Edwin's Corner

Toastmasters Series: My Reflection on a Speech by Ebenezer Makori Why is logic so tricky to understand? It’s a question I often ask myself. Not because logic is abstract or complex, but because true logic demands something very uncomfortable from us: humility. It requires us to differentiate what feels true from what is actually true. For most of us, that separation challenges our identity, our coping mechanisms, and the stories we’ve been telling ourselves for years. As a young boy, I often wondered why my parents had to be away. I was left to face a world that asked too many questions at every turn. On the surface, my life seemed normal. I was sheltered, fed, clothed, and protected by parents who were almost obsessively determined to escape poverty. And I later realized that obsession was not accidental; it was inherited. My father was the son of a widow who raised twelve children during one of the harshest droughts of the 1950s. Poverty wasn’t a phase; it was the air they ...

Toastmasters Series: My Reflection on a Speech by Grace Muchiri Every time I spoke to Grace, one thing was clear: her desire to make a difference. Not in a loud, attention-seeking way, but in that quiet, grounded manner you notice over time. The kind that shows up in how someone listens, how they help when they don’t have to, and how they laugh at themselves without trying to impress you. Grace always wears a warm smile, combined with a quirky, self-deprecating sense of humor. She stepped in to help more than once without feeling obligated, and over time, a friendship grew. You know the kind — not hurried, not transactional, just human. Then, one day, she came to my club, Simba Toastmasters, and delivered a speech that deepened my understanding of her. In just a few minutes, she shared the story of a dream she had been quietly nurturing for years—and actively building in recent months. She had started a company in the safari experience industry . But not just “book a tour and see...

  Toastmasters Series: My Reflection on a Speech by Faith Muhunyo     I recently listened to a young lady deliver what can only be described as an outstanding speech. Not outstanding in a dramatic, chest-thumping way. No fireworks. No theatrics. Outstanding because she did something quite rare. She connected. Authentic, intentional connection—not just networking for the sake of LinkedIn. A real, human bond that makes people lean in naturally, without even noticing. The kind that helps you feel seen, not just sold to. As I listened, a strange thought crossed my mind: What she was doing may soon look miraculous to most people. When I looked into her background, the pieces came together easily. She came from a family that valued people, time, presence, and community. Connection wasn’t something she learned for applause; it was cultural. It was normal. It was expected. She casually mentioned she was doing this to “increase her chances of getting a job.” I s...

  Esther Muchemi was a misnomer. That’s the only way to describe her. As she stood before us — a classy lady with a deep Kikuyu accent — you might have easily mistaken her for someone ordinary, someone who never tried to smooth out her voice with the usual corporate finesse. But soon enough, I learned why she was anything but ordinary. This woman was made from rare cloth. From a young age, Esther was gifted. Not the kind of giftedness wrapped in dramatic genius or rebellious brilliance — no, hers was the quiet, disciplined, razor-sharp kind. She loved to study. Loved to excel. Loved to stand out without making a fuss. Her grades were excellent, so good that they took her to prestigious schools for high school, A-levels, and later even as she pursued her Certified Public Accountant credentials. She wasn’t the type to joke around in college either; she went in focused and graduated ready to build a career with seriousness and purpose. Her entry point? An audit assistant. If you...

  Some stories quietly enter your life and reshape your thoughts. Others arrive like a guest who refuses to knock — bold, dramatic, filled with life lessons. My encounter with Raphael Tuju’s journey was of the latter kind. Not just because he is the eloquent voice I grew up hearing on the radio and TV, or because he shaped national conversations, but because his story made me reconsider something we often overlook: the daily miracles we call everyday life. I grew up in a backwater town called Nanyuki in the late ’80s, when Mountex Textile Industries hummed like a giant mechanical heart, and the skies were filled with both military helicopters and the occasional scandalous rumor from the barracks. It was a town full of character — and characters. As a young boy, I only knew AIDS as the “strange disease” that the grown-ups whispered about. My mother, a nurse, talked about it, but childhood ears conveniently edit things. Until the day I found “colorful balloons” in a trash heap ...

  Oliver Waindi didn’t just walk on stage; he approached like a bouncer who had temporarily retired from chasing away drunk patrons and had decided to intimidate a peaceful audience for sport. The man stood there—silent, towering, steady. And me? Since my relationship with social media is shakier than Nairobi electricity during a thunderstorm, I was one of those “suspecting nothing” folks waiting to be ambushed. And ambushed I was. He started with a story he’s told many times—so many that he’s polished it until it shines like a well-buffed church pew. A poor young boy from humble beginnings, fists bruised from boxing, desperate to survive, armed only with stubbornness and the kind of dreams adults tell you to “relax” about. He explained how he used boxing not for fame or medals but to escape—to carve out space in a world that had given him none. Then he painted a picture so vivid I could see it: this boy going to the airport, collecting discarded air tickets—yes, actually thr...