Your Spirit Knows

You Just Don’t Want To Listen.

There is a small wise guy living inside every one of us. Leave the angel and devil on our shoulders I’m talking about the Quiet guy. He Wears a sweater even in December. Drinks his tea without sugar because he has seen things. And every single day, this wise guy taps you on the shoulder and whispers, “Wewe, my friend, do not go there.” And every single day, you tell him to please mind his business because you are an adult with a degree and an M-Pesa account and you can make your own decisions, Thank you.

Then six hours later you are sitting on a curb in Westlands at 2am, one shoe missing, phone at 4 percent, wondering how exactly we got here. And the wise guy inside you is just sipping his strungi, not even saying “I told you so.” He doesn’t need to. The silence is the receipt.

This is the thing about instincts. They are never loud. They never come with a PowerPoint presentation. They never sit you down and explain, in bullet points, why attending Johnte’s housewarming in Kitengela on a Tuesday night is a bad idea. They just give you that small twitch in your stomach, that hesitation when you are tying your shoes, that one second where you pause at the door and think, “Eh, is it really worth it?” And then you do the most Kenyan thing possible. You water it down.

“It’s just a small function.”

“I will leave by 8.”

“Johnte is my guy, what could go wrong.”

My friend. Johnte is exactly what could go wrong. Johnte has been what could go wrong since 2014. Your spirit has filed seventeen complaints about Johnte and you keep dismissing them like spam emails from Trip advisor. And now here you are, That 58 bottle deep, agreeing to invest in a side hustle involving avocados and “a guy in Mombasa.” The wise guy inside you has put down his tea. He is now praying.

The denial phase is honestly an art form in this country. We have perfected the craft of ignoring our own gut. You see the matatu pulling up, music shaking the windows, the tout already hanging off the door like he is auditioning for Fast and Furious 47, and something in you says, "Maybe wait for the next one. This one looks tired." But then you check your watch. You think about Nairobi traffic. You think about the meeting. And you tell yourself, "Hii ni mat ya kawaida." Normal matatu. Yes. Normal matatu that will get you exactly halfway through Langata Road before coughing twice, sneezing once, and dying in the middle lane like it has personal beef with you specifically. Now you are stuck. The gengetone is still playing at a volume that violates the Geneva Convention, but the engine has retired. The driver is under the bonnet doing surgery with a spanner and prayers. The tout has disappeared into thin air, refunds are not in his vocabulary. You are now baking gently in the Nairobi sun, sandwiched between a lorry and a probox, watching the next three matatus glide past you like they are mocking your life choices. Your meeting started forty minutes ago. Your boss has texted twice. You will reach work with your soul shaking and your wig in your hand, but hey, you saved six minutes. Worth it.

Or take the Klabu situation. You walk past, you smell the smokie, you see the kachumbari glistening under the umbrella, and something deep in your colon, an ancestral colon, a colon that has survived generations of questionable street food, this colon whispers, “Today is not the day.” But you ignore it. The smokie costs thirty bob. Thirty bob! How can thirty bob betray you? Reader, thirty bob can and will betray you. Thirty bob has betrayed entire families. By 9pm you are doing the most intimate negotiation of your life with your bathroom floor, swearing to God, the ancestors, and your landlord that if you survive this you will never eat anything that costs less than your conscience again. The wise guy inside you is not even surprised. He warned you at Klabu. You watered him down with pilipili.

And do not even get me started on relationships. Listen. When your spirit tells you, “This one is not it,” you are supposed to listen. Not analyse. Not “give it a chance.” Not “but he texts back fast.” Your instinct is not asking for your opinion, it is delivering a verdict. But what do we do? We get a friend involved. We say, “Eh Bobo, what do you think?” Bobo has not met this man. Bobo is going off vibes and one blurry photo. Bobo says, “He looks fine, give it three months.” Three months later you are blocking him on six platforms and discovering he had a whole other family in Nakuru. Bobo is now your enemy. The wise guy inside you is preparing his next cup of tea. He is patient. He has time.

Here is the kicker. Facing the music in Kenya is not just facing the music. It is facing the entire KBC orchestra, the SGR sound system, the church choir at Huruma, and your shosho who somehow knows everything before you have even told anyone. The community will find out. They always find out. You will be at a wedding and an auntie you have not seen in eleven years will ambush you near the cake and say, “I heard about your situation.” Your situation! She knows. Everybody knows.

And the worst part, the absolute worst part, is that you will do it again. You will. We all do.

So here is my humble suggestion, from one professional gut-ignorer to another. When the spirit speaks, do not negotiate. Do not consult Bobo. Do not check the weather, the budget, or the vibe. Just listen. If the inside-you says “Don’t go,” do not go. If it says “Don’t reply,” do not reply. If it says “That ugali looks suspicious,” respect the ugali. Your instincts are not being dramatic. They are being kind. They are trying to save you from a Tuesday you cannot afford.

The wise guy inside you has seen things. He has survived things. He drinks his tea without sugar for a reason. Listen to the man. He has not steered you wrong yet. You just keep changing the radio station.

Haiya. That is all. Asanteni for coming to my TED Talk.