The Precarious State of being a young person in Kenya today
The embodiment of a hopeless generation
A few weeks ago, in my usual Twitter scrolling habits, I came across a video that had been shared by media personality Anita Nderu, on her Twitter handle. In it, was a female host, out on the streets, asking a young man who looked no older than twenty-five, on what his plans were for the future (My recall for the actual question is hazy, but it was in that line I believe). The man pursed his lips, then after a while, shook his head and in one poignant statement, summed up the state of being a young person in Kenya. Again, his exact words desert me, for reasons I will outline presently, but I remember feeling this lump form in my throat and bring tears to my eyes as he expressly stated that he had no plans for the future.
In him, I saw me, but at that point, I was comfortable. I had just started a new freelance writing job and was high on adrenaline, so while the man’s hopelessness struck a nerve in me, it didn’t stay with me for long.
Fast forward to a few weeks later, I sit for-lone in my shack, and suddenly, the video came back to me with a vengeance. I can’t still recall the words, but the bleak hopelessness of the man, his shaken voice, his stutters as the host tried to get him to 'see the brighter side’, the sombre shaking of his head, his lack of desire to commit to future long-term plans, all thundered into my head like a speeding truck ramming into a brick wall.
See, I have gone weeks without pay in the new job, against an agreement of weekly compensation and I am currently staring at an abyss. When the video replays in my mind as I tug and pull with the boss for my pay, I don’t see the young man. I see myself. Beaten, left for dead, not by physical violence, although that is always on stand-by, but from the mental anguish that comes with being young in a country that punishes you for being and for dreaming, and uses your demography as a real-life SEO word - to make money for the old aristocracy.
Where it all started
When I moved into Nairobi from Eldoret sometime in 2011 with my family, I was hopeful that life would finally get better after half a year in anguish in Eldoret. After all, Nairobi was the place I had grown up in, and life had been good during my sixteen years here.
I grew up in satellite, with my three sisters, later to be joined by our last born brother who came around 2007, when we were much older. We grew up privileged. My father often ensured that he and mum took great care of us. He was emotionally distant, but he more than tried to make it up in meeting our every financial need. During his time at work, not once did we ever have to be sent home for school fees. He often paid fees on time, so much so that in every school we went, he was well-loved by the school principals, and if by any chance we had a balance, we would not be sent home, and he would clear it as soon as possible. We never knew trouble. In fact, during the '90s, when the SAPs were in full effect and affecting homes countrywide, our house seemed to defy the prevalent structure. It was during the '90s and early '00s that my father’s life grew, from a carpenter along Ngong Road, which was in no way a bad job, to us moving thrice or four times during that period, each house getting bigger, better and more self-contained than the other.
2002 was the year we moved to our last house in Nairobi, a three-bedroom space that went for sh. 7500 per month. My fondest memories yet! It was here that I grew to love writing, taking characters from stories that I read and then making them my own but giving them different adventures. Life was good. This period was when my dad’s life peaked after a defiant ascendancy in the 90s.
Fast forward to 2008 when I was in form two — the economic recession. I wasn’t well aware of what it was and why it mattered, but I have read a little on it, and link it to my father losing his job later that year in a mass retrenchment that dumped out a huge part of the workforce, most of them low-calibre workers - drivers, clerks and messengers (my father worked as one of these three. We never got to know).
Because it was becoming rather expensive to live in Nairobi without a steady income, my father moved us to Eldoret in early 2009. I was then a student at Chavakali High. When we would break for the holidays, mum said, I would travel to Eldoret, not Nairobi. It felt odd, leaving the place I once knew as home, but I soon grew to love Eldoret with its simplicity, its delicate balance of urbane bustle with rural ambience, a small town with a big heart and space for everyone.
After my form four in 2010, I came home to further bad news. Dad’s pick-up business, which he had delved into sometime in 2009, was not doing well, and he had gone for months without paying house rent. He then moved to Nairobi, which he saw of as more strategic, but it only got worse from there. For the first time in our lives, sleeping hungry became a real possibility. The breakfast of tea and bread slathered with Blue band and some omelette started to dry up. It started with the eggs leaving the table. Then Blue band was bought sparingly and soon, and it went off the table completely. Then, the tea with milk gave way to strungi, and bread gave way to mandazi. Lunch wasn’t assured either.
A month or so after I completed secondary school, I hung out with a cousin of mine who had just opened an eatery and managed to secure a job at the small kibanda. I earned fifty shillings a day, just enough for vegetables, with the other expenses were upon dad’s sporadic, often insufficient income. Mum became depressed, having to take care of us, and this forced my elder sister, then enrolled at a college in the town, to find a hustle to supplement whatever we came up with.
Then, soon after results were out, in February 2011, my excellent performance caught the eyes of our neighbour, a good friend of mum. She hooked me up with a friend of hers, who was a teacher at a nearby school and soon after, I landed my first job - an untrained teacher, with a monthly salary of sh. 2500. Meanwhile, my father stayed in the city and often went for months without coming back home. It would also be during this time that the stories that he had a second family began to swirl, a story that is still silently spoken of today. He promised that I would enrol in the university in the September intake. It was never to happen.. the whole of 2011, we never paid rent, which then meant that we had to give away our possessions whenever the agents came. They were rather kind, the agents, taking only two items - a stereo system and an old desktop throughout the seven or eight months we went without paying. It got worse, so bad that mum could barely afford to crack a smile. She got in contact with her sister, herself a casual labourer here in Nairobi, who then sent us fare some time in September, asking us to join her and she would help us find dad, who hadn’t been home for pretty much the whole of 2011.
A cold reconnection
When we landed back into the city, I was a starry boy once more, looking up to joining the university. My sister began looking for jobs in the newspapers, attending interviews here and there. Then, a cousin of ours called her, and my sister went to live with her in City Cabanas. That was some time in November. Towards Christmas, I also got another invitation, from mum’s aunt, to go live with her.
Two months later, another cousin of ours, who lived with the aunt, found me a job at Diamond Plaza, and finally, I could earn better. The year was in 2012. It wasn’t much, but I had little responsibility, so it was sufficient. My sister, meanwhile, had also found something to do. My other younger sibling was away in boarding school at Lugulu while the younger one enrolled in a school around Kangemi, where my aunt and mum lived. The last born boy, then only four, stayed with mum too. A once closely-knit family was now scattered all over Kenya like confetti in the wind.
Later that year, after much prodding, dad took mum in and the two, along with my two younger siblings went on to live in Racecourse, then later satellite, then Racecourse again. Mid 2012, mum’s aunt died, which then meant that we could no longer keep living in the house she had lived in, so at the end of 2012, we moved, my cousin and I, to Thiong’ o.At that point, I had lost all hope of enrolling in college and had decided to put myself wholly into the kibarua and see what came of it. I kept writing, as I found everything else without meaning.
A degree of Hope
But dad had other ideas. He sold the pick-up he had and used part of the money to enrol me to Technical University of Kenya in September 2013 for a degree in Journalism. The rest, he used to move mum and my younger siblings to Soi, and then began the construction of a house in his land.
Being in university restored my hope a better life, and for the whole semester, I attended all classes without fail - all of them. I studied and tried to make the best use of the library, but that I had also to take care of the job was not a delicate act. With my wages sliced in half because I was working part-time, I could barely survive under the increasingly expensive life in Nairobi. But I remained hopeful, so hopeful in the fact that in my second semester, I went back to writing. The year was 2014, and it remains the most prolific year in my writing yet. I wrote three novel manuscripts back to back, along with a few stories and articles, which I sent to the school magazine and even the dailies (don’t judge. I was naive), hoping for a breakthrough.
I acquired my first smartphone that year and began typing my first novel manuscript in it. I was excited and hopeful. Also, I was losing contact with my family, and it would take months before I spoke to any of them.
Due to that tightly-packed schedule- class to work then to class again than to work - I failed to create the essential contacts that university life offers. Even while in class, I was always worried and would rush straight for the job once class was over, just so that I could clock the hours. Sometimes, I would not attend classes and would instead, walk from Kangemi to Parklands and clock in earlier than usual, just for that extra fifty shillings for lunch. As such, I never stayed for the lectures and career symposia.
Around this time, dad started going broke again, and my tuition fees went unpaid. I couldn’t sit for the exams. Because I hadn’t applied for Helb, another costly error, I, along with other students in similar circumstances, would devise ingenious ways to go about it, which worked sometimes and failed at different times. I didn’t care. I wanted to do as many exams as I possibly could, to get away from the life I was living as soon as possible.
An internship - the beginning of a strange run
Then, sometime in 2016, during our internship programme, one of our lecturers hooked us up with a friend of his who ran an online newspaper. Let’s call this friend Joel. Finally, I saw a chance to make an impression. It would take precious hours off my work time, but I chose to see 'the bigger picture’, an attitude that, while useful, would haunt me in terrible ways.
Here, my writing skills stood out. As did my work ethic, something that I have learnt is essential. The hours of practice in the preceding years paid off, and I made an impression. Joel spoke highly of me, and in turn, I put in more effort. I would churn out close to three or four articles in a day, several pages in content. I saw a breakthrough. At the end of my internship, Joel asked me to stay for longer and write. I was elated. I would finally start earning from something I loved! Or would I?
In the first month, he gave me three thousand shillings. Added to my wages from the other job, I got some good money. But that would be the only time Joel would pay me. He talked to me of my writing, and how it would open doors for me once the website grew. He asked me not to think of money, and instead look at the opportunities he offered me, at the bigger picture, at how he was helping me grow. I was a green shoot, so I took it all in like a holy sermon. I would gain experience, and exposure, I thought, and maybe from there, the more prominent media houses would pluck me. But I would also begin to see Joel’s penchant for using interns to build his work.
It wasn’t until early 2017 that I woke up to the ruse. It dawned on me with the rising of the new year that I was working two jobs and getting paid in only one. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go. So, I began skipping going to Joel’s website office and instead went to Parklands. The pay was guaranteed as long as I showed up, even if all I did was scroll absent-mindedly on Instagram. It wasn’t how I wanted to spend my days, but if that was what paid, and not my writing, then so be it. I wrote for myself late in the night and early mornings, hopeful that it would pay off sooner.
Botched elections; dashed hopes.
Then, in the run-up to the 2017 general elections, sometime towards the end of June, I got a message from Joel. He was working as part of a secretariat to one of the most prominent front runners in the elections, he and wanted writers for the party’s website. We would get paid 500 per article, he said, and payment would be weekly. I was thrilled, and without thought, I took the bait. I calculated that if I did three or four articles per day, I would make my entire months salary in some six to eight days or so. Who wouldn’t want that? So, I spoke to my Parklands bosses, pulling the wool over their eyes with a story on attachment. They allowed me to go in only on Sunday for the whole month of July.
That would be the beginning of my initiation to the frustrating world of freelance. Along with another young chap called David, we worked we assess off the entire first week. I did about twenty articles in the early six days, most of which were published. David did his fair share too. Except, when we met up to receive payments the coming Monday, David and I were handed three thousand shillings and told that the rest would be given to us before the week ended and that all we needed to do was to keep working, selling the agenda of the party. The senior writers, Joel and a few other journalists, one of whom is a frequent contributor at the Star, were called aside. I suspected they got paid their dues. Long story short, by the time July was drawing to a close, David had resorted to sleeping, while I made use of the Wi-Fi to read my favourite websites and write my stuff. I had, at this point, self-published my first novel at Amazon and was frequently checking it, just proud to see it lined up on the virtual Amazon bookshelf. It wasn’t selling, and though I remained hopeful, I was just happy to see it 'out there’.
Our pay day was then moved over to the 7th of August, a day before the elections. But the usual came up - the accountant hadn’t consented to the checks, the communication adviser (who acted as our supervisor) was not in, money was stuck somewhere. We went to the offices in Westlands, where David and I received another four thousand shillings, and promised the rest after the elections. For a whole month, I had toiled for seven thousand shillings! Some three thousand shillings less than what I was earning in Parklands. Anyway, I won’t say how it went for the party, but in short, we never received the rest. I would also later learn that Joel and the other writers did not emerge unharmed either. Of course, the obvious lesson here is never to trust political parties, but I should also have seen this as a reflection of the freelance world.
Frustrated, I deleted J’s number and decided to stay at Parklands. With graduation slated for December that year, I knew I wouldn’t cut, due to outstanding fee arrears and missed exams, so working at Diamond Plaza was the only way I could keep myself afloat. And with hope fast running low, I couldn’t risk falling into that pit of uncertainty that follows resigning from your job with no better alternative.
Sanctuary
I would then begin working full-time in January 2018, with a much-improved arrangement but had started making more aggressive overtures to established writers, hoping to get them to read my work and offer their criticism, or an opportunity. One of them was Tony Mochama. Through mail, I got in touch with him, and he, in turn, much to my surprise and delight, invited me to the monthly literary discussions at Goethe. It was my dreams come true! But I was so Star struck at the event that I never managed to talk to him, but I made a point of attending them as consistently as possible, meeting many writers and engaging with a lot of other reading nerds. I had found sanctuary.
A flash in the pan of Hope
Fast forward to May 2019. With the Jubilee government waging a full-on war against the economy of Kenya in their second term, the business was low, and shops were closing. We were one of those going to be affected. As I was still coming to terms with the imminent closure of the shop I had toiled in for my early twenties, a text came in. It was from Joel, and he had another job for me. This one, he promised, would be nothing like the 2017 disasterlance, if I may call it that from my end. He made an offer and informed me that the job would be for some four months. The pay wasn’t as much as that from the 2017 gig, which I found more believable, and the fact that it was for a labour organisation made me feel more optimistic. Joel was working on a book for the union to celebrate 20 years. I figured that since I would be jobless in a few months anyway, why not take the better offer and save some and build from there. After all, which organisation would have a hard time paying sh.20,000 per month?
As usual, Joel was on me, trying to take my mind away from money. 'Don’t think much about the money; you’ll gain experience, contacts and confidence for the future’ quoted his text. A little wiser, I agreed with him, but with a 'but'. '…I will very much love to gain the contacts and experiences for future…but they won’t count for much if I starve today. I need money too. Hope I won’t have an experience like the (2017) one.’ was my reply. And throughout the past few months, I never failed to remind him of my need for money.
But this time, things were better, for the first month at least. Two days in, before I had even begun work (I was to help in research), I was given a down payment, first, some three thousand shillings on a Wednesday, then later, on Friday, Joel sent me some six thousand shillings more on my phone. The period was mid-May. Though I was a little bit more cautious, I was sold and began working with usual zeal. I saw a light at the end of the tunnel. I was back to being hopeful, and having just self-published my second book the year before, it seemed as though things were finally looking up for me. Towards the end of May, Joel sent me another nine thousand shillings, which I put aside towards the purchase of a laptop. But that would mark the last time I would receive payment on time.
A week into June, I had only received three thousand, which was then followed by another three in the second week. The third week, Joel informed me that the SG had travelled and that for two weeks, I wouldn’t receive my pay. He filled the remaining four thousand shillings a mid-third week. The remaining amount was to be paid on the 29th of June or thereabout. I was running out of money by the time the 29th of June came round. With my father still struggling with his finances and mum unable to do much in the village, I shouldered the financial burden with my earnings and with the better income from the new job, I had increased the money I sent back home, on top of meeting my needs as well as commuting, the worst part of living in Nairobi.
The office is along Mombasa road, so, I spent close to two hundred shillings for fare, calculating to a thousand shillings a week. I tried to cut this by walking to Westlands with the early morning footsubishi squad. It wasn’t sustainable, and so, when I left the office on Tuesday 30th, I informed Joel of my decision not to report to work on Wednesday, and asked for him to at least, get me some three thousand of the money owed to me to offset my rent expenses. I was seeing the similarities with the 2017 incident and did not want a repeat of that. I wasn’t polite in my asking, I admit, but I had intended for it to be provocative to get them to pay me. I was anxious, with rent due and cashed fast running out.
All hell broke loose. Ala! It was rude to ask for my payment to pay rent apparently, and doing that amounted to demeaning Joel. That was not how I had envisioned it would go, but three days later, I was still pestering him for the pay, with each response from him a distraction. He expressed concern for my mental health, and I, in turn, admitted that I was depressed. Years of toiling in this city while being paid barely enough to live comfortably takes a toll on you. Paying me would go a long way in offsetting some of my mental burdens, I informed him, all like the video of the young man came to mind.
My Story; a microcosm
So now, I sit in my shack, with no job and I suddenly relate to the video. Living in Kenya has always felt like riding a bicycle without brakes. Sure, you will still move from point A to B, and when you want to come to a halt, you will use your foot, but it will only take one emergency; one wrong turn, one distracted pedestrian, one absent-minded driver, for disaster to happen. You can live in this city comfortably, but it only takes one terminal illness, one fatal accident, and suddenly, you aren’t comfortable any more. Living in previous administrations in Kenya had always felt like having a noose around your neck, but under the Jubilee government, the knot wasn’t enough, so they added spikes and chains.
In Kenya right now, I’ve quickly learnt, you can’t be too hopeful, you can’t plan too far ahead, at least not when you are young and just getting a new job, and especially not if you are a freelancer. You can’t dream too much, and you can’t be too happy. You can’t want to be paid your worth, and you can’t want to be paid on time, you certainly can’t want to be paid the agreed amount, and you can’t have a voice. You can’t contradict authority, or else it is equivalent to being rude, and you can’t be seen to be too independent.
It dawns on me that I now occupy the position of the young man in the video. I am now the one answering the question. I am now the one not too invested in the next five years, or five months or five weeks, because, hopefully, Anita Nderu found him and helped restore his hope. Now, I can only hope to see the next minute, perhaps worry about rent for the next few days, but not a few months to come, not a year from now, not for a better life, because even the people that hold the means to make your life just a little bearable, are crushing under their weights, too self-absorbed to see that the system that rewarded them hurt them also, and in turn, they destroy the younger ones too. I have learnt that our struggle is connected, in more ways than one, against an existence that makes you need to beg for your right to live and live well, a system that will only reward you if your fawn over its failings.
Where I stand, many young Kenyans stand, with our hopes taking a beating with each day, wondering where we will be in the next minute. Death appears the only safe recourse, but not all of us are there yet. Some of us have hope, not for ourselves, but those around us. Hopefully, we go out and do, and dream, not for ourselves, but our loved ones, because the current conditions strip our lives of hope. Now, I can’t see myself living life on my father, despite being more educated. I can’t seem myself raising a family as big as ours. I can’t even see myself marrying, a view shared by many other young Kenyans. Entrepreneurship won’t get us out of this mess, because it is not just about unemployment. It’s about a total loss of morale, a state of existential angst that depression is still not explicit enough to describe.
