“Hii Nchi Si Yetu? Then Whose Is It?”

I’m writing this because I’m angry — not the kind of anger that passes, but the kind that grows. The kind that keeps you up at night.

I look at Nairobi today and I don’t recognize it. Not because of development. Not because of traffic. But because this city, this country — my home — is being bought up, piece by piece, by people who don’t love it the way we do.

And the rest of us? We're being priced out, pushed aside, and told to be quiet.

Studio apartments in Westlands are going for 9 million shillings. Who are they for? Certainly not for the ordinary Kenyan. And yet foreigners — many of them — are buying two, three, four houses like it’s a shopping spree, while the people who grew up in these neighborhoods are priced out, forced to the outskirts, or locked into eternal renting. And when we speak up, we’re told, “Hii nchi si yetu?”

I see the face of this country changing — and it’s not just cultural. It’s ownership. It’s power. It’s the future slipping out of our hands.

To Those Who Say "Hii Nchi Si Yetu?"

There’s a phrase people like to throw around when you raise these concerns:“Hii nchi si yetu?”It’s meant to silence. Meant to shame you for being worried, for feeling out of place.
But what they don’t realize is: we’re not asking whether Kenya belongs to us. We’re asking why it feels like it doesn’t anymore. Because when the land, the homes, and the opportunities are all going to people with foreign passports, foreign money, and foreign loyalties — what does that leave for us? When your own people are locked out of affording a life in their own country — that’s not ownership. That’s exile. That’s economic displacement dressed up as development.

This Is Not Just a Nairobi Thing

And to those who say, “Ah, that’s just Nairobi... that's just Kilimani, Westlands, Kileleshwa” — stop lying to yourselves.
This is happening everywhere:

• In Naivasha, land is disappearing faster than memory. Foreigners are buying huge parcels near the lake, driving prices up so high that even long-time residents can’t dream of buying. 

• In Nanyuki, what used to be small-town charm has become gated estates for expats, tourists, and wealthy elites. 

• In Malindi and Diani, coastlines are being sold off in acres, locals pushed further inland like squatters in their own homeland. 

• In Isiolo and Lamu, strategic land is being gobbled up for “future development,” often with no clear benefit to the surrounding communities.

It’s not just real estate. It’s about access. Ownership. Legacy.
And if you’re not paying attention, your county is next.

And Let’s Be Honest About Why This Hurts

I’ve lived abroad. I know what it means to be a foreigner. I know what it feels like to be tolerated, never fully accepted. To be a second-rate citizen even when you’re doing everything right. And so I came home — because here, I thought, at least this is where I belong.

But what happens when even here, belonging becomes something you can’t afford?

What happens when you start to feel like a guest in the country you were born in?

We Forgot the Blood That Was Spilled for This Land

• The Mau Mau didn’t have degrees, but they knew that land is life. They were labeled terrorists by the British, tortured in detention camps, and executed for daring to reclaim their birthright.

• Dedan Kimathi died in chains, executed by the British. His body is still missing. He died so we could own what we now sell without blinking.

• Wangari Maathai was beaten, arrested, and had a chunk of her hair ripped out trying to save Karura Forest from real estate encroachment. Today, parts of Karura are under private lease, developments sprouting on its borders.

The Kenyan Dream Is a Lie

• Drive a German car on a loan

• Rent a high-rise in Kilimani

• Buy a plot of land in the middle of nowhere and call it "investment"

• Eat brunch, drink whiskey, post soft life on social media

Why Are We So Passive?

Why are Kenyans so passive in the face of these betrayals?
Is it fear? Is it hopelessness? Or is it comfort — the kind that numbs you into silence? We distract ourselves with:

• English Premier League 

• TikTok gossip 

• Brunch in overpriced cafes 

• Whiskey bottles on borrowed credit

We act like driving a Range Rover on a bank loan is liberation. We rent apartments in Kilimani we can’t afford, and call it “soft life.”

But what happens if you lose your job tomorrow? What happens when you can’t pay your rent or your car note? What will you own?

A plot somewhere in Kamulu or Kitengela, an eighth of an acre in the middle of nowhere — with no water, no roads, and no security — that you call “investment”?

That’s not success. That’s survival wrapped in a suit and sunglasses.

Because when your life is built on debt, with no land, no asset, and no safety net, you are one salary away from collapse. One medical emergency. One job cut. Then what? Your dreams disappear with your payslip.

This isn’t progress. It’s survival dressed up in lifestyle branding.

This isn’t about hating foreigners. Many of them are just doing what the system allows.

This is about loving ourselves enough to ask:
Why is it so easy to buy Kenya? And why is it so hard for Kenyans to live here?

Success Without Sovereignty Is Hollow

You can’t Netflix your way out of economic displacement. You can’t brunch your way out of cultural erasure.
And we shouldn’t have to bleed again to realize what’s being taken from us.

Wake Up Now — Or Wake Up Too Late

I love this country too much to stay silent. I love it enough to be angry.

If you love Kenya, don’t dismiss this as bitterness. Don’t reduce it to class jealousy or urban drama. This is a warning. This is a plea. Wake up. Speak up. Organize.

This land was not gifted. It was fought for.

These were people without wealth. Without status. Without Instagram. But they understood what mattered: If we lose the land, we lose the country.

Today, we have PhDs. We’ve studied abroad. We wear suits. We run NGOs. But we are blind.

History is clear: when native populations are pushed out of ownership, when land and identity are quietly sold off, war follows. Not always with guns. But with division. With hatred. With desperation.

We see it in South Africa. We saw it in Zimbabwe. In Palestine. In inner-city America. Economic displacement breeds political collapse.

And we’re walking that road.

What happened to us?

We are the descendants of people who fought to the death for this land.

Not just the Mau Mau — but women like Wangari Maathai, who was beaten, bloodied, and humiliated just to protect trees in Karura from greedy developers.

At one point, they ripped out a chunk of her hair — and yet she stood her ground. For us.

And now? Karura is being quietly sold off and fenced in, piece by piece, in the name of “investment” and “development.” The trees she bled for now stand next to concrete towers and gated roads.

We say nothing. We walk our dogs there. We jog on paths through a forest that no longer feels wild or free.

We have forgotten.

We think we’ve made it, but we’re clinging to a system designed to make sure we never truly do.

This Is Not Hate. This Is Love

Love isn’t passive. Love protects. Love defends. Love fights when something sacred is being taken.

Kenya is being reshaped beneath our feet — and too many of us are just watching

If you love this country, you should be angry. If you love this land, you should be unsettled. Speak up. Ask questions. Organize. Challenge the silence. 

Because once everything is sold, once we’re renters in our own country, there will be nothing left to protect.