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Permit me to begin by restating a conviction I hold deeply: Kenya runs the world. I am not boastful. This is the reality you encounter on tracks and global podiums. A few days ago, my conviction found renewed expression when Sebastian Sawe stunned the global athletics fraternity by shattering a world record in a performance that was almost otherworldly.
In that moment, the world witnessed a philosophy of life refined on Kenya’s high-altitude training grounds. I am, however, convinced that beyond medals and records, there is a lesson here for Kenyan writers. Allow me to explain.
Some of us imagine that athletics and literature inhabit separate worlds. We think athletics has to do with sweat and timing, while literature deals with ink and imagination. Nothing is further from the truth. If you observe carefully, the making of a champion runner and the making of a serious writer follow strikingly similar disciplines of mind, body, and spirit. That is why Sawe’s achievement is not just a sporting milestone. It is a metaphor for creative excellence.
So what can writers learn from this milestone? The first lesson is that of dedication. No runner wakes up one morning and breaks a world record. Behind Sawe’s moment of glory lie years of unseen labour, early mornings, aching muscles, and a stubborn refusal to quit. Dedication is highly repetitive. It is showing up when the body resists and the mind negotiates excuses. For writers, this translates into the daily commitment even when inspiration is absent. Kenyan writers must learn to sit with words patiently and consistently, while believing that they are building something meaningful. And this is why I have a problem with young Kenyan writers who think that a badly written manuscript generated by ChatGPT can catapult them to the top league of writers.
Closely tied to dedication is daily practice. I see it in our runners every day in my adopted city of Eldoret during my jogging rounds in the mornings. Before the sun rises fully, I see young men and women already on the road, running in silence. There is something deeply humbling about this discipline of repetition. No one is applauding them at 5am. No headlines are written for that morning run. Yet, it is in that invisible labour that world champions are made. I keep repeating this in my creative writing classes. You cannot succeed as a writer if you are not reading and writing every day. If you cannot do this, just try something else.
What am I saying? Writers must find their Eldoret mornings. The page must become your road, whether it is a paragraph or a stanza. The craft demands daily engagement. Talent alone is not enough. John Maxwell told us this a long time ago in his book, Talent Is Never Enough. Just as runners build endurance through accumulated kilometres, writers must build endurance through accumulated words.
The third lesson is discipline. I think discipline is the bridge between desire and achievement. It is what separates those who dream from those who deliver. Kenyan runners are known globally not only for their talent but also for their strict training ethics. They understand that shortcuts destroy potential. They avoid overindulgence when focus is required. They respect the body as an instrument of performance. This is exemplified in Sawe’s example. For writers, discipline is equally uncompromising. It means editing ruthlessly and respecting deadlines. And yes, you must also resist temptation for mediocrity. You cannot treat writing as a hobby and succeed. Never. Writing is not a hobby that comes and goes with moods. It is a craft governed by seriousness. Writing is often lonely, but so is the discipline of running.
The fourth lesson is continuous improvement. One striking feature of Kenyan runners is that even after victory, they do not remain static. A record is not an endpoint. It is a reference point. They return to training to prepare for future demands. Sawe’s world record, remarkable as it is, will soon become part of a larger journey of improvement and reinvention. I always laugh at young writers who publish one book or article and celebrate for two years!
The fifth lesson is teamwork. Though running often appears individual on the track, behind every athlete is a network of coaches, pacers, nutritionists, physiotherapists, and fellow athletes. In places like Iten, training groups function as communities of shared ambition. Athletes push each other and correct each other. No champion emerges in isolation.
Similarly, writers must resist the myth of the solitary genius. Behind every strong literary voice is often an editor who refined the work or a mentor who offered guidance. In short, writing thrives in an ecosystem. Kenyan writers, in particular, must learn to build communities of critique rather than communities of praise. We grow faster when we are corrected than when we are comforted. Let me reveal something today. I operate in a writing ecosystem. Before this article you are reading was submitted to the editors, my brutal readers had already read it. And they do it every week!
Kenyan runners teach us the importance of building on history. Sawe does not run alone in a vacuum of excellence. He runs in the footsteps of giants who turned Kenyan athletics into a global force. From earlier generations who proved that human limits are elastic to contemporary champions, each runner carries forward a legacy. Young writers, too, have inherited a tradition. Kenyan literature did not begin with us, nor will it end with us. We write in the shadow and light of those who came before us and documented struggle, identity, culture, and imagination.
They include Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Francis Imbuga, Meja Mwangi, Oludhe Macgoye, Grace Ogot, and Wahome Mutahi, among others. To write without acknowledging this lineage is to run without understanding the terrain.
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Permit me to begin by restating a conviction I hold deeply: Kenya runs the world. I am not boastful. This is the reality you encounter on tracks and global podiums. A few days ago, my conviction found renewed expression when Sebastian Sawe stunned the global athletics fraternity by shattering a world record in a performance that was almost otherworldly.
In that moment, the world witnessed a philosophy of life refined on Kenya’s high-altitude training grounds. I am, however, convinced that beyond medals and records, there is a lesson here for Kenyan writers. Allow me to explain.
Some of us imagine that athletics and literature inhabit separate worlds. We think athletics has to do with sweat and timing, while literature deals with ink and imagination. Nothing is further from the truth. If you observe carefully, the making of a champion runner and the making of a serious writer follow strikingly similar disciplines of mind, body, and spirit. That is why Sawe’s achievement is not just a sporting milestone. It is a metaphor for creative excellence.
So what can writers learn from this milestone? The first lesson is that of dedication. No runner wakes up one morning and breaks a world record. Behind Sawe’s moment of glory lie years of unseen labour, early mornings, aching muscles, and a stubborn refusal to quit. Dedication is highly repetitive. It is showing up when the body resists and the mind negotiates excuses. For writers, this translates into the daily commitment even when inspiration is absent. Kenyan writers must learn to sit with words patiently and consistently, while believing that they are building something meaningful. And this is why I have a problem with young Kenyan writers who think that a badly written manuscript generated by ChatGPT can catapult them to the top league of writers.
Closely tied to dedication is daily practice. I see it in our runners every day in my adopted city of Eldoret during my jogging rounds in the mornings. Before the sun rises fully, I see young men and women already on the road, running in silence. There is something deeply humbling about this discipline of repetition. No one is applauding them at 5am. No headlines are written for that morning run. Yet, it is in that invisible labour that world champions are made. I keep repeating this in my creative writing classes. You cannot succeed as a writer if you are not reading and writing every day. If you cannot do this, just try something else.
What am I saying? Writers must find their Eldoret mornings. The page must become your road, whether it is a paragraph or a stanza. The craft demands daily engagement. Talent alone is not enough. John Maxwell told us this a long time ago in his book, Talent Is Never Enough. Just as runners build endurance through accumulated kilometres, writers must build endurance through accumulated words.
The third lesson is discipline. I think discipline is the bridge between desire and achievement. It is what separates those who dream from those who deliver. Kenyan runners are known globally not only for their talent but also for their strict training ethics. They understand that shortcuts destroy potential. They avoid overindulgence when focus is required. They respect the body as an instrument of performance. This is exemplified in Sawe’s example. For writers, discipline is equally uncompromising. It means editing ruthlessly and respecting deadlines. And yes, you must also resist temptation for mediocrity. You cannot treat writing as a hobby and succeed. Never. Writing is not a hobby that comes and goes with moods. It is a craft governed by seriousness. Writing is often lonely, but so is the discipline of running.
The fourth lesson is continuous improvement. One striking feature of Kenyan runners is that even after victory, they do not remain static. A record is not an endpoint. It is a reference point. They return to training to prepare for future demands. Sawe’s world record, remarkable as it is, will soon become part of a larger journey of improvement and reinvention. I always laugh at young writers who publish one book or article and celebrate for two years!
The fifth lesson is teamwork. Though running often appears individual on the track, behind every athlete is a network of coaches, pacers, nutritionists, physiotherapists, and fellow athletes. In places like Iten, training groups function as communities of shared ambition. Athletes push each other and correct each other. No champion emerges in isolation.
Similarly, writers must resist the myth of the solitary genius. Behind every strong literary voice is often an editor who refined the work or a mentor who offered guidance. In short, writing thrives in an ecosystem. Kenyan writers, in particular, must learn to build communities of critique rather than communities of praise. We grow faster when we are corrected than when we are comforted. Let me reveal something today. I operate in a writing ecosystem. Before this article you are reading was submitted to the editors, my brutal readers had already read it. And they do it every week!
Kenyan runners teach us the importance of building on history. Sawe does not run alone in a vacuum of excellence. He runs in the footsteps of giants who turned Kenyan athletics into a global force. From earlier generations who proved that human limits are elastic to contemporary champions, each runner carries forward a legacy. Young writers, too, have inherited a tradition. Kenyan literature did not begin with us, nor will it end with us. We write in the shadow and light of those who came before us and documented struggle, identity, culture, and imagination.
They include Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Francis Imbuga, Meja Mwangi, Oludhe Macgoye, Grace Ogot, and Wahome Mutahi, among others. To write without acknowledging this lineage is to run without understanding the terrain.
By Prof Egara Kabaji