll find him at Mama Njeri’s kibanda, watching the news enjoying githeri and a cup of tea. He laughs loud, jokes even louder, and dreams of upgrading to a mkokoteni with “bearing za majuu.”

He may not wear a tie, but his work is noble. He’ll tell you proudly, “Mimi ni environmental consultant, bro!” and honestly, he’s not wrong.

These guys; different vibes, same struggle. Otieno pops champagne, Juma pops thermos lids, Davi pops matatu doors, and Msyoks pops jokes on demand. They live in different worlds but share one thing, the never-ending dance with Kanairo. The place where you can lose your wallet, your mind, and your Fuliza limit all in one afternoon. But somehow you still wake up the next day ready to try again.

That’s Nairobi. She humbles everyone equally. Whether you’re in Runda or Kayole, one thing’s for sure, you’re part of the same wild story. And if you’re lucky, maybe, just maybe, you’ll get to live to tell it.

Trade unions often get painted as loud, disruptive, or old-fashioned. But in truth, they remain one of the strongest defenders of workers’ rights and social justice in Kenya today.

In a world where privatization, outsourcing, and job insecurity are common, a single employee has little power to challenge a giant employer or even the government. A union gives workers that collective strength. It becomes their voice at the negotiating table and their shield against unfair treatment.

A good example is the Kenya Aviation Workers Union (KAWU) strike against the proposed ADANI takeover of Jomo Kenyatta International Airport.
Back in 2023, the deal was presented as a “strategic investment.” But for workers, it signaled uncertainty, possible job cuts, and the risk of surrendering a vital national asset to private control. KAWU saw the bigger picture. They mobilized, downed tools, and stood their ground under the banner #RejectADANI.

The strike disrupted flights, yes. But it also forced the government to rethink. In the end, the takeover collapsed. JKIA remained under public management, jobs were safeguarded, and Kenyans kept control of their most important airport.

That strike proved that unions are not just about higher pay. They are about justice, fairness, and protecting the public interest. A lone aviation worker could never have stopped the deal but united, through their union, workers influenced national policy. And the benefits extended to every Kenyan traveler.

For young workers especially, the GenZs, the lesson is clear: don’t stand on the sidelines. Join your union, understand your rights, and take part in shaping the future of work in Kenya. For the wider public, support unions when they stand up for fairness and accountability. Because when unions win, society wins too.

If love was measured by a star,
I’d gather each one, near and far.
But even the skies are not enough,
To hold the depth of what I love.

One infinity could never contain,
The way you heal, the way you remain.
So I promise you, with every breath,
A love that outlives even death.

Not once, but twice, beyond all time,
Two infinities, yours and mine.
Endless circles that intertwine,
Your soul forever tied to mine.

So let the universe fade away,
And still my heart will always stay.
For even eternity bends to see,
That my love for you is infinity,times two.