Ian's Blog

  In order for you to be born, it took two parents. That much we all understand. But pause there for a moment and follow the thread backwards. I n order to be born, you needed: 2 parents 4 grandparents 8 great-grandparents 16 second great-grandparents 32 third great-grandparents 64 fourth great-grandparents 128 fifth great-grandparents 256 sixth great-grandparents 512 seventh great-grandparents 1,024 eighth great-grandparents 2,048 ninth great-grandparents By the time you reach just twelve generations, roughly 400 years, you are looking at 4,094 human beings whose existence, choices, survival, and timing had to align with near-impossible precision for you to be alive right now. Pause for a second and really think about this. Four thousand ninety-four lives. Four thousand ninety-four separate stories. Four thousand ninety-four fragile human journeys that could have ended early, diverged, or simply never intersected. And yet, here you are. We move through life casually, often feelin...

  Do you know that many men suffer from what could be called “delayed grief” because they are never allowed to crash when the tragedy actually happens? When death strikes a family or crisis explodes without warning, something almost automatic happens in many men. A switch flips. He doesn’t always decide consciously, but he shifts into what can only be described as Superman Mode. While others are breaking down, he straightens up. While the room fills with tears, he becomes the tissue holder. While voices tremble, his becomes steady. He starts making calls, organizing logistics, speaking to doctors, handling funeral arrangements, calming children, absorbing everyone else’s panic. He postpones his own pain to manage the chaos. In those early hours and days, his strength is real. It is necessary. It is often admirable. Families need stability in crisis, and many men instinctively step into that role. They console the crying women. They shield the children. They swallow their own shock ...

  Devolution in Kenya was never going to be perfect. It was an experiment born out of the 2010 Constitution—a deliberate shift from an over-centralized system to one where power, resources, and decision-making moved closer to the people. For years, critics have asked whether it works. They point to stalled projects, endless audit queries, MCAs fighting governors, and counties that seem permanently trapped in mediocrity. But if we are honest and fair, we must also acknowledge where devolution has worked—and worked remarkably well. Kiambu, Murang’a, and Makueni offer strong evidence that visionary leadership can transform counties when the tools of devolution are used properly. Take Kiambu County under Governor Kimani Wamatangi . The most striking development has been the growth in Own Source Revenue (OSR), which reportedly doubled from KSh 2.79 billion to KSh 5.45 billion. That is not merely a financial statistic—it is a governance signal. It suggests improved revenue collection sys...

  It’s strange when you really think about it. Earth almost feels perfectly set up for human life. Water literally falls from the sky. Food grows from the ground. Trees produce fruit without invoices. Rivers flow without subscriptions. The sun rises every morning without sending a bill. If you look at nature long enough, it feels generous. Abundant. Almost effortless. And yet, here we are. Living in a world where survival seems to require passwords, credit scores, job contracts, performance reviews, and 40-hour work weeks. You need approval to build. You need money to eat. You need documentation to exist properly. Somehow, between rainfall and mango trees, we built a system that feels like a machine. It creates a strange emotional tension. On one hand, the planet itself looks like a gift. On the other hand, participation in modern society feels like a subscription plan you can’t cancel. You can’t just step outside and gather what you need. Land is owned. Water is regulated. Food is...

  We need to talk. Because apparently, people are now confessing their sins to ChatGPT. A fella recently found out her girlfriend was cheating, not through a late-night phone call, not through suspicious WhatsApp messages, not even through Instagram DMs but through her ChatGPT history. Let that sink in. In 2026, you don’t get caught by your side piece. You get caught by artificial intelligence. And the real question is: Why are people telling ChatGPT everything? ChatGPT has quietly become the modern confession booth. Except instead of whispering behind a wooden screen to a priest, you’re typing into a glowing rectangle at 2:17 a.m. “Should I tell my boyfriend I cheated?” “I think I’m in love with someone else.” “How do I hide messages from my partner?” That’s the strange world we now live in. People are not just using artificial intelligence to draft emails and polish CVs; they are using it to confess, to strategize, to process guilt, to rehearse lies, to test escape route...

  On one hand, an MP is offering KSh 10 million to quell a rumor. On the other, our biggest tennis star is forced to run a fundraiser to raise the same amount. This is Kenya in 2026: a nation of stark, uncomfortable contrasts. Take the latest example: Kasarani MP Ronald Karauri donated KSh 2 million to Oga Obinna to support the Majembe vs. Mbavu Destroyer boxing match. The president, not to be outdone in public spectacle, also offered KSh 4 million for the same event. Suddenly, a private fight between two personalities commands millions from the public purse or at least from public figures eager for visibility. And while we can celebrate support for sport, it becomes hard to ignore the skewed logic in these allocations. These same individuals are unlikely to blink when it comes to supporting boxing at the grassroots level. There, young fighters scrape for gear, pay for gym access out of pocket, and dream of opportunities that never materialize. The money is only made available when...

  I will die on this hill: the KSh 40 billion earmarked for Talanta Stadium would have been far better spent at Kenyatta National Hospital specifically in oncology, nephrology, and cardiology research, infrastructure, and patient care. Not because sports don’t matter. Not because national pride is meaningless. But because priorities matter, and people are dying while we build monuments. This is not an argument against football, athletics, or national celebration. It is an argument for proportionality. It is a question of moral arithmetic. When a country is hemorrhaging lives from preventable and manageable diseases, pouring tens of billions into concrete and seats should at least provoke discomfort. At KNH, cancer patients line corridors waiting for radiotherapy slots that come too late. Kidney patients crowd dialysis units where machines run nonstop and still aren’t enough. Heart disease patients delay treatment because the cost of specialized care is catastrophic for ordinary fam...