Every scar has a story. “Letter to My Younger Self” invites you into the reflective hearts of people who've walked winding roads—offering gentle truths, bold lessons, and encouragement for anyone still figuring it out. These weekly letters are full of grace and grit, showing how setbacks shape wisdom and how the past still holds power to teach. From nurturing curiosity to embracing mentorship, each piece is a tribute to growth through lived experience.
Jacktone Lawi, a journalist with Radio Africa Group pens this week’s heartfelt Letter to My Younger Self.
Dear younger self
If you’re reading this, you’re probably sitting somewhere in Makongeni estate in Nairobi or just any estate you’ve lived in, probably with dusty knees, a football nearby, maybe the sound of Rhumba floating through the open windows of a neighbor’s house.
Life feels simple now, but I know you have questions. You’re wondering if you’ll ever make something of yourself, if those dreams in your head will ever amount to anything. I’m here to tell you — they will.
Just as Samba Omar Mapangala sings, “Fikiria kama bado ungali kijana, tengeneza maisha yako, saidia jamii yako… masiku miaka zinaenda hazitarudia eeh…” — (think while you’re still young, build your life, help your community, because the years go by and never return)
Those words will mean more to you one day than you can imagine. They’ll guide you through moments of doubt, fear and hard decisions.
You grew up in Nairobi’s Makongeni Estate Eastlands and partly had to be transferred back to shaggs to Finnish your secondary school because apparently you had become ‘naughty.’
Though at the time I enjoyed the hustled because it was necessary as money gave you a voice ahead of your friends, but it wasn’t the best time to.
That trajectory, well it was the wrong direction, because we had to skip lessons some days and go hustle (Selling scrap metals). Well, that’s being naughty at least according to my parents.
Unlike other kids who are sent to the corner or an upper room to go meditate their actions, well mine was a bit ruthless. They let me go meditate my actions in Ugenya, Siaya County.
Back to Nairobi. You don’t realize it, but that old neighborhood is your foundation. Every cracked pavement, every matatu horn, every neighbor’s shout across the balcony is part of who you’ll become.
You’ll carry the rhythm of those streets in your voice, the resilience in your spirit, and the warmth of the people in your words.
I know you’re afraid of embarrassment terrified, actually. You hate being laughed at, and the thought of making a mistake in front of your friends makes your stomach turn.
But listen, fear is not your enemy. It’s your teacher. Remember that day you and your friends skipped school in class five, only to get caught while sneaking back to class, you thought you were smart after avoiding to call your parent for almost half a term.
Then on the closing day the heavens opened and instead of rains pouring…it was canes pouring on your bottoms in front of the whole class to make it worse, remember you had a crush in that class.
But that day taught you something you’ll carry forever that every action has consequence and courage often begins where fear ends.
About Dad — I know how much you admire him. He’s firm, proud, and he wants the best for you.
But there will come a day when you’ll have to tell him something he won’t want to hear: that you don’t want to be an engineer an electrician or a pastor (remember the meme that holds its Chest…. Mimi Pastor?), instead that you want to be a journalist.
He’ll look at you, puzzled and maybe a little angry and he’ll say, if you’ve though it over I don’t Know anything about a journalism institution you will find a school.” He’ll mean it with love, because in his world, security means survival.
You’ll doubt yourself. You’ll wonder if maybe he’s right. But listen carefully follow your heart anyway. That small voice inside you that loves stories, that stays up late imagining headlines and radio scripts, that gets excited about telling people’s stories that’s your gift. Don’t let fear or doubt silence it.
When you finally make it to journalism school, it won’t be easy. You’ll feel small in rooms full of confident voices. You’ll write stories that never get published. You’ll question if you belong.
But don’t give up. Every late night, every correction from an editor, every story that breaks your heart will shape you into the journalist you’re meant to be.
You’ll learn that journalism is not about fame or money it’s about truth. It’s about giving a voice to those who are never heard and shining light where others see only darkness.
You’ll remember Makongeni often the laughter, the chaos, the community spirit. It’ll remind you to stay humble and connected. It’ll teach you to see people not as statistics but as stories each one worth telling with honesty and empathy.
Eastlands will always be your compass, guiding you back to what matters: people, purpose, and integrity.
There will be moments when you’ll feel alone — when Dad’s words echo in your mind and you wonder if you disappointed him. But keep going.
Because one day, years later, he’ll look at you with pride and call you “Mwanahabari wetu are you in the country” our journalist have you travelled again. That single phrase will erase years of doubt. It’ll be his way of saying, “You did well, son.”
And you’ll realise that your journey was never about proving him wrong it was about proving to yourself that dreams are worth the fight.
So, young Jacktone, when life gets hard and it will remember that little boy from Makongeni who once feared embarrassment but found his courage through failure.Remember the rhythm of Mapangala’s song. Remember that time waits for no one, and that every moment is a chance to build, to learn, to grow.
Keep writing. Keep asking questions. Keep believing that your words can make a difference because they will. The boy from Eastlands will grow to stand in newsrooms, telling stories that matter, shaping conversations that change lives.
And through it all, never forget where you came from. The dust, the laughter, the noise that’s your power. That’s your story.
Everyone has a story worth sharing. If you’ve ever wished you could talk to your younger self—with wisdom, forgiveness, or clarity—we invite you to write to us. Your real, heartfelt letter might just be the encouragement someone else needs today. You may remain anonymous if preferred, but your truth matters. We don’t pay contributors, but we believe in the power of shared experience. Join us in building a collection of life’s hard-earned lessons and gentle reminders.
Be part of this movement: Send your Letter to My Younger Self to: [email protected]
