04/02/2026
A recent piece by Kenneth Thimba has sparked an unusually high level of conversation, private messages, and reflection.
Rather than summarise or excerpt it, we’re sharing it here in full and unfiltered — because some stories lose their meaning when trimmed.
It begins with funerals.
Moves through February and relationships.
Detours into sales and maternity.
And ends — as it often does — with rugby and community.
Same forest. Different monkeys.
The Eulogy Your Gen Z Is Already Writing
Over the last year, many of my generation have buried too many people too close to our age.
Agemates.
Friends.
Parents of children who sit in the same classrooms as our own kids.
It has a way of collapsing time.
Watching live or on YouTube, the sadness is permeating.
A friend sent me a tearjerker last week.
I watched it — but heard different things, saw different things.
What’s been quietly changing, though, is not just who we are burying —
but how the children speak.
Once you get over the shock of seeing young people with nose rings, dreadlocks, cornrows, the occasional mohawk and other chicken-comb looking styles —
after judging their parents — remember yourself at that age.
Afro rowdy hair patted down to look presentable.
Water.
The back of a handheld mirror.
(There was a guy called Ray Parker… but that’s a story for another day.)
I don’t know what they use nowadays.
Anyway, the mane has been tamed — temporarily.
Gen Z eulogies are different.
They are not polished.
They are not ceremonial.
They are not padded with polite lies.
They speak of love — yes.
But also of absence.
Of silence.
Of things never resolved, yet somehow forgiven.
What’s striking is not what they say.
It’s what they edit out.
Anger is softened.
Distance is rephrased.
Harshness becomes “discipline.”
Emotional unavailability becomes “he tried in his own way.”
“She was weird” becomes
“she had a connection to the spiritual world.”
One young speaker said it plainly, almost casually:
“He wasn’t perfect. But he showed up when he could.”
Not out of dishonesty —
but out of survival.
The uncomfortable truth is this:
the eulogy is not written at death.
It is drafted quietly on ordinary Tuesdays,
while everyone is still alive.
If your Gen Z were asked to speak one year after you were gone,
what would they say —
and what would they carefully avoid saying?
That question isn’t about guilt.
It’s about awareness.
And it sits with you.
Love Month Is Not a Month. It’s an Exam.
After writing that, I needed to breathe.
(It’s difficult to write about sadness.)
Let’s talk about February.
Imefika.
The love month has begun —
which in Kenyan terms means expectations have already outrun reality.
For some, love is flowers.
For others, love is peace.
For many, love is simply not being stressed.
And yet every year, we treat February like a performance review.
People don’t break up in February because they “discovered the truth.”
They break up because expectations were never aligned —
and it finally showed.
We’ve become very good at diagnosing relationships with fancy language.
Commitment phobia.
Trauma.
Mummy issues.
Then there’s that contrarian in the group:
“Their family has a history of mental issues.”
“That one is crazy.”
What some tables call Boiro.
Boiro is a very efficient Kenyan word.
It can mean pain.
Enjoyment.
Admiration.
Ecstasy.
But sometimes the truth is simpler and less dramatic:
You weren’t a fit.
Not every failed relationship is a psychological thriller.
Some are just mismatches of timing, temperament, and emotional effort.
February exposes that — loudly.
The trick is not to survive love month.
It’s to stop over-curating affection
and start being honest about what you can actually sustain.
That honesty would save people a lot of heartache,
money,
and a lot of self-diagnosis.
The Sales Story We Don’t Like Admitting
In one of the sales courses I teach, we talk about the staircase pitch — not the elevator.
Three parts:
Describe the current position — the as is
Describe the desired position — the should be
Ask what has stopped them — the barrier
Then you widen the gap until, when you drop the solution in,
the client helplessly says yes.
Is it ethical?
Is it human?
While the jury debates,
a cash register rings.
An M-Pesa alert buzzes.
Another sale.
Another notch.
I’ve watched deals die quietly not because solutions were weak,
but because no one wanted to ask the uncomfortable question.
Sales doesn’t fail because people don’t work hard.
It fails because people avoid discomfort.
Comfort is not confirmation.
From the Grave to the Maternity Ward
After death, life insists on being noticed.
In the same season where memorial services are increasing,
elite athletes are stepping away to create life — and returning stronger.
Beatrice Chebet has announced a maternity break during the 2026 season,
calling it “the most important race of my life.”
Faith Kipyegon — herself a comeback story — has broken ground on a maternity wing in Keringet to reduce preventable maternal deaths.
Maternity breaks are often framed as interruptions.
They’re not.
They are incubation.
Life does not move in straight lines.
It moves in cycles.
Death reminds us of endings.
Birth reminds us that continuity is stubborn.
Both belong in the same conversation.
Same forest.
Different mothers.
Mi Amor (My First Love)
The HSBC Sevens tickets are sold out.
Nyayo will be full.
The noise will be familiar.
Planning has already started.
Who you’re going with.
How you’ll get there.
What you’ll wear.
What stories you’ll tell afterwards.
Sport pulls us back into community —
not because it’s perfect,
but because it’s shared.
In a week that begins with death
and ends with planning for joy,
that matters.
Sherehe.
Same forest.
Different monkeys.
