Kenya’s Dreams and Delusions: When Hard Work Feels Like A Life Sentence

Kenya—a country of sun-drenched landscapes, vibrant cultures, and hardworking people who wake up before dawn to sweat for every shilling. Yet, beneath the surface, the irony is painful. You strive, you hustle, you save every possible cent, but when you finally look at your wallet after payday, it’s like a magic trick—poof! The money is gone, and there’s nothing left to show. Now, let’s break down this so-called “life.”

You earn Sh50,000 a month, and then the government swoops in, a constant hawk in the skies, snatching away Sh10,908 in taxes. By the time this hefty chunk is swallowed by the state, you’re left with Sh39,000. And what, pray tell, does that money fund? Our education system is in shambles, healthcare is practically a luxury, and even the police—the ones meant to protect us—are better known for standing by while crimes happen than solving them. So, is that Sh10,908 doing anything for you? Or is it padding the lavish lifestyles of the same leaders who ask you to tighten your belt?

With Sh39,000 left, the monthly trek through the landmine of bills begins. Rent? That’s Sh15,000 for a modest one-bedroom, leaving you with Sh24,000. You’re down to barely half of what you started with, and we haven’t even scratched the basics. Gas and electricity? Sh4,000. Suddenly, you’re down to Sh20,000, and it’s still just the beginning of the month. The lights you work hard to keep on seem to shine for everyone but you—dimming each time a public official’s luxury convoy rolls by. They’ve got an endless supply of fuel, but you’re rationing yours.

Food alone eats up Sh10,000. We aren’t talking about luxury meals here—just basic food for you and your family. Then, the fare swallows another Sh4,000. You’re commuting, daily fighting Nairobi traffic in overcrowded matatus, while politicians fly in helicopters to avoid even seeing the roads they’ve failed to fix. Now you’re down to Sh6,000, barely surviving, let alone thriving.

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Imagine, though, if taxes were put to use. Imagine well-stocked government hospitals where you wouldn’t need to take out loans for basic care, where healthcare wouldn’t be synonymous with bankruptcy. Instead, the government offers promises wrapped in thin air, while you dig deeper into your pocket to find your family medicine. All the while, billions are “lost” in systems that seem to have loopholes only for those in power.

The government may say education is a priority, yet parents are selling their last possessions to keep children in school. With a decent system, maybe that Sh5,000 you’re sending to your wife’s family wouldn’t be for school fees. Maybe it would be a contribution to a new business or savings for their future. But in Kenya, schools run on ancient textbooks and teachers live on salaries that barely cover their basics. The government, meanwhile, rolls out reform after reform, each one making schooling more of a pipe dream for the average citizen.

Then comes the unspoken tax—the one that hides in plain sight—the Fuliza loans. Fuliza, Okash, Branch, Tala…call them what you will, but the bottom line is this: you’re borrowing to survive. With Sh2,000 from Fuliza, you buy a little breathing room, not a lifestyle. Is this the promise of a better tomorrow? Are we supposed to be grateful that loan sharks, not the government, are the ones filling gaps for basic needs?

Security? The irony is maddening. On paper, you’re paying taxes for safety, yet every trip to the store feels like a gamble. Nairobi’s streets are governed by fear, with even the police unsure whether they’ll protect you or extort you. Imagine if taxes funded a reliable police force. We’d be living in a different Kenya, one where you’d feel safe enough to dream.

Agriculture could feed this nation—Kenya’s soil is fertile, and its farmers are capable. Yet, we import the very food we can grow, draining what little money we have left. Imagine if there was a system to support farmers, if politicians traded their suits for a day in the fields, then maybe food prices wouldn’t feel like extortion. Instead, we’re burdened with the irony of a government that taxes us to death, only to leave us at the mercy of middlemen.

Imagine affordable transport, a streamlined rail system cutting through our cities, making the 6-hour journeys a relic of the past. But no, we still wait in lines for decrepit buses while our leaders sign multi-million dollar deals for projects we’ll never see. Transport infrastructure is supposed to be the veins of a nation. Here, they’re clogged, blocked, and decaying, just like the promises made to fix them.

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Housing, a roof over your head—that should be a basic right. Yet, with what’s left, even that one-bedroom feels like a splurge. We dream of homeownership, but politicians remind us that’s just for the “lucky” few. Who needs to build affordable housing when parliamentarians need their allowances for “hardships”? And there we are, fighting for scraps, eternally locked in a cycle where we pay for the privilege of struggle.

And with each budget, they come on TV, waving charts and spreadsheets, urging us to “tighten our belts.” Well, how tight should we go? With the taxes we pay, we’re already on the last notch. What’s left to cut? Your hope? Your dreams? The next generation?

So here’s the reality we’re left with: Kenyans need to open their eyes. We are the silent enablers, allowing this circus to continue. Kenya’s problems won’t be solved by well-manicured political speeches. We need action. A change that is not about party lines or campaign promises but about leaders who will walk the journey they ask us to walk.

It’s time to ask the hard questions: Why are we funding luxury lifestyles for leaders who won’t fight for us? Why should we be satisfied with an existence that barely allows us to survive? A better Kenya is waiting if we’re willing to demand it, and it starts with sending this political class packing, making room for real leaders who will stand for every shilling we’ve shed. Until then, we’re just living from one payday to the next, watching dreams get swallowed whole.

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