Perhaps one of the most overlooked privileges is not wealth itself, but having enough margin in your life to respond to reality. Over the last few years, we have become fluent in the language of privilege, speaking easily about financial privilege, pretty privilege, racial privilege, passport privilege, educational privilege and social privilege, and in doing so we have become increasingly aware that people do not all start from the same place and that some doors open more easily for some than for others. Yet there is one form of privilege that seems to receive far less attention, and that is the privilege of being able to do something with the information you have, not simply knowing, but acting, because the truth is that information alone changes very little. We like to imagine that if people only knew better, they would do better, and entire industries are built around this assumption, from self-help books and documentaries to podcasts, awareness campaigns, public health initiative...
People think they marry for love. But more often than not, they marry to be safe, to be seen, or to be saved.
In Kenya, marriage and children are presented as the natural checkpoints of life. You grow up, finish school, get a job, marry, and have children. This sequence is rarely questioned, because to question it feels like rebellion against culture, religion, and even family. Yet if we strip away the social scripts, the reality is unsettling: very few Kenyans choose marriage or children freely.
Marriage as Escape
Look closely at the stories around you. Many people marry to escape poverty. For women, this often means marrying a man who can provide more stability than their families could. For men, it may mean marrying into opportunity, or at least a semblance of respectability. The marriage certificate becomes a survival tool — less about romance, more about relief.
Others marry to escape abuse. A young woman grows up in a home where beatings and insults are daily bread, and marriage seems like an exit strategy. A man grows up in constant tension with a violent father, and marriage feels like freedom, a chance to finally be “head of his own house.” But leaving one broken structure often means walking into another one, because the choice wasn’t made out of clarity — it was made out of desperation.
And then there is the quiet, almost invisible reason: the desire to be wanted. In a society where singleness past a certain age carries whispers of failure, many marry simply because someone chose them. Not because they truly wanted that person, but because the alternative — being seen as unwanted — felt unbearable.
Children as Obligation
The story doesn’t end with marriage. In fact, it begins.
Children are often not born from desire but from pressure. “When will you give us grandchildren?” “Who will carry on the family name?” “Do you want to grow old alone?” These questions aren’t asked once; they echo constantly until people comply. And in many cases, children become the social proof that the marriage is “working.”
Others have children for security in old age — a deeply rooted Kenyan mindset. Children become a retirement plan, a guarantee that someone will care for you when you cannot. It is less about nurturing a life and more about securing one’s own.
Yet, when children are born of obligation rather than desire, it shows. Parents carry silent resentment, children inherit unspoken burdens, and entire families live out cycles of duty rather than love.
The Disguised “Choices”
The uncomfortable truth is that these are rarely choices. They are reactions — to poverty, to pressure, to loneliness, to culture.
Take campus marriages, for example. In Nairobi, many young women marry or cohabit with older, financially stable men because survival in the city is expensive. Love exists, yes, but the underlying driver is usually security. On the other side, older men marry or pursue younger women because youth is a status symbol, proof that they “still have it.” Both parties call it choice, but underneath, it is transaction.
Or consider rural-urban marriages of survival. A man works in the city, marries a woman from his village, and keeps her at home with children while he lives another life in Nairobi. Tradition demands he marries, so he does. But was it a choice? Or was it compliance with cultural expectations?
Then there are children as retirement plans. Many parents openly admit: “I must have children so I will not suffer when I am old.” Rarely do they admit: “I want children because I love the idea of nurturing life.” Children become functional, instrumentalized — a safety net.
What If We Chose Freely?
And this raises the haunting question: what if we stripped away poverty, fear, and cultural expectation? What if you had financial stability, a supportive community, and no pressure to “prove adulthood” through marriage or children? Would you still choose them?
It is possible that many would not. And that’s the discomfort. For decades, we have told ourselves — and each other — that marriage and children are the natural outcome of adulthood. But what if they are not? What if for some people, the truest choice is to remain unmarried, child-free, and fulfilled?
The Cost of Reactionary Living
Living reactively — marrying to escape, parenting out of duty — comes at a cost. Broken marriages. Resentful adults. Generational cycles of trauma passed down because no one stopped to ask: Is this truly what I want?
Perhaps that is the real tragedy. Not that people marry or have children, but that they do so without ever truly choosing. Out of fear of loneliness. Out of fear of failure. Out of fear of being left behind.
And when fear drives life, joy becomes scarce.
Maybe the question isn’t should we marry and have children? but rather: what would our lives look like if we made choices, not reactions?
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