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We Are Willing to Risk Almost Everything for Money. We Are Just Unwilling to Risk Money for Almost Everything Else.

I have been dealing with a problem in my foot for almost two weeks. This might not sound particularly dramatic. It isn't cancer. It isn't an emergency. It isn't even the kind of pain that stops me from going about my day. Which is perhaps why I found myself hesitating. You see, I am a walker. Not the kind of person who takes a stroll every now and then. I walk for two to three hours most days. Walking is how I think, how I clear my head, and how I make sense of the world. If there is one part of my body I should be willing to invest in, it is probably my feet. Yet when I started calling podiatrists in Nairobi, I found myself doing mental gymnastics. The cheapest consultation fee I found was KES 5,000. Consultation. Not treatment. Not scans. Not medication. Just the privilege of finding out what might be wrong. By the time everything was done, the bill could easily reach KES 15,000 or KES 20,000. And suddenly I found myself wondering whether I really needed a podiatrist. May...
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The Hypocrisy of Pleasure: How We Demonize What We Desire

The other day, I read a Kenyan novel titled Sinners by Sarah Haluwa. It’s a bold book, layered with intimate scenes and themes that don’t shy away from the subject of sex. Once I was done, I shared it with two people, one of them my cousin. Both came back with the same verdict: filth.

That word struck me. Filth.

It’s not the first time I’ve heard Kenyans use such language. For a country where sex is ever-present — in our music, our comedy skits, on TikTok dances, in whispered gossip, and in the quiet confessions of “mpango wa kando” culture — how is it that we also consider it shameful, dirty, and even demonic?

The contradiction we live in

On one hand, our entertainment industry thrives on sexual innuendo. The most streamed songs are often laced with it. Content creators know that scandal sells; anything suggestive will rack up views. Advertisers slip it in subtly to grab attention. In private conversations, too, sexual humor dominates.

Yet when sex is written into literature, when it’s given words instead of beats or memes, suddenly it becomes “too much.” Suddenly, we recoil. We label it “immoral.” We act shocked, as if we are not already immersed in it daily.

Why do we condemn what we consume?

Perhaps it is religion. Many Kenyans were raised in traditions where sex was framed as shameful unless within the “right” context — marriage, reproduction, and silence. Pleasure was never mentioned. Exploration was demonized. So even when people engage with it, they carry guilt.

Or maybe it is secrecy. In public, we denounce it to protect our image. In private, we indulge. It’s a strange double life — and maybe that’s why our reactions to something like a book that treats sex as a natural part of life feel so strong. It forces us to confront what we hide.

The deeper question: what kind of sex are we having?

If sex is “filth” in our language, then what does that mean about the intimacy we practice in private? How do we connect with each other when shame is stitched into the act itself?

Is it possible that calling it “filth” keeps us from demanding more from ourselves and our partners — tenderness, respect, responsibility, and even joy? If sex is only ever whispered about or ridiculed, what happens to honesty and vulnerability in relationships?

A reflection on us as a people

Other societies wrestle with this too, but in Kenya the contradiction feels sharp. We consume, obsess, condemn, repeat. We rarely pause to ask why.

Maybe the real challenge is not whether a book is “filthy” or whether a song is “immoral.” Maybe the challenge is whether we can stop living in contradiction long enough to ask: What does our discomfort reveal about us? What are we running from when we call something “filth”?

Because perhaps, deep down, what we fear isn’t the act itself — but the mirror it holds up to our beliefs, our hypocrisies, and our silences.

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