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...
Inspired by Martin Niemöller’s haunting poem “First They Came…”, this article explores how silence and apathy shape Kenyan society — and why empathy and moral courage matter more than ever.
The Poem That Still Speaks
There’s a haunting poem that has echoed through decades, written by a German pastor named Martin Niemöller after World War II. It’s a poem about silence — about how people stand by as others suffer, believing that what happens to someone else doesn’t concern them.
"First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me."
Niemöller’s words were born in a dark time, but they still ring true — even here, even now.
Because in many ways, we Kenyans have mastered the art of looking away.
Our Culture of Silence
We see it every day, in small and big ways.
A police officer harasses a boda rider — and we look away because it’s not us.
A neighbour is evicted unfairly — and we whisper sympathy, but do nothing.
Someone loses a job because they refused to bribe — and we tell them, “that’s life in Kenya.”
We’ve grown so used to dysfunction that we’ve normalized it.
We say “si ni kawaida?” as if that phrase can disinfect the rot.
But that small shrug, that quiet acceptance, is how injustice survives.
Every time we look away, every time we convince ourselves that someone else will fix it, we strengthen the very thing that’s breaking us.
When It’s Not Our Problem
It’s easy to care when a story touches us personally.
When hospital bills wipe out our savings, suddenly we see the cruelty of a broken health system.
When the matatu we depend on doubles fares, we understand the weight of inequality.
When our child misses a job opportunity because of corruption or nepotism, we finally feel the sting.
But until then? We scroll past stories of others’ suffering.
We joke. We move on.
Because it’s not our tribe, or our county, or our problem.
And yet, Niemöller’s warning is timeless:
"Then they came for me — and there was no one left to speak for me."
That line is not about fear; it’s about regret — the realization that every silence you offered came back to silence you.
The Silent Majority
Kenya is full of good, kind, hardworking people.
We see injustice and we shake our heads. We talk about it over tea, on WhatsApp, in church, at work.
But talking is not the same as speaking up.
Speaking up means taking a risk — however small.
It means saying “that’s not right” when everyone else pretends not to notice.
It means refusing to laugh at a cruel joke.
It means questioning a system that benefits you while hurting someone else.
We often tell ourselves, “I’m just one person — what difference can I make?”
But silence is contagious — and so is courage.
When one person speaks, another gathers strength to do the same.
Why We Stay Silent
Part of our silence is fear.
Fear of standing out. Fear of losing friends, connections, opportunities.
In a society that punishes truth-tellers, silence feels safer.
Another part is fatigue.
We’ve seen so much failure — in leadership, in systems, in promises — that hope feels like a luxury.
We convince ourselves that “nothing ever changes,” so we look away to protect our peace.
But apathy doesn’t protect us. It only delays the pain.
When we ignore small wrongs, they grow into monsters we can no longer control.
Today it’s someone else’s turn to suffer quietly. Tomorrow, it will be ours.
Rediscovering Our Humanity
The solution isn’t loud outrage or endless arguments online.
It’s something gentler — and harder.
It’s choosing empathy, every single day.
When a stranger’s story of injustice stirs something in you — don’t silence it.
When you see someone being mistreated — don’t justify it.
When you have the chance to speak up, even in a small circle — take it.
Because morality doesn’t start in government offices or courtrooms.
It starts in our homes, our workplaces, our friendships, and the quiet corners of our hearts.
Every time you choose compassion over indifference, honesty over convenience, courage over comfort — you push Kenya one inch closer to the country we dream of.
A Different Kind of Patriotism
Patriotism isn’t blind loyalty to a flag or a politician.
It’s love for people — even those who can’t repay you.
It’s protecting the weak, questioning power, and refusing to be numbed by corruption or tribalism.
One day, someone will speak up for you — but only if you’ve spoken up for someone else.
"Then they came for me — and there was no one left to speak for me."
Let that never be said of us.
Let Kenya be the place where, when they come for one of us, the rest rise together — not in anger, but in conscience.
Because the true cost of silence is not just injustice.
It’s the slow death of who we are meant to be.
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