If a child grows up to be kind, healthy, responsible, self-sufficient, and decent—but not wealthy—has the sacrifice failed? Most people would instinctively say no. Yet many families behave as though the answer is yes. Not openly, of course. No parent sits their child down and says, "I didn't raise you to be happy. I raised you to be rich." But expectations have a way of revealing themselves. In comparisons with more successful relatives. In questions about promotions, land, and home ownership. In the disappointment that hangs in the air when a child is doing well enough to survive but not well enough to transform the family's fortunes. And perhaps nowhere is this tension more visible than in Kenya, where sacrifice is often treated as the highest form of love. Parents sacrifice for their children. Older siblings sacrifice for younger siblings. Entire generations sacrifice in the hope that the next one will live better. But what happens when sacrifice quietly becomes an...
To watch a ballerina rise to principal dancer, a gymnast bend physics to her will, study a polyglot perfecting pronunciation across languages, or an academician write with generational clarity is to witness not just talent — but years of intentional sacrifice. These are not casual efforts. These are lives shaped by years — sometimes decades — of repetition, refinement, and surrender to the process.
Mastery is a long road. It demands humility, sacrifice, obsession, and discipline. In many parts of the world, this is understood and honored. In contrast, many Kenyans seem to struggle with the idea of pursuing excellence for its own sake. We prize quick wins, virality, and visibility, often mistaking them for mastery.
There is a growing entitlement, especially among creators, professionals, and young entrepreneurs. We want to be paid for mediocrity, compensated for showing up, and crowned for effort. This isn’t just a personal failure — it’s a cultural crisis.
The Myth of Instant Genius
In a digital age, we are inundated with 60-second success stories. Someone opens a YouTube channel and goes viral. A TikTok dancer trends overnight. A poet posts a tweet and gets a book deal. It looks easy, fast, democratic. But what we don’t see is the rigorous journey behind the scenes — or, worse, there is no rigorous journey at all.
In Kenya, this effect is exaggerated. New podcasters produce two episodes and already want sponsorships. Aspiring writers publish a chapbook and expect to charge premium rates. Designers copy a logo and present themselves as branding experts. There is little patience for apprenticeship, critique, or iteration.
Why We Avoid the Long Road
In our culture, the relationship with work and craft is often transactional. The question isn’t: How do I get better? but rather: How quickly can I get paid? This mindset has birthed a kind of creative and professional entitlement. From YouTubers with low-quality sound and visuals expecting sponsorships, to authors doing the bare minimum and charging premium prices, we are a people increasingly allergic to the slow, painful art of becoming great.
It’s not that Kenyans aren’t talented. It’s that we often lack patience. We see this in:
Content creation: Little investment in research, visuals, or editing, yet high expectations for virality and sponsorship.
Publishing: Rushed books with weak narratives, poor editing, and generic covers.
Craftsmanship: Inconsistent service delivery, shortcuts in construction, poor finishing in creative projects.
Meanwhile, across the world, people are giving 10, 15, 20 years to their craft — and sometimes still waiting for recognition.
The Demands of Mastery
To become a principal ballerina means dancing six hours a day from childhood, battling injury, rejection, and emotional exhaustion. Olympic swimmers train twice a day, every day, often from the age of five. Elite academics spend entire lifetimes studying obscure topics that may never be appreciated by the masses. Mastery is brutal. It is not for the fame-hungry. It is for those willing to lose themselves in something greater.
You don’t become truly bilingual by downloading Duolingo. You do it by embarrassing yourself in conversations, by reading entire novels in another language, by fumbling and repeating until fluency becomes second nature. You don’t become a skilled writer by publishing one rushed book. You do it by writing thousands of bad pages until you find a voice worth reading.
Mastery requires reverence. It is not entitled. It waits.
Why It Matters
When a society devalues process and only celebrates results, it creates shortcuts. And shortcuts rot everything:
Our buildings collapse.
Our artists plateau.
Our professionals burn out.
Our students cheat.
Our leaders lie.
We become a culture of appearances — where the goal is to look the part, not be the part.
The tragedy is that we lose the satisfaction of becoming deeply good at something. We miss the inner reward — the confidence, humility, and dignity that comes from giving years to a craft. We rob ourselves of pride that no paycheck can give.
Reclaiming the Journey
It is possible to shift this culture. It starts with:
Celebrating discipline more than charisma.
Investing in training before performance.
Normalizing failure as part of growth.
Creating spaces for quiet work, not just public success.
Valuing curiosity over virality.
Not everything must lead to money. Not every talent needs to be monetized. Sometimes, doing something excellently — simply because it matters — is enough.
Conclusion
We must ask ourselves: Are we building a culture of excellence, or a culture of entitlement? Are we willing to take the long road — with no guarantee of applause — for the joy of becoming?
Mastery is not glamorous. It’s sweaty, boring, and often lonely. But it is also dignifying, transcendent, and deeply human.
And maybe, that is the reward.
Kenya is full of potential. But potential means nothing without discipline. Excellence cannot be crowdsourced, shortcut, or willed into being. It must be built — slowly, painfully, and with love.
Let’s raise the bar — not just for money, but for meaning. Let’s normalize mastery — not just for applause, but for art. Let’s do the work — even when no one is watching.
Only then will we create a culture worth inheriting.
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