They came in at 6 AM. On foot. On motorbikes. In groups. From different corners of Gatanga and nearby villages. Over 500 young people some with crying babies, some with torn notebooks gathered in a remote hall near Thika.
They were not there for entertainment. They were not there for handouts. They were there for something they had only heard about in passing: digital skills.
The Ngigi Ndung’u Foundation had organized the event, sponsored it, and rallied the community. They had seen my videos on TikTok and reached out, asking me to speak to their youth and teach them something digital, offering a small fuel token for my time. So, I said yes.
But the moment I stepped into the venue, I knew I wasn’t there to teach tech. I was there to spark fire.
The front rows were completely empty. You could feel it in the air; there was hesitation, fear, and a quiet self-doubt that screamed louder than words. It wasn’t because they didn’t care. It was because they didn’t feel worthy to sit at the front.
So, I broke the pattern. I took my entire fuel token and made an announcement: “The first ten people who sit in the front row walk away with 200 bob.”
And still, they hesitated. That moment broke me. Not because they didn’t want the money many of them had gone without food the entire day. It broke me because poverty does more than empty stomachs. It empties confidence. I had to ask again before one person finally strolled to the front, and I immediately went to my wallet.
I saw young mothers breastfeeding under the benches. I saw boys staring at the floor, afraid to be seen. I saw absolute resilience wrapped in silence.
So I changed the script. As a brand architect, I know that you cannot teach high-level strategy to someone who doesn’t believe they deserve to be in the room. I didn’t talk about digital tools, coding, or AI. I talked about courage.
I talked about silencing that voice in your head that says you are too rural, too poor, or too unknown to build something great. I told them the truth that I, too, come from places like theirs, and that being successful is not about perfection. It’s about purpose.
After the talks, we broke into groups to tackle career guidance, CV writing, and entrepreneurship. I took the tech session, but not tech from textbooks. I sat with them one-on-one. No rush. No slides. Just honest conversation. We discussed the raw architecture of survival and growth:
How to use WhatsApp for business.
How to brand yourself with zero budget.
How to leverage social media to attract buyers.
How to believe in yourself again.
By the time we finished, it was 6:30 PM. They were still there. No food. No complaints. Just hunger not for lunch, but for life. Others camped around my photographer, who naturally turned into a mentor. They just wanted to hold the camera, something tangible to remind them that one day their dreams would be valid.
Nobody paid me. But I left Gatanga infinitely richer than I came.
This is the work. This is the mission. And I’m not stopping.
I realized exactly why I mentor underserved youth. It is for villages like this. It is for boys who were told they are failures, and for girls raising children but still dreaming. It is for the ones who refuse to sit in the front until someone tells them they belong there. This is the work. This is the mission. And I am not stopping.
Have you ever felt like you didn’t belong in the front row? Or do you know someone who needs a reminder that their background doesn’t limit their future?