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...
I had just stepped into Karura Forest, the late morning sun filtering through the canopy, when the thought struck me. Why is it that so many Kenyans, when given the opportunity to own land or build a home, begin by clearing every sign of life from the soil? We clear every tree, scrape off the topsoil, and replace grass with cabro. Then we head to plant nurseries and buy potted palms to ‘bring life’ into our homes. A strange cycle: nature out, then purchased back in, at a premium. Why is nature—especially dense, forested, untamed nature—treated not with reverence, but with suspicion? This isn’t just about trees. It’s about psychology, memory, fear, and aspiration. And it might explain why, in a country with incredible biodiversity, we still pour concrete where grass could grow, chop trees only to later hang plastic vines on our balconies, and consider seclusion in nature to be more dangerous than restorative. The Fear of the Wild Dense nature is often associated with risk. Places with t...