There comes a time in many Kenyan homes when love quietly morphs into duty. The birthday calls stop. The small affirmations of care fade. Support becomes transactional, and affection is reserved for funerals and emergencies. We know our people are “there for us,” but we can’t feel them anymore.
“Love is not the meal prepared, it’s the warmth with which it’s served.”
In many Kenyan homes, love is measured in chapatis made, fees paid, and water fetched from the borehole. It’s graded in sacrifices, sleepless nights, and school trips funded just in time. From the outside, these are clear signs of care — but are they love?
Maybe.
But maybe they are duty dressed in love’s clothing.
From rural homesteads in Kakamega to middle-class apartments in Nairobi — emotional generosity is a rarity. We know how to provide, to protect, to discipline, to demand. But many of us, including our parents and their parents before them, never quite learned how to be emotionally generous.
In many Kenyan families, emotional generosity is not the norm—it’s a luxury. Parents often express love through provision: school fees, food, shelter. These acts are vital and not to be diminished, but somewhere along the way, warmth, softness, and presence fall away. Once a child becomes an adult, the tone changes. You are now expected to fend for yourself. Your milestones—unless they are culturally visible like marriage or having children—are met with silence.
A 36-year-old Nairobi professional can graduate with a second master’s degree and receive no call from their parents. A man in Kisumu who sends money home every month will never be asked how he is doing. A woman in Eldoret might build her mother a house, only to be reminded she hasn't sent money this month. The emotional labor is rarely mutual.
The Performance of Duty
Duty in Kenya is sacred. You see it in the father who works three jobs to send his child to university. You hear it in the mother who says, “I’ve done everything for you.” It’s in the relatives who remind you, “We raised you like our own.”
And they did.
But duty, without love, feels like a transaction. A debt to be repaid.
So many Kenyan children grow up with their needs met — but their souls unfed. They carry around guilt, pressure, and a silent ache for approval. They were clothed, fed, and educated, but never truly seen or held emotionally.
Why Does This Happen?
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Hard Lives, Hard Hearts: Many parents never learned emotional generosity because they were not raised with it. Life hardened them. They did not have the luxury of softness.
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Cultural Confusion: In Kenyan culture, respect is often prioritized over emotional closeness. Parents believe showing love may compromise their authority.
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Survival Mode: When you’ve been in survival mode for decades, you learn to value output over presence. You finish the job—you don’t nurture the person.
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Emotional Illiteracy: Most people simply don’t know how to show love once provision is no longer needed. No one taught them how to say, “I’m proud of you still,” or “I love you still.”
- Religious Misinterpretation: We’re taught to honor parents no matter what. Love becomes obedience, and questioning emotional neglect is taboo.
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Economic Trauma: Poverty makes emotional labor feel like a luxury. If your mind is worried about food, school fees, or hospital bills — softness feels irresponsible.
Signs You’re Performing Duty, Not Love:
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You support someone financially but never check on their mental or emotional state.
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You show up for big events but have no idea how they’re doing on a random Tuesday.
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You feel resentful when your effort isn’t “appreciated.”
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You stop affirming, celebrating, or connecting once they’re adults.
Distinguishing Love from Duty:
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Duty says “I sent you school fees.”
Love says “Are you okay? What do you need and how can I fulfill that need?” -
Duty performs tasks.
Love makes space for joy, rest, mistakes, and softness. -
Duty expects return.
Love returns to itself.
What Emotional Generosity Looks Like
Emotional generosity isn’t dramatic. It’s presence. It’s gentleness. It’s curiosity.
It’s a father asking how your day was — and actually listening.
A mother saying, “I’m proud of you,” without a caveat.
A sibling saying, “I’m sorry,” not just “Here, I made you tea.”
It’s admitting, “I don’t know,” “I was wrong,” “I love you,” “I see you.”
Love isn’t just the act — it’s the spirit in which it’s done.
The Consequences of Withholding Emotional Generosity:
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Adult children become emotionally distant.
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Parents grow old surrounded by people who respect them but do not know them.
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A cycle of emotional stinginess continues into the next generation.
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People feel abandoned emotionally, even if they were supported practically.
How Do We Shift?
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Acknowledge the pain. Many of us were loved through duty, and it left a hole.
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Start small. Send that birthday message. Ask how your sibling or child is doing—really doing.
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Model emotional generosity. Even if you didn’t receive it, you can give it.
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Name it. Tell your parents, “I need to feel more than just provided for.” Or, “I don’t want us to grow distant.”
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Reparent yourself. Give yourself the softness you didn’t receive, so you don’t repeat the pattern.
A Note to Parents:
Love doesn’t end when your children become adults. That’s often when they need it most. Keep showing up in small ways. Don’t assume your job is done just because they moved out or started earning.
A Note to Adult Children:
Not every parent knows how to love emotionally. Some are doing the best they can. But naming what you need, and grieving what you missed, is part of healing.
Moving Forward: Love Beyond Duty
In the end, love is not just about the things we do for each other—it’s about how we make each other feel. As Kenyans, we can begin to redefine the way we show love. We can choose to stop confusing duty with love and instead nurture relationships with kindness, empathy, and emotional connection.
A Closing Reflection
Maybe now is the time to ask:
What would it look like to stop performing love, and to start giving it?
To show up, not just for birthdays or when someone is in hospital,
But in the quiet daily gestures that tell someone —
“I see your heart, not just your needs.”
Love cannot be inherited. It must be lived.
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