The Rot We’ve Come to Expect

What happens to a people who believe they should keep receiving without ever renewing?

I’ve been house hunting lately, and it’s been a brutal mirror. Not just of Nairobi’s inflated rental prices or neglected plumbing, but of something much deeper and much more disturbing—our collective tolerance for decay, and our strange belief that once something starts giving, it should never stop… even if we do.

You walk into a house in Kileleshwa or Karen going for 150K a month. The gates creak. The tiles are chipped. The kitchen cabinets look like they’ve survived three regimes. You mention a leaky sink and the caretaker shrugs. You’re expected to be grateful to live in a postcode, even if the house itself is crumbling.

And this is not just about houses. It’s about us. This habit of milking without mending. Of expecting fruit from trees we never water. Of choosing inheritance over investment. It’s a quiet kind of national rot—and we’ve all played our part.

Our strange national comfort with decay. Our collective culture of demanding returns without doing the bare minimum to earn or maintain them. Our entitlement to continuous reward—without responsibility.

We see it in our schools. In our hospitals. In our families. In our politics. In our friendships. This belief that once something starts giving, it should never stop… even if we stopped showing up a long time ago.

The Passive Income Delusion

We’ve romanticized passive income to the point of rot. A landlord builds a flat in 1994 and feels entitled to 2025 rent rates without lifting a finger. A building like YMCA, operational for over 40 years and collecting from guests, students, conferences, and food outlets, still looks like the paint budget ran out in 1999. Why?

Because we mistake existence for effort. Because we confuse origin with ownership. Because we believe that once something is built, it should serve us indefinitely—regardless of what we put back into it.

But passive income is never truly passive. It’s just that the work required changes. The foundation may be done, but reinvention, care, and reinvestment never end. Unless, of course, we accept slow collapse.

This Culture of Decay Is Everywhere

In Relationships

A husband stops listening to his wife after ten years but still demands respect and submission. A wife stops tending to intimacy or communication, yet expects loyalty and devotion. There’s no curiosity, no tending—but always demand.

We confuse having someone with caring for someone. But love, like property, deteriorates when untended. And yet, we expect it to keep yielding.

In Family Structures

Many parents expect their adult children to care for them, even if they never built meaningful bonds, offered emotional presence, or nurtured connection. “I raised you” becomes a lifelong invoice, even when what was offered was duty—not love, not care, not gentleness.

Maintenance was never done, but withdrawal is expected. A crumbling structure still believes it's owed loyalty. We confuse chronology with investment.

In Business

Founders start a company with great vision, then stop showing up—mentally, strategically, or emotionally. Employees are underpaid, overworked, and rarely appreciated, but they’re told to “be grateful” for a job. Feedback is ignored. Innovation is resisted. Yet profit must rise.

We’ve all seen those brands that peak then plateau—but never die because they hoard just enough market share or loyalty to coast. Until one day, they vanish.

In Schools

Some of the oldest and most expensive schools in Kenya are also the most neglected. You’ll find schools charging upwards of KES150,000 a term, still using pit latrines. The walls are peeling. The desks haven’t been replaced in years. The labs are empty. The computers haven’t worked since Kibaki left office.

Ask them what justifies the school fees and you’ll be told it’s “because of the school’s legacy.” But that legacy is now a mask for stagnation.

Curriculums remain unchanged for decades. Teaching methods are relics. Creativity is stifled. Infrastructure is ignored. The school uniform is policed more than the quality of learning. Children are prepared to pass exams, not to think.

This is not lack of money. This is lack of will. Lack of reinvestment. The delusion that a good reputation from 1998 should still carry weight in 2025.

We are letting our schools rot—and we are still paying for the rot.

In Hospitals

Many private hospitals are driven purely by income, not care. They upgrade their billing systems more frequently than their medical equipment. Basic human dignity is sometimes too much to ask. You walk in, and the receptionist is overwhelmed. The doctor is rushed. The chairs are torn. The bathrooms are filthy.

Even government hospitals, with annual budgets and endless donor funding, still operate as if time stood still. Nurses still use handwritten notes. There’s a shortage of everything except complaints. But buildings still stand. And so, we pretend all is well.

When you ask questions, you’re told “this is just how things are.” We confuse endurance with excellence. Presence with performance. And so the patient suffers. The staff burns out. The system survives on fumes.

In Homes Too

There’s an unspoken rule among many landlords in Nairobi: Once it’s built, it should never cost me again. Paint is a luxury. Plumbing is your problem. Broken windows? You fix them, and then please vacate before your lease ends so I can keep the deposit.

These properties are treated as endless income sources, never as responsibilities. Entire buildings stand as monuments to neglect—generating money but giving nothing back to the tenants or the community.

We build, then we abandon. And then we invoice.

Why Do We Accept This?

Because we confuse age with value.
Because we confuse ownership with relevance.
Because we fear reinvention.
Because we think legacy is built once, instead of every day.

There’s also something else: we believe in entitlement without effort. We think “I was there at the beginning” should exempt us from showing up now. That if something once worked, it always should.

So we sit back. We let the house rot. We let the marriage go silent. We let the business stale. We let the community crack. And we still want the fruit.

What Can We Do About It?

We must begin with a hard, national question:
What are we letting die because we refuse to reinvest?

• If you’re a landlord, when did you last walk through your property with the eyes of a tenant?

• If you’re a parent, what do your children know of your love, beyond their childhood chores?

• If you’re a spouse, what part of you is still reaching, asking, learning about your partner?

• If you’re a business owner, how do your employees experience you—in the quiet, daily moments?

Reinvestment is not just financial. It’s emotional, intellectual, spiritual. It’s the act of still caring.

The Real Cost of Decay

We think decay is slow, manageable. But it isn’t. It leaks. It spreads. It ruins reputations, relationships, trust, safety, and dignity. A neglected wall leads to mold. A neglected child leads to estrangement. A neglected relationship leads to silence, then resentment.

Decay is the price of laziness disguised as legacy.

Ask Yourself

• What in my life am I expecting returns from, that I haven’t reinvested in for years?

• Where have I become a passive landlord—emotionally, spiritually, structurally?

• What am I justifying with age or ownership that actually needs repair or release?