If a child grows up to be kind, healthy, responsible, self-sufficient, and decent—but not wealthy—has the sacrifice failed? Most people would instinctively say no. Yet many families behave as though the answer is yes. Not openly, of course. No parent sits their child down and says, "I didn't raise you to be happy. I raised you to be rich." But expectations have a way of revealing themselves. In comparisons with more successful relatives. In questions about promotions, land, and home ownership. In the disappointment that hangs in the air when a child is doing well enough to survive but not well enough to transform the family's fortunes. And perhaps nowhere is this tension more visible than in Kenya, where sacrifice is often treated as the highest form of love. Parents sacrifice for their children. Older siblings sacrifice for younger siblings. Entire generations sacrifice in the hope that the next one will live better. But what happens when sacrifice quietly becomes an...
You attend a hike. Everyone’s laughing, taking selfies, posting about how amazing the trail is. But somehow, you feel lonelier than ever. Not because you’re shy or antisocial—but because everything feels… transactional.
You join a book club. You go to an event. You reply to an ad. The energy is promising, the first few conversations hopeful—but eventually, it becomes a performance. Everyone wants to seem interesting, deep, well-read. Few want to simply be known.
We live in a society that talks about the loneliness epidemic—but rarely admits the role we play in it. In Nairobi and beyond, Kenyans are struggling to make real friendships. Not surface-level connections. Not social capital. Real, mutual, honest-to-God friendships.
So what’s going on?
We’ve Turned Friendship into a Transaction
Let’s be honest: Many of us are looking for connections that “make sense.”
We scan the room and instinctively filter people:
Can they help me get a job?
Are they well-connected?
Do they look like someone I’d want in my IG stories?
If the answer is “no,” we move on. We dismiss. We ghost. Not because the other person is rude or unkind—but because they don’t offer the “right value.”
This kind of filtering has become second nature. It’s not just about friendship—it’s how we network, how we date, how we decide who’s worth our time.
But here’s the thing: this mindset is eroding our ability to connect.
Not everything—or everyone—needs to come with a benefit. Some people are simply good to talk to. Some friendships are worth building even if they don’t lead anywhere “useful.”
We’re Scared of Being Vulnerable
Real connection requires risk. And in a country where so many of us have been let down—by systems, family, community—it makes sense that we’re guarded.
Opening up is hard when:
Your last friendship ended in betrayal.
You grew up being told not to “talk too much.”
You’ve been laughed at for being too soft, too honest, too needy.
So we play it cool. We act like we’re okay. We fill our lives with content, not connection. And even in groups, we stay emotionally alone.
But staying guarded all the time eventually becomes exhausting.
The False Promise of “Let’s Link Up”
Can We Talk About the “Let Me Get Your Number” People?
If I got a coin for every time someone asked for my number and never reached out, I’d be driving a decent secondhand Mazda Demio by now. And I never even asked for their contact—they were the ones who insisted.
“We should totally link up sometime.”
“Let’s do coffee.”
“I’ll text you, aki.”
Then? Nothing.
Not a text. Not a missed call. Not even a “huyu ni mimi” message. Silence.
So… what was the point?
Let’s break it down—because it’s not always about bad intentions. But it is a pattern, and it says something about how we relate to each other.
Possible Reasons Behind This Strange Habit
Polite performance. In Kenya, we’ve mastered the art of polite lies. Asking for someone’s number is often just a way to end the interaction “gracefully.” It feels rude to just walk away, so we say “Let’s connect” without any intention of following through.
Impulse, not intention. In the moment, the person might genuinely mean it. But once the dopamine wears off—or life gets busy—they forget or deprioritize it.
FOMO behavior. Some people collect numbers the way others collect souvenirs. It gives them the illusion of being connected, even if they never act on it.
Status anxiety. Some folks only reach out if they think you’ll boost their brand. If not, your number gathers digital dust.
Avoiding vulnerability. Reaching out first requires emotional risk. What if you don’t respond? What if it’s awkward? Asking for your number gives them control without the commitment.
The Consequences of Our Disconnect
We talk about loneliness like it’s just a side effect of adulthood. But it’s more than that.
It’s people going to events, smiling for the camera, then crying in matatus on the way home.
It’s people who are surrounded by thousands online but have no one to call in a real crisis.
It’s the slow erosion of trust, of sincerity, of hope.
And sometimes—though it’s a stretch—this disconnect can feed darker outcomes. When emotional connection becomes so rare, some people begin to confuse possession with intimacy. We’ve seen this in the rising number of femicide cases, where rejection becomes a perceived attack, and loneliness curdles into obsession. While it's not the direct cause, a society that doesn’t know how to build healthy relationships breeds unsafe ones.
So What Can We Do?
Be honest. If you don’t intend to reach out, don’t ask for someone’s number. It’s okay to enjoy a moment and let it end.
Follow through. If you do ask, send that message. You don’t need a long conversation—just be sincere.
Go first. Be the one who reaches out. Who checks in. Who creates space.
Value people, not profiles. The most meaningful connections often come from the most unexpected places.
Final Thought: Don’t Just Say “Let’s Connect.” Mean It.
We’re all tired of small talk. Tired of being ghosted. Tired of trying.
But someone has to go first.
Real connection isn’t built on clout, convenience, or chemistry. It’s built on consistency.
And maybe—just maybe—if we all made a little more effort, we wouldn’t feel quite so alone.
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