There is a question we rarely ask ourselves with complete honesty: What do you believe—and what habits does your belief produce? Most people can answer the first part easily. They can describe their beliefs, their values, their philosophies. They know what they stand for. They can explain the principles they claim guide their lives. But the second question is much harder. Because beliefs are easy to claim. Habits are harder to hide. And it is in our habits—especially the small, ordinary ones—that our true philosophy quietly reveals itself. A belief system means very little if it does not shape the smallest habits of everyday life. Not the grand gestures. Not the moments when others are watching. But the quiet decisions that happen in ordinary settings—shared spaces, everyday responsibilities, small interactions with the people around us. How we manage inconvenience. How we treat people who cannot benefit us. How we handle situations where restraint, fairness, or consideration...
"Growing up, I saw everybody else fall in love. I saw Europeans fall in love. I saw Americans continuously fall in love. But I never saw Africans fall in love. I saw Africans procreate. I saw Africans affected by HIV and AIDS, but those weren't love stories." — Wanuri Kahiu, director of Rafiki
Scene from Life: A couple walks down Moi Avenue. Their clothes match—both wearing bright Ankara prints, perfectly coordinated for Instagram. But their hands do not touch. Their eyes do not meet. Their bodies move parallel but emotionally distant. A child greets their father after school with a formal handshake. A teenage boy stiffens when his mother tries to hug him in public. A man buries his wife and never cries, because "men don't cry."
We see the motions of love—weddings, gifts, romantic holidays—but rarely the soul of it. Rarely the warmth, the gentleness, the pause. We see couples. We don't see connection.
The Myth of Taboo Somehow, we have come to believe that intimacy is not African. That to hold hands, to kiss in public, to say "I love you" to your child is shameful. But where is the literature, the scripture, the oral history that tells us so?
In many African communities before colonization, affection was not hidden. People sang songs of longing. Women braided each other's hair as a ritual of care. Men embraced one another in greeting. Love was embedded in story, dance, food, ritual.
The English Way of Love Colonialism didn’t just take our land. It rewrote our emotional codes. Victorian morality, missionary doctrines, and Christian shame quietly taught us that modesty meant silence, that dignity meant detachment, that emotional restraint was a virtue.
The English way of love—proper, discreet, emotionally reserved—was exported to our shores with school uniforms, English-language hymns, and imported discipline. We were taught to avoid public displays of affection, to separate emotion from respect, to replace warm gestures with duty and obedience.
We internalized this. We stopped singing love songs openly. We stopped touching. We replaced dance with shame. We started whispering our feelings instead of shouting them.
Why It Still Hasn’t Changed In the age of information, we see affection daily—on screens, in films, on social media. But that hasn’t undone the internalized silence. Why?
Because culture is stubborn. Trauma is generational. And because visibility is not the same as embodiment. We watch love, but we don’t rehearse it. We see others perform it, but to us, it still feels unnatural.
For many Kenyans, when they do try to show love, it comes out awkward, loud, exaggerated. It feels performative—not because it’s fake, but because they’re learning it late, without tools. It’s hard to give what you’ve never received. It's hard to feel what was never modeled for you.
What’s the Difference? Let’s define these terms clearly:
Love is the foundation. It’s the deep sense of care, attachment, and commitment to another’s well-being.
Affection is how love is physically and emotionally expressed—through hugs, words, tone, presence.
Intimacy is closeness. Emotional safety. The ability to be vulnerable and still feel accepted.
Passion is energy, desire, and intensity—often physical, sometimes emotional. It includes romantic and sexual longing.
They are connected. You can love without showing affection. You can be passionate without being intimate. You can live with someone and never experience closeness.
We need to integrate them. To bring our emotions into the body. To let care travel from thought into action.
A Guide for Everyday Kenyans So how do we begin? How do we show love, feel love, offer love—without shame?
Reclaim Touch – Start by hugging your children. Your friends. Shake hands warmly. Lean into the embrace.
Say the Words – “I love you.” “I’m proud of you.” “I missed you.” Speak them, not just in moments of crisis, but in everyday life.
Make Rituals of Care – Serve someone tea with intention. Share your lunch. Call to check in. Offer your presence, not just your opinion.
Be Vulnerable First – Someone has to go first. To say how they feel. To cry in front of others. To open the door of emotional safety.
Show Affection Publicly – Hold hands. Smile across the room. Compliment your partner. Let children see what tenderness looks like.
Practice Until It Feels Natural – It may feel awkward. But love, like language, becomes fluent with practice.
The Role of Art and Film In Rafiki, Wanuri Kahiu dared to imagine Black girls in love—not just in struggle, not just in survival, but in sweetness. It was banned in Kenya. Because love, when it’s unapproved or inconvenient, still threatens us.
But art is where we begin to reclaim. Every poem, every film, every Instagram story that captures real affection begins to heal our broken emotional lineage.
Final Reflection: What stories will our children tell about us? Will they say we were kind? That we touched? That we looked into each other’s eyes? That we were not just providers, but lovers? Not just families, but companions?
Because love—real, lived, visible love—is also resistance.
Let’s remember how to show it.
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