Single Mothers or Absent Fathers — Who Really Deserves the Label?

In Kenya, few social realities are as visible — and as normalized — as single motherhood. Walk into any Kenyan town, village, or estate and you will hear it: “single mother.” It rolls off tongues with ease, as if it were the most natural title in the world. It carries weight, stigma, sometimes pity, sometimes pride. We hear phrases like “I was raised by a single mother” or “She’s doing it all on her own” so often that they hardly spark a second thought. But pause for a moment: why does the phrase exist in the first place? Why is there no equal and opposite phrase — “absentee father” — that carries the same recognition, the same punch, the same weight in society?

This question matters because it reveals not just our family structures, but also our values as a people.

The Normalization of “Single Mother”

In Kenya, the term single mother has become so normalized that it is almost part of our cultural vocabulary. It is said casually, often with judgment lurking just beneath the surface. Yet the absence of fathers is just as widespread — and far more impactful.

But instead of pointing the lens at men, society redirects it onto women, who are left to carry both the title and the responsibility. Women become the face of broken families while men disappear into anonymity, their irresponsibility swallowed in silence.

What Foreigners Notice That We Don’t

The other day, a foreigner asked me why there are so many single mothers in Kenya. For them, single motherhood is such a rare, almost alien concept that it felt shocking. But what struck me most was not the question itself, but the follow-ups: Are these women single by choice? Or are the men simply irresponsible? In that moment, I realized something unsettling — outsiders immediately notice the role men play, while we, so accustomed to this reality, push it aside and only frame the story around the women.

This reveals something about us as a people. We have normalized the idea of women raising children alone, to the point that it has become the story. We ask how women cope, how they survive, how they juggle work and family. But rarely do we ask: Where are the men? What does it say about us that their absence is unremarkable?

Sustainability: A Silent Crisis

The sustainability question then looms large. Is it sustainable for so many households to function without present, responsible fathers? What does this mean for children growing up in such contexts — socially, emotionally, even economically? And what does it reveal about the deep fractures in how we approach family, responsibility, and manhood?

Abroad, fatherhood is often tethered tightly to identity, social obligation, even state-enforced accountability. Here, fatherhood feels almost optional, negotiable, and too often abandoned. It’s a cultural blind spot we’ve learned to live with, even as it quietly reshapes the structure of our society.

The Deeper Reflection

This isn’t just about family. It is about language. Words shape perception. By naming women single mothers and leaving men unnamed, we inadvertently excuse the men and penalize the women. We allow irresponsibility to hide in plain sight.

The truth is, for every single mother, there is an absent father. But only one side is visible, only one side is named, only one side is judged.

The epidemic, then, is not single motherhood. The epidemic is absentee fatherhood — and our collective silence about it. Until we call it what it is, we will continue to cushion men from responsibility while burdening women with both the blame and the load.

Closing Question

So perhaps the next time we reach for the phrase single mother, we should pause and ask: where is the father? Why don’t we name him too? Why don’t we say absentee father with the same casualness, the same frequency, the same weight?

Until we shift the language, we will continue to tell only half the story — and place the burden on the very people already carrying the heavier load.

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 ...

Not All Disabilities Are Visible

Some pain does not leave a mark. Some exhaustion does not show in the face. Some people are carrying weights that have no name, no diagnosis, and no outward sign. We are used to recognizing suffering only when it can be pointed to — a bandage, a crutch, a cast, a wound. Something we can see. But the human interior is its own world, and often, the heaviest struggles live there. The Quiet Work of Holding Yourself Together There are those who walk into a room smiling, contributing, present — and yet they are holding themselves together one breath at a time. Not because they are pretending, but because they have learned to live with what would overwhelm another person. Some battles are fought inside the mind: The slow grey of depression The relentless hum of anxiety The sudden, unbidden memory that takes the body back to a place it never wants to return The deep fatigue that sleep does not cure And yet, life continues. The world moves. The dishes still need to be wa...

Know Thyself: The Quiet Power of Naming Your Nature

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” — Carl Jung We live in a culture that equates good intentions with goodness, and ambition with ability. But very few people in Kenya—or anywhere—truly know what they are made of. We can name our qualifications and our dreams. But ask someone their vices or virtues, and they hesitate. Worse, they lie. The Danger of Self-Unawareness In Kenya today, many of us are wandering through life making choices—big, small, and irreversible—without truly understanding who we are. We end up in jobs we despise, relationships we shouldn’t be in, or positions of influence we aren’t emotionally or ethically equipped for. And at the root of this dysfunction is a simple truth: we don’t know ourselves. This is not a spiritual or abstract dilemma. It’s a deeply practical one. To know oneself is to understand your vices, your virtues, your weaknesses, and your strengths—not in a vague sense, but in detail. Let’s ge...

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