STOP PLAYING A SIDE CHARACTER IN YOUR OWN LIFE: WRITE YOUR STORY

[Picture Courtesy] Forty years ago, we began a journey of love, commitment, and shared dreams that became the core of our life together. As we celebrate our #40 milestone, we’re wrapped in the warm glow of a love that’s grown sweeter with time, its melody woven with resilience, patience, and dedication. This is the story of how our union, rooted in tradition and nurtured by choice, has blossomed into a cherished tapestry, enriched by the milestones of our family, over four incredible decades. Our journey began in the AG chambers, where we sealed our vows with a tender promise that felt like a sacred pact. The quiet formality of that moment grounded our commitment in our hearts. It marked the beginning of a song we would sing together, a commitment to build a life together. This milestone set the stage for the family we would grow, a foundation of love that would carry us forward. In the church, surrounded by the love of our community, our “ I do’s ” bloomed like spring flowers, radian...

I once believed mentorship was about collecting advice . Then I met a mentor who taught me something far greater. When I first began my career, I believed a mentor was someone who gave me the answers. Ask a question, obtain a solution. Simple. At first, that worked. Whenever I encountered a challenge, I would seek guidance from my mentor, gather advice, and implement it. But eventually, I noticed something unsettling: whenever the situation didn't align with the plan, I felt disoriented. Their answers worked in the moment, but they didn’t prepare me for the unexpected. That’s when I realised something important: a mentor who only tells you what to think can solve your problems today, but a mentor who teaches you how to think will prepare you to solve them for the rest of your life. I was fortunate enough to experience this lesson firsthand. I met my mentor, may he rest in peace, at a turning point in my life and career. Things were not working well. I was restless, questioning mys...

Allow me to establish the context.  I walked into this giant supermarket in New York feeling focused and responsible. The visit was my second time in New York City . My mission was professional.  Attending a symposium .  So my shopping list was short. Therefore, my mission to the supermarket was simple. Get in. Get out. No drama. But then… the prices. My people, the bread was staring at me like it had a mortgage attached. Without even thinking, I muttered in Kiswahili , “Eh, hizi bei ni za kutisha.” (These prices are scary.)  As a Kenyan from a background without luxury, I converted the dollar into Kenyan shillings [my weakness]. Kwani huku ni wapi? Even though I had enough pocket money, I was startled by the price differences.  I continued talking to myself, but in Kiswahili.  Now, in my mind, I was safe. This is America. It is many kilometres from Kenya. People are supposed to say “Have a wonderful day” and move on, not respond to my muttering in Kiswahi...

Six years ago, my mother left this world, but her lessons echo in every lecture I give, every student I inspire. In our rural Kenyan village , where golden fields stretched under the sun and life pulsed with the seasons, her kitchen was my first classroom. Without formal education, she was my greatest professor, teaching resilience, the value of knowledge, and the power of vision in quiet kitchen moments. As a subsistence farmer and savvy businesswoman, she supplemented my father’s modest income, but her heart, fierce, wise, and unyielding, shaped me into the professor I am today.  On this sixth anniversary of her passing, I honor her legacy, tracing the path from her kitchen to my classroom. Her kitchen was more than a place to cook; it was a sanctuary of learning. Over steaming pots of maize porridge or while mending clothes under a flickering kerosene lamp , she wove stories of perseverance. Her hands, rough from tilling stubborn soil, moved with purpose as she spoke of overco...

August 7, 1998 — A  Real Story Worth Telling [Courtesy:  The picture is not the real picture of the terror in Nairobi] Imagine a morning 27 years ago, when Nairobi sparkled under a golden sun. On August 7, 1998 , the city hummed with life: vendors stacked mangoes in vibrant piles, matatus blared cheerful horns, and the air buzzed with the energy of a new day. In this colorful weave, expectant mothers cradled dreams of their unborn babies, schoolchildren laughed in classrooms, and ordinary people threaded their routines through the streets. But at 10:30 a.m., an explosion at the U.S. Embassy on Haile Selassie Avenue tore through that rhythm, an enemy without stitching chaos, courage, and a name,  Rose , into Nairobi’s story forever. For young ones like you, born long after, let me weave this tale of a city’s heart, its heroes, and a woman whose voice still echoes, to help you see the strength of Kenyan people. The Mothers-to-Be In a bustling market, Amina wove through...

As I sit here, with September 7th, 2025 , coming tomorrow to mark eighteen years since my graduation , my heart dances with joy, reflecting on a journey woven with academic milestones, fierce challenges, and unyielding resilience that carried me through. This milestone, celebrated on that radiant day, isn’t just about the moment I crossed the stage on September 7th, 2007 ; it’s about every step, every struggle, every triumph that shaped a story of grit, grace, and unstoppable determination. As a mother, wife, career woman , and scholar , I balanced life’s beautiful chaos with a heart full of purpose, and this is my celebration of that legacy, made even more vivid by the memory of losing all my personal things during the rehearsal day on September 6th, 2007 The journey began with a bold spark, the decision to pursue this degree amidst the whirlwind of life. Motherhood delayed my starting point temporarily. The determination remained. My third baby, too young to understand my resolve, f...