Dear readers. Imagine you have this tyrant neighbor. Let’s call him Gork. He arbitrarily decides to borrow quite some money chunk which he further uses to buy a pair of shoes. Later on, Gork knocks your door with the pair of shoes, forces you to have the pair of shoes besides charging a tidy levy every time you put them on. But no, you didn’t even ask him for a pair shoes. Additionally, he later discloses that the pair of shoes was bought on borrowed chums for which you’ll repay cost alongside staggering interest rates. Verily negotiated by him! However when you raise your tribulations, Gork sends his armed gang to assault you into silence threatening you with abductions and torture to death.
So what happens with your awful neighbor from hell? Do you fight back knowing he’s got more resources, trigger happy cops at his disposal and lethal weapons? Knowing that Gork no longer abides to community rules and creed? Having seen him flout court orders with reckless abandon? Hell no! That’s akin to an ant spoiling for a fight with an elephant. Or maybe dragging a pig into mudplay.
Secret is simple. Just renounce the goddamned contract or terms of association binding you with Gork. That way, he’ll no longer have the lib to buy you more unwanted pairs of shoes. Shoes for which you’ll have to break a limb or two to pay. You too will have the freedom to choose whatever you need, terms of purchase without necessarily any expectations from Gork.
So what then do we do? We equally beloved heirs of God’s kingdom? Do we resign ourselves to helplessness, self-pity and succumb to our meekness? Next week, I’ll pen down a piece about self-determination. Self-autonomy and self-governance by communities. About San Francisco Cherán, an indigenous community of the Purépecha town located in the state of Michoacán, Mexico.
This 2023, I wish you teachability: Let go of your rigidity because teachability is about being able to recognize why something that may have existed before can’t exist now. What you need to know:
To be teachable requires that whatever had defined us in the past in terms of ideals, beliefs, or knowledge must be challenged.
It isn’t easy, but slowly you’ll begin building the muscle that pushes you through every moment when you’re scared or doubtful.
The first week of January is filled with reflections on mantras that will guide us through the incoming year. This being the beginning of another year, it is befitting to share one of the most important things I wish for you.
May you remain teachable, and I say this with a strong belief that your inability to learn is the beginning of your dead end. As you grow older, you become stuck in particular ways of being. You create a zone you’re familiar with and stay in it. You carry on with the conviction that you’ve done all the growing you can do, but just like snakes shed skin and trees shed leaves to keep growing, we, too, must shed who we previously were.
To be teachable requires that whatever had defined us in the past in terms of ideals, beliefs, or knowledge must be challenged. For example, we’re all raised with an order of what a successful life should entail: excel in school, secure a job, get married, have children, and live happily ever after. What isn’t factored into this order is how it fits into a rapidly changing world. It doesn’t accommodate the differences in people’s needs. It, unfortunately, remains rigid in a world where notions of what a successful life is insistently challenged, rendering it an impractical order.
So kindly let go of your rigidity because teachability is about being able to recognize why previous ways of doing things or techniques that have previously worked for you are not the best now and being willing to change your mind. It is accepting a new way of existence. Set humane expectations for yourself and others and always remain teachable. Let me conclude with a quote from an American writer called Alvin Toffler: “The illiterate of the 21st century will not be those who cannot read and write, but those who cannot learn, unlearn, or relearn.”
Therefore, my dear people, please stay teachable. You are not always right.
My attention this week is drawn to one Mercy Tarus. A 27 year old Kabarak University graduate who raffled feathers after her video went viral on social media. The former hairdresser and current porridge cum mandazis seller candidly lambasted her county leadership over blatant disregard of their time and embezzlement of county education trust funds. Whereas many netizens lauded her bravery and passion, others read utter contempt to authorities and found it self-defeating to seek restitution while bordering insolence.
The Uasin Gishu County Government Overseas Education Trust Fund was established in May 2021. It was meant to enable parents without eligible bank statements to process visa applications. Under the arrangement, interested parents were to deposit atleast ksh. 800,000 to cater for tuition fee, air travel, upkeep and accommodation for their children’s first semester of study. In an unfamiliar twist of turns, somehow somewhere the funds were withdrawn by county officials and wired into private bank accounts. This has since seen over 200 students face deportation as universities terminated their study contracts whilst others stuck home even after making payments. This explains the agitation as parents and students seek a refund for their monies raised through sweat and blood.
For starters, this is nothing but a dewdrop of the already brazen gluttony, deeply rooted exclusion and overriding urge to be perceived as functional. Ours is a government unapologetically founded on deceit and wanton impunity with regular biblical allusions and mega church fundraisers.
It is little wonder that recent protests over the rising cost of living have been met with disproportional violence. Insults, scourge and assault have been meted on citizens for crying out widespread unemployment, punitive taxation regime resulting into fatalities and profiling of dissenters as evil, backward poverty mongers.
Well, that which is good for goose is good for the gander, when a mad cow rages it knows no vegan. Even sympathizers of an insatiable regime often fall prey to its glut. They too get wounded by the very claws of pilferage they sharpen culminating into lifelong scars of betrayal, social inequality and economic disenfranchisement. Notice that no matter how much Mercy Tarus could wax eloquent before cameras, no amount of her confidence nor emotions could deter your God chosen president and his dep from distributing rice and beef stew to hustler government shareholders up in the mountains slopes. No measure of rebuke, heckling and uproar would jet your monies from Finland and Canada. You could shame Mandago all the way to Timboroa to no avail. Instead take advantage of the planting season, hustler funds and subsidized fertilizers to do the necessary as we all await the second coming of Christ.
My two cents folks. We all are netted into this web of predatory taxation, crony capitalism and discrimination. Therefore, mine is a clarion call on behalf of all Kenyans whose frustration take them to the streets to demonstrate. Fellow citizens protesting underwhelming performance by an exploitative government. It’s a call on behalf of Kenyans who knock offices and complain about deception, poor services. They too are sons and daughters of this country. Created by the very God you claim to know better. To this end, before you punch their ribs with clubs, before you call them unprintable names, before you despise their petitions remember there is genuineness in their cry. For no animal cries out of pain unless it’s been hurt. Do not add tears where tears are already flowing, do not inflict pain where pain is already unbearable. Let them mourn their unfulfilled dreams, shattered aspirations, violation of their trust. Let them grieve over the death of their expectations with dignity.
Your ordinary contact with God comes where your fellow men, your yearnings, your work and your affections are. It is in the midst of the most material things that we must sanctify ourselves, serving God and all mankind. (Msgr. Josemaria Escriva)
Padeatric nurse Elizabeth Robai charming a sick todler adimitted with a fractured leg
Msgr. Josemaria Escriva
Hello my dear readers. I trust you too are blessing the rains from wherever and prospering in this hustler economy. Well
My attention today still remains drawn Elizabeth Lukresia Robai. The trainee nurse from KMTC Kitale whose video went viral last week. The 22 year old 3rd year nursing student is seen charming an unidentified toddler with magical dance moves of baby shark before presenting him a candy. All the while the kid-patient even though nursing a fractured leg is visibly fascinated and smiley mimicking her rhythm. Suffice to say, this is definitely a heart-warming gesture befitting all of the applauses and compliments it could draw.
However I am particularly thrilled at Robai on learning that this is a routine practice she had maintained all through. She further asserted that she would regularly dance in the wards to cheer up her patients, alleviate pain as her way of non-pharmacological therapy. Being nice is something she had been so intentional and consistent about. Going above and beyond her duty to delight her patients to expedite their recovery and in her own words, “to co-create with God”
“Before God, no occupation is big or small, everything acquires value with the love with which it is done.” (The Way)
Realize this is not your typical attention obsessed, invalid 23 year old tiktok freak faking bizarre standards while unable to sit through half of her semester lectures. Unlike your favourite “influencer” whose only outstanding ability is to twerk seductively, Elizabeth didn’t drag herself into non-existent family scandals with a hapless boyfriend. Yes the useless “content-creators” who leak awful nudes of their hideous bodies and later repent having turned to Christ in the name of chasing some sic clout.
Despite pulling none of these annoying stunts, the gold-hearted orphan did not only manage to inspire an entire nation to greatness, she salvaged to repute the medicare fraternity but most importantly lessened the pain of her bed-ridden patient. Surprisingly so, Kenyans can still be appealed by sober, intelligent and loving gestures as exemplified by Elizabeth Robai. Clearly she was not acting but living out what she does to her patients. No wonder, she trended for something nice.
Today I hail Elizabeth because she chose compassion and empathy. Never minding the traumatized nation we are, riddled with extreme capitalism, individualism, indifference and opportunism. We Kenyans have a regrettable culture of little sensitivity to others. Our sense of compassion is measured, selective and occasional. The kind of love that is not randomly available but needs time to load. What we saw with Elizabeth Robai was a habit, culture and her norm! Her action was effortless and her kind gesture will leave an indelible mark in the heart and mind of the sick toddler.
It is in the simplicity of your ordinary work, in the monotonous details of each day, that you have to find the secret, which is hidden from so many, something great and new; love (The Furrow)
This is what our hobbies, studies and works are meant for-elevating human dignity. For you do not need to know someone to treat them well. Love is not mature until it can be extended to all. As a labour of love, work is creative and transformative. Simply put, work is love made visible.
Receive belated new year greetings my beautiful ladies and handsome gents. Today’s piece has been inspired by Oration Hub’s 1st anniversary commemoration-a Nai based debating caucus realizing leaps and bounds in instilling thoughtfulness, expanding perspectives and sharpening oration. So far we only toddled into March and this means there’s a bit more time to make it your best year. One way to achieve this by being adorable, knowing what to say, when, where and how to subtly express your thoughts and feelings verbally.
Every so often, we cross paths with a memorable person. They carry such a powerful presence that it’s absolutely impossible to ignore them. Often it’s what they say that draws us to them with the pull of a magnet. Other times, it’s what they do that speaks even louder. Whichever the case, they surely are experts at capturing our interest in a way that creates a very strong bond. Their ability to make a lasting impression not only attracts people to them but also makes them successful and incredibly happy.
Here’s the thing, though. Although it may seem that way, memorable people don’t glide into the world armed with this exceptional trait. They’ve just mastered the delicate act of presenting themselves to the world authentically and sincerely.
Usually, words like strings to a basket are the stuff that weaves together great messages. Their choice just as strings is central to determination of quality of a basket. And so you don’t want to turn out as an admonisher and chastiser and scarcely a persuader. Neither do you want to seem quick to reprimand but slow to motivate and convert. Thus the need to explore how to tactfully craft words that draw human connection, messages which inspire truth and manifest sincerity.
Here’s the truth however. You too are capable of becoming a memorable person who captures the interest of others in a cherishable way. You too can savor the ability persuade people through effective communication. You too can thrive in the most underrated skill of the 21st century. All you need is to join Oration hub, learn this covert art, practise and shine your way around. For whichever way you look at it, you remain the sum total of your communication prowess. Atentamente.
They say the devil is found in dark and dingy places like dens and dungeons. Others think it could be in hell, brothels or parliament. Lurking in shadows, holding a long pitchfork seducing sons of King Ahab and daughters of Jezebel into adultery and fornication. Well I’m not sure. All I know is the devil himself is amidst us. He does unimaginable things in ways mere mortals can’t understand. Whether puffed, ingested or injected, he is truly a liar. Cocaine and heroin are his second and third name respectively. A lip dose of either would make you despise Shash, Chrome or Captain Morgan combined. Even still, Konyagi and Waragi are mere babies in diapers. Forget the cheap drama local pissheads subject us to like walking naked, running abstract relays, preaching to stones and reciting the loyalty pledge. I have heard of and seen people who’ve tried fighting elephants literally, tried climbing kencom House like spider man and tried diving in basins as though they are swimming pools. Notice a recurrence of the word tried coz all these monkey stunts ended up hospital theatres and HDUs. So in the next two paragraphs I’ll tell the story of DO aka OD as he’s well known.
OD on heroine with Lucifer
Now it all started in some illustrious colonial school along Ngong Road. Dude was filthy rich thanks to his parents’ noble positions in government. But there was a problem, he couldn’t garner requisite courage to approach those hot babes you stumble into during school funkies. Poor peep was persuaded to try a puff of marijuana and gulp some vodka daily to appease the goddess of guts. Like any trusted friend, weed didn’t disappoint, it actually overworked. And led him to the very urethra of the devil. Just within the next couple of funkies, son of fate had successfully contacted some bloody herpes. On the very first smashing encounter! After painstakingly gaining much needed confidence. Now here’s the gist of this, poor boychild would concertedly frequent the sanatorium. Our patient patient however, was too embarrassed to confide in doc about the harrowing hell his fucking dick was in. Headache, stomachache, back pain, fever, nausea and rashes was his narrative. After a month’s vanity of pain relieving tabs and deafening screams whilst peeing he finally revealed the sores on his frail genitalia. This was to no amusement of the doc who admitted to be suspecting some stubborn STI. “I knew it!” OD would reminisce the doc’s words. But the patient had first to be honest.
Fast forward Bombay, India. In a non-existent college where dude had been sent to study in a “narcotic-free-environment”. Instead he changed courses from a bachelors in finance progressively to a dip, degree, masters and consequently doctorate in cocaine peddling and heroine smoking. With the accompanying drama and trouble all his friends deserted save for one Lucifer. Now Lucifer was OD’s 3 year best friend, confidant, prayer partner, mentor, spiritual director, drinking buddy and roommate. Somehow he always gave him all the hope and nourishment he needed. Other than his chaotic life, he could not trade Lucifer for anything. Not even cocaine nor heroin. His acquiescence with Lucifer came to being when one of his coca folks, Jaresh had returned from a 3 day academic trip in New Delhi while dead broke. To quench a simmering crave for brown sugar, Jaresh auctioned his pair of jeans, cap and t-shirt. Soon all he had for himself was Lucifer and a pair of boxers. Lucifer was a hapless monkey Jaresh had managed to smuggle from Sultanpur National Park and Bird sanctuary during the academic trip. For whatever reason I just don’t know. Jaresh upon getting dead broke, ultimately sold Lucifer to OD for 100 rupees, that’s something close to 150 Kenyan shillings.
With lots of love, OD would carry Lucifer along on the back thanks a woolen rack sack he was gifted by Shree, his all-time shashbae. Confidently with Lucifer mgongoni he would gallivant liquor stores, football stadia, banking halls, commuter buses and trains. How he managed to domesticate an ape remains another parable of the sower. Don’t ask me what language they conversed, what food Lucifer ate and whether he too became a coca legend before we achieve the big 4 agenda.
The scripture says all is vanity. It indeed was when OD later got involved in a life threatening road accident that saw him break two limbs and loose his favourite being. It happened on an express way exiting Mumbai. He’d finished collecting dues from revelers in a local joint when he realized his Lucifer had a terrible fever and was trembling feebly. (Little bastard would often pass his hat through revelers asking them to pay offering and later use the mullah for booze). After a dozen desperate calls for ambulance/emergency services went unanswered, he resorted to rush Lucifer to the Maharashta Hospital being the ninja he was. While high on hemp, our son of soil imagined he could outride all the cars he saw cruising. On a bicycle though. Hurriedly he got Lucifer on his back, grabbed a bicycle from one of the cyclist and immediately joined the express way trying to race the cars and buses. As his blew a whistle he had, he imagined fellow motorist would consider him an ambulance and therefore give him way. Wow what a clever chap! Next, our idiot woke up in excruciating pain after spending one month in a comma at the very hospital he was rushing Lucifer to. Lucifer the poor ape had lost his life.
Long story short, verily verily I tell you. It is easier for a camel to pass through a needle’s eye than for a heroin addict to regain sanity. But hey fear not, you can’t even use stuff like Cocaine and heroin unless you are stinking rich. That shit is damn expensive (1 gram goes for 3K). Before then, please grab a government tender and then call me for plugs. Goodbye.
November 2020 had to be a better month. One that I had entirely committed to magnanimity-just love, light and philanthropy. To this end, I had conferred all of my month’s pay anyway. First weekend started with visit to Tollen’s Children’s Home, thereafter Mama Elizabeth’s Children’s Home, Baby Blessing Children’s Home, Coast Pads Drive would later precede Kajiado Pads Drive and hands Safe House. All weekends factored in this month of the Holy Rosary. Today however, I have chosen to talk about the Coast Pads Drive because it was as much exciting as it was impactful and illustrious. A browse through WhatsApp got me added to team KGS, a Community Based Organisation that fronts for proper menstrual health and hygiene through awareness creation and donation of sanitary pads. Courtesy of Winky.
0800 EAT is the time we departed the city under the sun. Cruising through the lushly suburbs of Athi River cutting the dry Emali Savanna woodlands and thorny baobab in Mtito Andei. Fascinating was the entire sight of large tracks of virgin land, tropical shy antelopes and sparse mud-walled huts. Stealthily we railed through sloppy and vast sisal plantations in Voi before navigating Mariakani and finally slithering right into sea level. Nearly 500km in barely 6 hours. As it does happens, my new folks were all too familiar yet equally alien. Save for Yobra whom we’d met at a pads drive in Namanga way back in Feb, the rest were colleagues whose acquaintance was made virtually during digital fund raising sessions. Winky, Frank, Ken, Victor, Masika. Star, Doll, Ivy, Shantell, Joy, Millie, Mwende, Mariana. From nothingness, the actions of this amazing peeps would be a milestone whose memories I will relish for eternity.
On the very hot and humid afternoon we crossed the ferry and trotted deep South Coast through Diani to Mwangale Primary School. We were warmly received by a bunch of beautiful teenage girls albeit pensive together with their headteacher. Right away Mwende yanked the carpet reminding them of crucial formative attributes such self-respect, sexual abstinence and mindfulness. The climax was a comprehensive training on menstrual hygiene and thereafter a donation of KGS hampers which comprised sanitary pads, panties, tissue paper, laundry soap, face masks and skin oil. In no time we got back on the road to Ukunda in Kwale to our would-be-residence.
Calm serene and luscious. Kivulini Beach Villas was our home away from home. A well-trimmed edgy fence, towering palm trees and evergreen neat grassland made some perfect escapade from a chaotic city life. The morning ocean breeze was therapeutic as one stared away into an unending magical view of the Indian Ocean. The kind of place that reminded you how beautiful life can be regardless of a flopping economy, ruthless VAT and killer virus. Let’s just say whoever nailed the idea of Kivulini into Andrew’s head-the nice mzungu proprietor-deserves an Oscars or Nobel Prize for thinking. I’m certain Andrew couldn’t think that much by himself surely. (Yes, I know the things Andrew can do) Be as it may, impeccable is definitely an understatement.
Despite the palpable fatigue our first night was rent with booming excitement, basic bonding, swimming, drinking and twerking (hey Marianna). Masika made it all by literally walking through a glass door, reducing it to a thousand pieces and worthily earning himself five skin cuts. Oh Masika. A few hours of sleep, more exhaustion saw us get to Dera in Kilifi two hours late the following day. The usual drill ensued-mentorship, menstrual talk, fun games and photo sessions. Yet this meant volumes to the girls whose sense of gratitude was outrightly indescribable. The epitome was a celebration session for Ivy’s graduation late into the night.
The better part of Saturday saw us enjoy the beach and thereafter head to Ukunda town for dinner. The night merry would be the order of the day coupled with cards, table tennis, truth and dare etc. Our final shot was at St. Joseph Catholic church in Ukunda coupled by a consignment of donations to Msambweni.
So yeah but why all these, to what end anyway? Pads drive here, chapo fest there, charity this and charity that? My little experience and exposure has taught that a meaningful life is made up of a series of daily acts of decency compassion and kindness which ironically add up to something truly great over the course of a lifetime. That you cannot love without giving, maybe time attention or money. That there are no great acts but only small acts done with great love. To this end dear readers, never get tired of doing little things for others. Sometimes those little things occupy the biggest parts of their hearts. And finally there is no higher religion than human service coz work for the common good is the greatest creed. I pen off.
Long live KGS. Long live compassion. Long live humanity. Per Omnia Saecula Saecolurum!!!
Maish quickly ushers me into his mat signaling that I should replace some kinky, edgy poser seated by the driver. He is adamant that on this particular instance I should pay more because I wouldn’t wait longer for departure (the mat was shy of 1 passenger to exit). Something else, he claims he helped me secure a VIP seat so I wouldn’t have to rant about legspace, at least for that trip. Of course I trash his extortionary antics. Now for starters Maish has been my long serving tout whose mat I seemingly won’t avoid. Elsewhere, posers are those bastards who straddle shamelessly in mats thus fool you into boarding as you hope it departs sooner (It’s a full time career in Nairobi by the way). Finally, VIP slot is that seat next to the driver often occupied first, mostly by prestige-seeking men as it is generally more comfy, and has ample space to stretch and nap.
At a high gear we speed off through Thika Road before joining Eastern bypass. It’s around 4pm on a Monday, expectedly everything seems distasteful given its mid-month. The sun is furiously scorching, it’s dusty and grim all over. Neither does the driver seem hyped on engaging me in his usual chit chats. Amidst the loud silence two ladies can be clearly heard ruminating about their hubbies. Unsurprisingly, all passengers are quiet pretending to mind their apparent business as they follow through the conversation. This is how dramatic passengers get when they realize one amongst them has a loose tongue. Maish even becks the driver to put off the music as their gossip got spicier.
Now here’s how juicy the gossip turned out. For purposes of this narration, we’ll tag one Lady A and the other Lady B meanwhile you may reach out for popcorns or coffee. Lady A is visibly furious and bitter intermittently getting overwhelmed. She was dressed to the nines, has a beige scarf noosed round her neck save for some awful make-up that made a blob fish admirable. At face value she looks cockier and craftier though bougie. She can’t get herself together to the curse of having the world’s stingiest and most mean sucker for a hubby. Admittedly, this SOB gladly foots general house hold bills-rent, electricity, internet, food, water and school fees. Their rubber meets the rod when it gets to her personal effects. He gives no hoot regarding her salon, wardrobe, make up, chama contribution and local travel on the justification that she also works and earns. On confrontation the previous evening, his “useless” man affirmed that he won’t be succumb to any form of extortion and proffered that she was free to leave and marry the World Bank president or Jack Maa for whoever cared. To her disbelief, he called her elder brother and lashed about the ungrateful hog she got for a wife whose only God given talent was to nag, nag, nag.
Mat gossip gets merrier
On the flipside, this dickhead religiously sent money home for his mum’s upkeep, medication, church dues, Catholic women contributions, shopping and routinely bailed out her all-time-loss-making kisiagi (maize-mill) business. All these without flinching nor being reminded. In the meantime, we maintain necropolis quietude, some even muting phone calls to keep up and others pretending to be fast asleep. Occasionally we can’t help nod and shake heads in approval or dissent. Maish is fully absorbed and luckily for him all passengers are to alight somewhere along Mombasa Road so he’ll have no pick-ups nor droppings to do. Her accomplice, Lady B is keenly following sometimes interjecting with sighs of empathy.
Back to our gossip you might want to refill whatever is in your cup. So Lady A out of uncontrollable vex decided to change tactic away from aggression. She narrates how desperately she wanted to fetch some info in her man’s phone. She timed when her hubby slept unplugged her phone from the charger and headed to the living room. Shock on her, local man had changed his SIM pin number and after three unsuccessful attempts, the SIM card got blocked. Keen on evading probable trouble, she got his ID card from the wallet, shrewdly called customer care to request for PUK and had a new PIN reset. Having accessed whatever info she wanted from his gadget, she calmly switched off his phone and got it back charging. A distraught hubby of a croc woke early morning only to realize that his SIM PIN had been changed only after blocking it again.
As things get thicker, a sharp yell emanates from some passenger at the backseat asking the driver to pull so he can alight. To everyone’s awe we had cruised all the way to General Motors almost in town. You can imagine the smirk on our faces when the driver laughed it off that he didn’t alert anyone coz we all had been too engaged in the gossip. Worse off his moronic Maish suggests that we could just proceed to town at least we follow up gossip to the end.
That is how abrupt our journey adjourned as everyone left to catch a mat backwards and get to their respective hoods. Moral of the story, purpose to check your stage whenever mat blabs get yummy.
I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument.”
Translated from Sanskrit, these words were written by a man whose heart was filled with regrets over a life half lived. Rather than singing the great song he was destined to sing, he spent his days preparing and waiting until things were perfectly right before he acted – “stringing and unstringing his instrument,” in his words. Well the above prelude simply affirms my thoughts on excessive preparation. I ascribe to the aphorism that travelling is what makes a journey, not merely the talk of travel. To swim is plunge into the river, not lingering by the bank. That too much stage setting more often than not ruins execution.
So picture this, to start your business you spend substantial time and dime putting up your paperwork together including market research, licenses and all that. Fatefully so when on the verge of commencement, your products get banned or for some reason your venture won’t just pick up. At the end of the day, you are likely to bear more torment not because you couldn’t break even but rather coz you drained more resources preparing as opposed getting going. Well that’s exactly what happens when we excessively scheme for that cocktail dinner, presentation or date. Somehow the final outcome doesn’t suffice all the efforts put into getting ready.
While not advocating for spontaneity per se, methinks it’s fairer we spare our minds the fortnight grindstone on what dress and hairstyle to put on for a colleague’s wedding or revising for a CAT that’s in a month’s time to come. Yes how about we figure out crossing the bridge when we get to the river bed. Essentially trying to counter anticipated challenges only magnifies an imaginary burden. It’s better to start. Even with fear, with doubt, while trembling start. Start small, start now, just start and you’ll be amazed at how superbly you can handle challenges in practical sense. With time like me, you’ll get to appreciate more that humble beginnings still count and the good things in life take time.
Mane primer 