Thought tide

Middle age has a way of turning the volume up on money. Suddenly, every decision echoes—savings, debt, health, the future. Time feels shorter, comparison gets noisier, and financial choices carry more weight. Still, this is not a panic stage. It’s a clarity stage. Wealth-building here isn’t about catching up; it’s about finally paying attention and making intentional moves. It starts with belief. Believe that you can save. Believe that you can invest. Believe that the numbers can change. Without belief, even the best plan stays on paper. Next, get specific. Vague goals create vague outcomes. Write down what you want: a home, retirement security, school fees, freedom from debt, or peace of mind. Then map out how you’ll get there. Clear goals give your money direction. Improve how you understand money. You don’t need to be a financial expert, but you do need financial literacy. Learn how investments work. Understand compound interest-time is still your ally. Know the tax implications,...

My Ex Is Unwell, and Suddenly ‘The Table’ Matters Thought Tide Dec 01, 2025 My ex mentioned two health scares involving a mild heart attack. I kept my voice steady, held my gaze, trying not to cause alarm. But it really bothered me. I was concerned.  I once told a friend that while people insist on “not burning bridges,” I bomb mine. I don’t look back on past relationships. I hold no enmity toward any of my exes, but I’m not one to cling to any kind of relationship after we part ways. So one would wonder how, after a decade, I’m suddenly having this conversation with my ex. We both blubbered about how life can slip through our fingers so fast, how we ought to be ready and prepared for exit. I asked him, “What does that preparation look like?” He gave me an unsure look and said, “Just live knowing each day could be your last.” Then that unpopular phrase;“What do you bring to the table?” came up. Oh, how I hate that phrase. While you pursue her, isn’t it because you already forese...

Let me tell you about my Fuliza Chronicles… I leave work past 6. It’s a bit dark, drizzling. I remove my sweater to cover my hair. My 2km trek to the stage is quick-halfway there, it pours. In my light black-and-white chiffon top, the wetness hits deep. I finally board a mathree. We’re crammed in as usual-and of course, why open the windows while it’s raining? Cue the near faint experience🙇🏾‍♀️ Along the way, we start paying our dues. The conductor gives me a paybill number. I input the account number-Mpesa responds: “Transaction cannot be completed at the moment.” I wait, try again-same response: “A similar transaction is underway.” Now the conductor’s irritated. We try the “send money” option. Miserably, same result: “Transaction cannot be completed. Try later.” At this point, everyone’s quiet. I look like a fraud. The conductor’s mad-panicky, rude, maybe even insulting. “Wewe ata hio pesa huna kwa hio Mpesa. Ulitaka tu ya sare!” My God. The panic, the fear, the embarrassmen...

Over dinner with Hailey yesterday, our chat drifted to school events. She mentioned a boy in her class who boards while the rest get to go home. I thought that was unfortunate, even unfair. She explained that sometimes he comes to class with unfinished homework. Understandable, because they’re given way too much for one evening. Four subjects, each with two digit questions. It’s just impractical. And yet, the same child is expected to be an all rounder. So where’s the time to play, to socialize, to have family moments, or even to breathe? I told her I was glad that their teacher understands his situation because unlike most kids, he doesn’t have an adult at home to help him catch up. That conversation pulled me back to a memory, three years ago. A sad one. I traveled to Kamba land to bury a colleague, a young mother who passed away after childbirth, leaving behind two daughters-one days old, the other not yet five. It was too much to bear. The grief, the uncontrollable tears, the ...

My girl was in tears. Kilograms to grams. Kilometres to metres. Litres to millilitres. In her maths test, these conversions turned into a monster. She’s sharp in maths-that one she got from me (not bragging). But this time, the results came in below expectations. She was inconsolable. On my end of the phone, I listened to my baby shed tears. And I had to remind her sometimes an A can look like a D. Don’t get me wrong, I was disappointed by the result too. But first, we needed to go through the emotions. My questions started spilling: Why the big drop? Don’t you like the teacher? Did the leg injury, which happened just a week before end-term exams, affect your concentration? Am I too busy to support you with schoolwork? Are you going to school so early that by class time you’re already tired from beating stories with your friends? I know her potential. So I let her cry, assuring her I wouldn’t hang up, that I was on the other end. She needed to cry. She need...

Lying awake in bed after my morning alarm… lazy, hoping time would move backwards. It’s Friday, and my body aches. I’m just fatigued. Now I’m in a mathree, cramped like luggage. As usual, the windows are just for decoration — no one uses them anymore. Okay. Let’s just breathe on each other like the oxygen inside has been specially conserved for this journey. And honestly, what’s with people playing their stuff on loudspeaker in a quiet public space? Ever heard of ear pods, headphones, earphones... or just something?🤷🏾‍♀️ Exactly a week ago, after work, a colleague gave me a lift. We got talking about nothing and everything. And when I say everything, I mean the kind of conversations you really want to have, but never quite find the right person or the right moment for. You know... the unsaids. But first, pause. I can’t pass my candy lady at the stage without stopping. Even going three days without buying from her loads me with a weird kind of guilt. “Leo umechelewa, na unakaa ...

Monday morning. Counting every damn minute — not for a promotion or a miracle — just for this mathree to finally reach my stage. If you know, you know. That awkward sit-like-you’re-ready-to-jump position? Yeah, that one. Because with the way the seats are hanging by a thread and the fleas possibly hosting a conference under your thighs, you stay ready so you don't have to get ready.   The conductor? Red-eyed. Bruised lower lip. Smells like he's been wrestling his weekend. And yet, the audacity to demand fare like we’ll vanish through windows! Midway through, the driver hears there’s a police crackdown ahead. Man mumbles something in mother tongue. I don’t blame him. That mathree couldn’t survive a body inspection. We alight. A mess. Trying to get my change back from a half-drunk conductor feels like asking Pharaoh for a quick release from Egypt. The insults! I give up. Write it off. I choose peace. But wait. Didn’t I promise myself a good Monday? I remember yesterda...

Koa openly says that if lunch is on the ladies, pilau njeri it shall be. Iker, slightly MIA on the WhatsApp proceedings, seconds him with no apologies: “They” are not good in the kitchen. So Kitengela it is —the chosen catch-up destination. How we agreed to this still puzzles me. I suspect Lulu played mind games, and her counterpart, the moran, quietly agreed. Me? I didn't overthink it. I simply reminisced on our last catch-up in the same region, Koa hosting. Why lie—that choma was top-tier. But again, would I expect less from this Maasai host? Wendo texts that she’s already on Mombasa Road. Alma says she’s leaving from Karatina but promises to join. Please, Iker, pick up the phone already. Yes, Hails accompanied me. In my monkey bag I carried two plastic bags—precautionary, as she gets car sick and pukes like she is on a payroll. She was excited to go anywhere with me—my handbag in a human form. Lulu picks us from Eastmart. We wait a few minutes for Zola, who is trying t...

A matatu ride. A letter from my daughter. A realization about unspoken storms. This is how Hope Club was born—in the quiet spaces where pre-teen girls hide their hearts. But for real, what happened to Kenyan matatu users never opening windows? My goodness. I found myself in a 14-seater with 18 of us packed in. Wah, I don’t know what we’re incubating to hatch into😏? The heat, the discomfort, the sneers when someone dared pick a call... it was comedy and chaos in motion. Anyway, a couple of days earlier, I had received a letter. Not just any letter, but one from my 10-year-old daughter. It was a full complexity of emotion that even adults struggle to unpack. Fear. Insecurity. Protectiveness. Love. It was triggered by what I considered a harmless shift in our normal routine. Nothing dramatic. But to her, it meant everything. She didn’t like it. She even wrote that she felt unloved. That word gripped me like a hand to the throat. I couldn’t wait to get home, to hug her and talk. To ...