KenyaOnAShoeString

It starts with a click. A friend forwards a link to a reading group, a chama, a Zoom workshop, a parenting circle. You join. You read a few messages. You mute the group. You never contribute. Never attend a session. Never show up. And you're not alone. Across Kenya—and perhaps globally—we are seeing a strange but widespread cultural habit: joining groups we never participate in . From WhatsApp reading clubs to civic forums to alumni communities, there’s a sea of people who are present but passive. It seems harmless… but it’s not. This article is a mirror to that quiet behavior—and an invitation to see what it’s really costing us. 1. The Silent Collapse of Collective Action Kenya has long depended on community-driven efforts: harambees, savings groups, cooperative societies, youth initiatives. But these only work when members participate. When 50 join but only 5 engage, things fall apart. Group admins burn out. Ideas die. Communities disband. And slowly, we stop be...

  “Alinitoa kwa shimo.” “Without her, I’d still be unemployed.” “He gave me a chance when no one else would.” These are the silent contracts many Kenyan employees sign — not with ink, but with emotion. Loyalty. Guilt. A debt of gratitude that never expires. It starts innocently. You join a small business or NGO. Maybe the pay is modest, but the opportunity feels heaven-sent. The founder seems visionary, kind even. They say, “We’re like family here.” And you believe them. You stay late. You sacrifice weekends. You take on roles that aren’t yours — because how can you not help? After all, they gave you a chance . You want to be part of the story. The vision. The mission. So you give your time. Your peace. Your boundaries. But slowly, something shifts. You notice raises are rare. Promotions are vague. Financial discussions are avoided or deflected. You realize that while you’ve tied your loyalty to the person who “gave you a chance,” they’ve tied their loyalty to the profit ma...

How do we find peace when our past still follows us around like a shadow? There’s a kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep can fix. It’s the kind that lives in the chest, not the bones. A heaviness born not from long days, but long memories—of what we did, what we didn’t do, what we should have said, what we can’t undo. In Kenya, we speak often about forgiveness in religious spaces. We quote Bible verses, sing worship songs, and talk about letting go. But in real life? We carry regret like it’s a form of atonement. We believe that if we suffer enough under the weight of what we did wrong, we’ll somehow earn peace. But what if real rest is learning to forgive yourself ?  “If I Had Just…” You know the script: If I had gone to visit before they died… If I had stayed in that marriage, maybe the kids would be okay… If I had gone for that job interview, I wouldn’t be struggling this much now… If I hadn’t snapped at my mum that day… Regret sounds like a constant ...

In Kenya, rest can feel like a distant luxury. We live in a society where every move, every decision, and every shilling spent is driven by the fear of uncertainty. Rest is not always a reward for hard work; sometimes, it feels like a risk. The underlying anxiety that if we stop, even just for a moment, we might lose everything can overshadow our ability to truly pause. For many, rest is not a given, but a gamble. In a country where nothing is guaranteed, and survival often means holding on by the thinnest thread, finding peace of mind seems like a far-off dream. Even with the strides some people make toward stability, the constant tug-of-war between short-term pleasures and long-term security keeps them from truly feeling secure enough to rest. The Emotional Toll of Constant Preparation Think about a young woman who has scrimped and saved to buy a boda to supplement her income. But instead of investing in that bike, she takes on the responsibility of paying her younger siblings’ schoo...

In Kenya, survival is not just a phase—it becomes a personality. A way of life. We know how to stretch a coin, how to skip meals, how to walk instead of board, how to delay joy in service of something bigger. We know how to sacrifice . But no one ever teaches us how to stop . You fight to build a life. You give up weekends, comfort, health, joy— even yourself —so your child can finish school, so you can buy that plot, build that house, survive that disease, leave that bad marriage, or finally be free of the debt that has followed you like a shadow. Then the fight ends. The child graduates. The house is done. The cancer is in remission. The toxic relationship is over. The money finally makes sense. You made it. But now, you find yourself staring into the quiet… and you don’t know what to do with it. What Does It Mean to Live After You’ve Been in Survival Mode? A man once said, “I sacrificed everything so my children would have a better life. I don’t even know what I like anymor...

There’s a kind of grief we rarely speak about in Kenya—the grief that comes not from loss, but from survival. Many Kenyans know what it’s like to give up entire decades of their lives for the sake of family. We raise children who aren’t ours. We care for ageing, ailing parents when healthcare fails. We build homes from scratch while still repaying loans. We battle court cases over family land, support siblings through school, and somehow still show up to work, church, harambees, and funerals with a smile. We are excellent at pushing through pain. We endure. We provide. We hold everything together. And so we often tell ourselves: “I’ll rest when I’m done.” But what if done never comes? Even after the chaos ends—the illness, the debt, the heartbreak—we don’t rest. We move the goalpost. We chase another opportunity. We dream of new lands and new starts. We keep running, because stillness feels foreign. We are a nation that knows how to hustle, how to survive—but we don’t know how t...