That Could Never Be a Kenyan: What the Titanic Teaches Us About Honor, Sacrifice, and Our Failing Social Contract

 "We are dressed in our best and are prepared to go down like gentlemen." — Benjamin Guggenheim, Titanic survivor testimony

When the RMS Titanic began to sink into the frigid Atlantic Ocean on the night of April 14, 1912, it wasn’t only a ship that went down. What rose in its place, through the testimony of survivors and the haunting silence of the sea, was a mirror: one that showed the best and worst of humanity. Men and women made choices that revealed character beyond wealth, class, or age. Some were lauded for generations. Others, despite surviving, were socially exiled. This was more than maritime disaster. It was a moral reckoning.

And yet, watching The Digital Resurrection of the Titanic, one thought struck deep: "That could never be a Kenyan."

The Gentlemen Who Stayed

Benjamin Guggenheim, a wealthy American industrialist, helped women and children into lifeboats before retreating below deck with his valet. He dressed in his finest, telling a steward:

“Tell my wife... I played the game out straight and to the end. No woman shall be left aboard this ship because Ben Guggenheim was a coward.”

"We've dressed in our best and are prepared to go down like gentlemen."

He handed a note to a crew member:

"If anything should happen to me, tell my wife I’ve done my duty in this manner."

He died with dignity, choosing honor over survival.

John Jacob Astor IV, one of the richest men in the world, ensured his pregnant wife got on a lifeboat. When denied a spot himself, he didn't protest or pull rank. He simply stepped aside, reportedly asking how much time was left before the ship went down. He returned to the deck. His body was found crushed, still in his dinner jacket.

Isidor and Ida Straus, co-owner of Macy's, were offered lifeboat seats. Isidor refused to take a seat before all women and children were off. Ida turned down her seat, saying:

"We have lived together for many years. Where you go, I go."

They were last seen sitting on deck chairs together, hand in hand. A quiet ending to a shared life.

These were people of immense wealth and influence. And yet, they believed their life’s value didn’t supersede others'. They had already lived. What mattered now was how they left.

The Cowards Who Escaped

J. Bruce Ismay, chairman of the White Star Line, found himself in a lifeboat, even as women and children remained aboard. Though he survived, public outrage followed. Headlines branded him a coward. Newspapers said he had "crashed the social contract."

During the U.S. Senate inquiry, he defended himself:

"There were no women on that side of the deck."

Still, society didn't buy it. He lived out his days in seclusion.

Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon, a British aristocrat, boarded a half-empty lifeboat and was accused of bribing sailors to not return for more passengers. Though legally exonerated, the stain never left his name.

Their sin? Putting themselves first. Having resources, having power, and still choosing self-preservation over sacrifice. They didn’t just save themselves. They broke something sacred.

The Forgotten Poor Who Chose Right

We often forget the third-class passengers, mostly immigrants, laborers, and families seeking a new life in America. Many of them were locked below deck far too long. Yet even among them, there were stories of remarkable courage.

Some parents refused lifeboats so their children might live. A steward, Frederick Fleet, remained at his post helping others even as water rose. These weren’t rich men. They were people with little, who gave what they could – their lives.

Why This Could Never Be a Kenyan Story

Here in Kenya, our ship is already sinking. Institutions are leaking. Corruption is at full tilt. Unemployment, tribalism, and debt threaten the very foundation. But instead of order, we see scrambling.

We have leaders who loot during droughts. We watched a pandemic become a business opportunity. Politicians hoarded COVID-19 funds, leaving health workers without pay and citizens without care.

We forgive too easily. A governor accused of theft returns after "praying" or "reflecting". A public official caught in a sex scandal rebrands and returns, now preaching morality. We believe in redemption without consequence.

We say: “Ni maisha.” “At the end of the day, everyone is trying to survive.” No, not everyone. Some are trying to escape responsibility.

We mistake survival for strategy. We shame the poor for staying poor, but never demand accountability. We praise the rich for donating stolen money. We call them generous.

When Will We Learn to Let Others Board First?

We don’t see this culture of sacrifice. Instead, we’ve normalized hoarding. Wealth, privilege, opportunity.

We rarely see someone step aside for others without expecting a camera, a reward, or a later favor. The idea that you’ve lived your life and must now clear the path? Unthinkable.

Even among the poor, there is a reluctance to contribute. We say, “Si mimi ni maskini?” But poverty doesn’t excuse character. Pulling your weight, being honest, showing up for others—that isn’t reserved for the rich.

"There is no cause for any excitement. All of you get what you can in the way of clothes and come on deck as soon as you can. She is torn to bits below, but she will not sink if her after bulkhead holds." — Titanic Officer William McMaster Murdoch (as quoted by survivors)

On the night of April 14, 1912, the Titanic struck an iceberg in the icy waters of the North Atlantic. By morning, more than 1,500 people had perished. And yet, hours before, most passengers had been eating, drinking, dancing—believing in the myth of an unsinkable ship.

Kenya today bears eerie similarities. As a nation, we are in troubled waters: spiraling debt, soaring unemployment, political fatigue, and a rapidly widening wealth gap. Yet life goes on—Instagram reels, Friday hangouts, outrage without action. We are on the deck of a sinking ship, sedating ourselves with distraction.

1. Ignoring the Iceberg: The High Cost of Inaction

The Titanic received multiple iceberg warnings. They were ignored.

Kenya too has had its fair share of warnings. The rising cost of living, a weakened currency, corruption scandals, floods, and failing infrastructure. We see the signs but do nothing substantial. When leaders loot billions and return to power with ease, when citizens sell their votes for a packet of unga, we’re essentially turning our eyes away from the iceberg.

2. Class Privilege: Who Gets the Lifeboat?

On the Titanic, first-class passengers had better chances of survival. The third class, largely immigrants, suffered most.

Today in Kenya, wealth dictates survival. From access to healthcare and education to justice and basic dignity, class determines outcomes. A privileged few get airlifted for treatment, access foreign degrees, and retire to gated golf estates. The rest hustle for daily survival. When crisis hits, who gets a lifeboat?

3. False Confidence: The Myth of Invincibility

The Titanic was dubbed "unsinkable." Many believed it. The result? Slower reactions and poor preparedness.

Kenyans often carry the myth that somehow we’ll be fine. That the diaspora will send money. That aid will come. That the youth will rise. But hope without action is empty. We’ve been told "tunaenda digital," "hustler nation," or "bottom-up economy." But what do these mean when the cost of unga, transport, and medicine continues to rise?

4. Dancing on the Deck: Escapism Over Action

As the Titanic took on water, some danced. The band played on. It was surreal.

We do the same. We escape into luxury parties, fake lifestyles, debt-fueled consumption, and empty activism. We use social media not to build, but to posture. In the face of real crises, we find refuge in the illusion of normalcy.

5. Heroism and Survival: What Can We Learn from Those Who Made It?

Some survived the Titanic not by luck alone, but by quick thinking and sacrifice. Crew members ushered women and children first. Some gave up their spots. Some survivors rebuilt their lives quietly, carrying the trauma but also wisdom.

Kenya can learn from this. Those who thrive are not always the loudest. They prepare quietly, save diligently, seek knowledge, build community. They don’t wait for salvation from above. They act.

6. Questions We Must Ask Ourselves

• What icebergs are we ignoring right now?

• Do our lifestyles reflect the reality of our economy?

• Who around us is drowning while we pretend all is well?

• Are we living in a way that would help us float when crisis hits?

7. The Lifeboats We Need

• Financial literacy and radical budgeting

• Rebuilding trust through accountability and community

• Choosing leaders based on track record, not tribe or theatrics

• Prioritizing local investment and skill-building

• Reclaiming joy and purpose not through consumption, but connection

Conclusion: Don’t Just Survive the Storm. Navigate It.

The Titanic teaches us that confidence without caution is dangerous. That class can mean life or death. That distraction can be deadly.

Kenya is not doomed to sink. But we must act. The warning bells are ringing. The waters are rising. The question is: will we keep dancing, or will we begin to build lifeboats?

Quote to Reflect On: "The sea was angry that night, my friends, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli." — Jerry Seinfeld (humorous, yet oddly apt)

Or perhaps more seriously: "In a sinking boat, everyone is equal. But only those who row survive." — Unknown

Final Lifeboats

The Titanic teaches us that character isn’t revealed in prosperity but in chaos. When the ship is going down, who you really are surfaces.

Some of us are clinging to status, to luxury, to ego, unwilling to help others onto the boat.

Some are sitting in half-empty lifeboats, watching others drown.

A few are still at the helm, playing music as the ocean claims them.

We must decide: when Kenya goes under, what legacy do we want to leave? One of cowardice and excuses? Or of sacrifice and honor?

Because in the end, no one remembers what car you drove, or how many followers you had. They remember how you went down.