we are What we eat!!

Hey! I’ve been thinking about that story we worked on. I decided to really flesh it out—make it feel like one of those long-form pieces you’d see in a Sunday magazine. It’s got all the “middle-class” markers: the traffic, the school fees, the house parties, and that slow, creeping realization that the hustle doesn’t stop just because you’re tired.

Here is the extended version. It’s a bit of a read, but I think it’s exactly the kind of thing that makes you pause and pour yourself a glass of water (or some lemon tea) and rethink your next meal.

The Long Afternoon: A Kenyan Middle-Class Chronicle

When Peter and Wanjiku met, Nairobi was a city of endless possibilities. They were young, ambitious, and convinced that the city belonged to them. Their twenties were a blur of “Happy Hours” at Westlands, weekend road trips to Naivasha in a slightly unreliable probox or vitz, and late-night house parties where the music only stopped when the sun began to peek over the horizon.

They didn’t just eat; they feasted. A Saturday afternoon was incomplete without a heavy platter of nyama choma—crispy, salty, and dripping with fat—accompanied by a mountain of ugali and kachumbari. They drank sodas like water, chased deadlines with cups of thick, sugary coffee, and slept only when their bodies forced them to. They were invincible.

The Great Acceleration

Then came the marriage, the mortgage in a quiet, leafy estate, and the children. Life moved from “adventure” to “logistics.”

The commute from the office to the house became a daily battle against the gridlock. By the time they walked through their front door, the last thing they wanted to do was cook a balanced meal. It was easier to order takeout—greasy fries, fried chicken, or whatever was fast and delivered to the gate.

They worked hard to provide for the kids, chasing promotions and side hustles, always telling themselves, “Nitapumzika nikishastaafu” (I will rest when I retire).

They skipped the annual medical check-ups. After all, the hospital was for people who were sick, and they felt fine. They had energy, they had the car, they had the house, and they had the status. What could go wrong?

The Silent Shift

The years didn’t pass; they raced. The children grew up, went to university, and eventually moved out to start their own lives. Peter and Wanjiku were finally alone in the house they had worked so hard to build. They had the time now, but the body has a way of keeping a ledger of every late night, every skipped vegetable, and every hour of stress.

The first sign wasn’t a bang; it was a whisper.

For Peter, it was a persistent headache that wouldn’t go away, leading to a doctor’s office visit that ended with a diagnosis of high blood pressure. For Wanjiku, it was the chronic fatigue and a routine blood test that revealed her sugar levels were dangerously high.

Suddenly, the house felt different. The kitchen cupboard, once filled with spices for entertaining, was now home to a pharmacy of orange pill bottles. The morning ritual changed. They didn’t wake up to plan the day’s activities; they woke up to manage their biology.

“Umekunywa dawa?” (Did you take your medicine?) “Have you checked your pressure?” “Is the sugar-free tea ready?”

Their financial planning shifted, too. The money they had saved for a dream trip to Dubai or for renovating the kitchen was now being swallowed by specialist consultations, lab tests, and monthly prescriptions.

The View from the Veranda

One Tuesday evening, the sun was setting, casting a golden glow over their garden. Peter sat on the veranda, staring at the gate, while Wanjiku joined him with two cups of warm herbal tea.

“You know,” Peter said, his voice quiet, “we spent thirty years building this home, but we forgot to maintain the people who live in it.”

Wanjiku looked at him, seeing the grey in his beard and the weariness in his eyes. She didn’t disagree. She remembered the years of sitting in office chairs for ten hours a day, the years of skipping breakfast, and the years of ignoring the body’s quiet pleas for rest.

They realized then that the problem wasn’t the nyama choma or the occasional pizza. The problem was the lack of balance. It was the belief that health is a permanent state rather than a garden that needs daily watering.

Lessons from the Veranda

If Peter and Wanjiku could go back and whisper a word of advice to their younger selves—or to us—it would be these:

• Your body is not a rental. You can’t return it when it’s worn out or trade it in for a newer model. Treat it like the most expensive asset you own, because it is.

• Preventative care is cheaper than curative care. A KES 3,000 check-up today can save you from a KES 300,000 hospital bill tomorrow.

• The “Hustle” has a price. If your career is costing you your sleep, your movement, and your peace, the profit margin is actually a loss.

• Community matters. Walk with a friend, cook with your partner, and find joy in movement, not just in food.

Words to Carry With You

As we keep pushing through the daily grind, keep these in mind:

“Health is the first wealth.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson

“He who has health has hope, and he who has hope has everything.” — Arabic Proverb

“The doctor of the future will give no medicine, but will interest patients in the care of the human frame, in diet, and in the cause and prevention of disease.” — Thomas Edison

A Final Thought: We are all running a race. But remember, the goal isn’t just to cross the finish line; it’s to arrive there in a state where you can actually enjoy the view. Start your “next month” today. Go for that walk, drink that water, and book that check-up. Your future self is begging you.