Love Needs to Be Disaggregated

Africa is not a country. Love is not one thing.

Africa is not a country.
We’ve heard this phrase used to challenge oversimplified narratives — to remind us that the continent is vast, layered, and irreducibly complex.

The same, I believe, applies to love.

In many homes and relationships across Kenya, “love” is treated like a catch-all.

“My mum loves me. She paid my school fees.”
“My dad loves us. He built the house.”
“My partner loves me. They send money.”

These statements are often shared with pride, and sometimes with pain — an attempt to make sense of affection that felt either too conditional, too distant, or too one-sided. But provision is not presence. Obedience is not connection. And saying “I love you” is not the same as showing up in ways that meet a person’s emotional needs.

What we often call love in our culture is vague, generic, and sometimes hollow.
To truly heal, connect, and grow, we must learn to name love differently — in the language of care, concern, presence, attention, and follow-through.

The Problem with “Love” as a Blanket Word

“Love” is one of the most overused and least interrogated words in our relationships. It’s often applied retroactively to explain things that hurt us, or to excuse emotional absences that we were taught to overlook.

But the danger in using love as a blanket word is that it becomes impossible to tell what’s actually missing. It keeps us from asking important questions like:

Did I feel emotionally safe in that relationship?
Did they know me, or just provide for me?
Were my needs met — or just managed?

We grow up thinking love is one thing. Then we become adults chasing something we can’t define — longing for a form of recognition we were never taught to expect.

Breaking It Down: What Love Looks Like in Action

Love is not a single act. It’s a pattern. It’s not proven by big moments, but by how someone chooses to show up — consistently, attentively, personally.

When we disaggregate love, we begin to see it clearly:

Concern:
Noticing that you’ve gone silent, lost weight, or withdrawn — and gently checking in. Not just once, but again.
Interest:
Remembering something you said weeks ago — a project, a dream, a worry — and following up without being prompted.
Presence:
Sitting with someone through discomfort. Being emotionally available. Not rushing them to be okay.
Memory:
A birthday message that includes a personal story or feeling: “I remember the moment you were born. I felt terrified — but the first time you opened your eyes, I knew I had a reason to keep going.”
Follow-through:
Listening when you speak, and taking action. Not big gestures — just small, reliable steps that show your life matters to them.

Statement	What it shows
“I paid your school fees.”	Provision
“You were so brave during your first interview. I’ve never told you that.”	Recognition + pride
“How’s your writing going? You mentioned it two weeks ago.”	Interest + memory
“You’ve been quiet lately. I’m here if you want to talk.”	Presence + concern

This is what real, grounded love looks like. Not generic. Not performative. But specific, thoughtful, and rooted in attunement.

The Emotional Hunger Beneath Our Lives

A lot of people are living half-lives.
We function. We achieve. We show up. But under the surface, many of us are still waiting — to be seen, to be asked, to be remembered.

Some chase relationships that feel like rescue.
Others push people away because they’ve never known safe closeness.
Some of us overcompensate — becoming the fixer, the giver, the strong one — because being needed feels like the closest thing to being loved.

But this emotional hunger didn’t begin in adulthood. It started earlier — in homes where love was expected but rarely examined. Where silence was mistaken for peace. Where duty stood in for affection. Where “I did my best” replaced “I’m sorry I didn’t know how to be present.”

This isn’t about blame.
It’s about naming the gap — so we can stop passing it down.

Where Do We Go From Here?

We begin by telling the truth:

That not all love is nourishing.
That kindness is not the same as concern.
That being there is not the same as being with someone.

Then we learn to name love in its parts — to speak it in full sentences.
We offer love not just as a word, but as a pattern of presence:

“I see you.”
“I remember what you said.”
“I’m thinking of you — and here’s how I’m showing it.”
“I don’t know what to say, but I’m not going anywhere.”

A Final Word

Love isn’t a word.
It’s a language — and most of us were never taught how to speak it fully.

But we can learn.
We can raise a generation that doesn’t just say “I love you,” but shows it — with attention, consistency, and care.

Because maybe what we need is not more love,
but more clarity in how we give and receive it.

Daniel Arap Moi — The Shadow and the Shepherd: A Deep Dive into Kenya’s Second President

If Jomo Kenyatta was the founding father, Daniel Toroitich Arap Moi was the long-reigning stepfather — sometimes protective, often punitive, and almost always enigmatic. He ruled Kenya for 24 years, the longest of any president to date. To some, he was the gentle teacher, Mwalimu , who kept the nation from tearing apart. To others, he was the architect of a surveillance state, a master of patronage and fear, the man who perfected repression through calm. This is a portrait of Daniel Arap Moi — not just as a ruler, but as a man shaped by modest beginnings, colonial violence, and the hunger for order in a chaotic time. Early Life: The Boy from Sacho Daniel Arap Moi was born on September 2, 1924, in Kurieng’wo, Baringo, in Kenya’s Rift Valley. He came from the Tugen sub-group of the Kalenjin community. His father died when he was just four. Raised by his uncle, Moi’s early life was marked by hardship, discipline, and deep Christian missionary influence. He trained as a teacher at Tambach ...

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