KenyaOnAShoeString: Real Advice for Real Kenyans

We are surrounded by wealth. Expensive cars on the road, packed cafes with KES 1,200 bills for chips, chicken and a drink, yoga and Pilates studios charging KES 30,000/month for 12 sessions, iPhones and high-end Samsung's on every table, people going on holiday every few months, apartments going for KES 22 million plastered across billboards — and somehow, everyone seems to be affording it. And yet, if you're earning over KES 100,000/month, statistically, you're in the top 2% of Kenyan earners. You're doing everything right: budgeting, saving, avoiding debt, maybe even running a side hustle. But at the end of the month, you feel broke. You feel stuck. You feel like you can't move forward. This article explores the observed reality vs the lived reality . We peel back the image of wealth that surrounds us to show what life really looks like for salaried Kenyans earning "well." Through three detailed profiles, we break down exactly where the money goes — an...

“They said I should be grateful I had a job. But I was working 7 days a week, 14 hours a day, for a salary that barely fed me. I was too tired to think. Too scared to leave.” There is a story here that echoes across Kenya—quietly, persistently, and in the voices of people trying to make something of themselves. But often, it’s not progress they are making. It’s pain they are collecting. Because sometimes, we accept destruction in the name of progress. The Girl Who Chose Pain Over Poverty Take a girl from Kibera or Mathare. She is 16, maybe 17. She’s missed school for weeks because she doesn’t have sanitary towels. Her mother sells vegetables; her father is rarely around. A boda guy in the area notices her discomfort and hands her a pack of pads. The next month he brings another. Then chips and soda. Then small money. Then she moves in with him. And just like that, she stops being a child. The guy turns violent. She gets pregnant. She drops out of school for good. At 18, she’s a mother ...