Sometimes We Accept Destruction in the Name of Progress

“They said I should be grateful I had a job. But I was working 7 days a week, 14 hours a day, for a salary that barely fed me. I was too tired to think. Too scared to leave.”

There is a story here that echoes across Kenya—quietly, persistently, and in the voices of people trying to make something of themselves. But often, it’s not progress they are making. It’s pain they are collecting. Because sometimes, we accept destruction in the name of progress.

The Girl Who Chose Pain Over Poverty

Take a girl from Kibera or Mathare. She is 16, maybe 17. She’s missed school for weeks because she doesn’t have sanitary towels. Her mother sells vegetables; her father is rarely around. A boda guy in the area notices her discomfort and hands her a pack of pads. The next month he brings another. Then chips and soda. Then small money. Then she moves in with him. And just like that, she stops being a child. The guy turns violent. She gets pregnant. She drops out of school for good. At 18, she’s a mother and a wife—but also a girl with a lost future. In her eyes, she escaped poverty. In reality, she walked into its jaws.

The Middle-Class Kenyan Trapped by Ambition

Now take a young professional from Umoja or Kinoo. They worked hard to get their degree, secured a job in a startup in Westlands. The salary? KES 45K. The hours? Endless. The culture? Hustle or go home. They wake up at 4:30 am, commute in traffic, work late into the night. Their boss brags about building a unicorn while forgetting to reimburse bus fare. But this young person believes it’s worth it. Exposure. Potential. Visibility. If they just hold on a little longer, maybe they’ll get noticed. Maybe they’ll be promoted. But three years pass, and nothing changes—except their anxiety and blood pressure. They’re burned out, broke, and bitter. But they stay. Because it feels like quitting would be failure.

The Worker at the Chinese Manufacturing Firm

Then there’s the case that recently made waves on the social media platforms—employees at a Chinese manufacturing firm in Kenya. They spoke of 14-hour shifts, racism, withheld pay, and verbal abuse. When they tried to speak up, other unemployed Kenyans—struggling to make ends meet—told them to shut up and be grateful. "If you don’t want the job, leave it. Give us!"

It’s a national paradox. The employed are miserable. The unemployed are desperate. And both sides believe they are losing.

Signs You’re Accepting Destruction as Progress

You’re afraid to rest or say no because you think it will cost you everything.
You’re always tired, emotionally numb, or unwell, but you call it "the hustle phase."
You endure abuse, disrespect, or unsafe work conditions, but you tell yourself you’re “paying your dues.”
You stay in a situation out of fear, not growth.
You find yourself isolated from friends or family, and you call it focus.
Your boss or environment keeps moving the goalpost—you’re never enough, and the reward is always just ahead.

These are not signs of growth. They are signs of emotional and physical erosion.

When You’re Between a Rock and a Hard Place

The truth is, sometimes we do what we must to survive. Leaving a toxic job or relationship isn’t always an option when you have no savings, no backup, and no safety net. That’s the Kenyan reality for many. But staying must be strategic, not surrender.

Here’s what you can do:

Name it. Call the situation what it is—exploitative, abusive, unsustainable. Denial delays escape.
Plan, don’t panic. Create a soft exit plan. Save something small. Update your CV. Learn a skill on the side. Talk to someone who can guide you.
Refuse to glorify suffering. There is no prize for how much abuse you can take.
Tell your story. Let others know the cost of silence and glorified endurance.

How We Can Help Each Other

Stop calling survival ingratitude. If someone is brave enough to say they are suffering at work, listen. Don’t shame them.
Challenge the culture of silence. Speak up about toxic work cultures—even anonymously. One voice makes it easier for the next.
Support alternatives. If you know of better opportunities, share them. If you can mentor someone, do it. Help others build bridges out.
Reframe progress. Not all movement is forward. Not all sacrifices are worth it. Let’s learn to ask: Is this taking me somewhere—or is it taking from me?

What Real Progress Looks Like

Real progress allows you to breathe, to rest, to retain your dignity. Real progress may be slow, but it does not destroy you. It may cost effort, but it shouldn’t cost your soul.

The next time someone praises you for how much you’re suffering in the name of building a future, ask yourself: Is this building me—or is it breaking me?

Because sometimes, we accept destruction in the name of progress. But we don’t have to.

Daniel Arap Moi — The Shadow and the Shepherd: A Deep Dive into Kenya’s Second President

If Jomo Kenyatta was the founding father, Daniel Toroitich Arap Moi was the long-reigning stepfather — sometimes protective, often punitive, and almost always enigmatic. He ruled Kenya for 24 years, the longest of any president to date. To some, he was the gentle teacher, Mwalimu , who kept the nation from tearing apart. To others, he was the architect of a surveillance state, a master of patronage and fear, the man who perfected repression through calm. This is a portrait of Daniel Arap Moi — not just as a ruler, but as a man shaped by modest beginnings, colonial violence, and the hunger for order in a chaotic time. Early Life: The Boy from Sacho Daniel Arap Moi was born on September 2, 1924, in Kurieng’wo, Baringo, in Kenya’s Rift Valley. He came from the Tugen sub-group of the Kalenjin community. His father died when he was just four. Raised by his uncle, Moi’s early life was marked by hardship, discipline, and deep Christian missionary influence. He trained as a teacher at Tambach ...

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