You’re Not Broke, You’re Just Leaking Money Like The Corrupt Government Of William Ruto

It’s not poverty that’s killing your financial dreams. It’s that invisible, sneaky thief called wastage—the daily habits and decisions that slowly siphon your cash while you’re busy tweeting about the cost of unga. You don’t need a pay raise. You need a budget exorcism. Because the truth is, most people aren’t broke—they just spend like the Nairobi County Finance Office: recklessly, repeatedly, and with no shame whatsoever.

Let’s talk about that Sh 5,000 you don’t remember spending. It didn’t vanish into thin air; it’s sitting somewhere in a rarely used Netflix account, a gym membership that only your card attends, and a Spotify subscription that exists only to make you feel cultured. Add to that the three cappuccinos you buy weekly to feel like you’re working at Java instead of budgeting. That’s Sh 800 gone right there—for vibes.

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Then there’s the majestic weekend pilgrimage to restaurants, where people pay Sh 1,200 for chips and chicken just to Instagram the plate and remind others that “soft life” is still the goal. By the time the bill comes, it’s a prayer and a promise never to return—until next weekend. And don’t get me started on online betting—because nothing screams financial literacy like using your rent to bet on Manchester United with the hope of buying a plot in Kamulu. The plot, of course, remains imaginary—like your savings account.

But perhaps the biggest tragedy is how normalized this slow death of financial potential has become. We now accept it as normal to buy bottled water every day but panic at the idea of investing Sh 3,000 in a money market fund. We will spend Sh 1,500 monthly on data bundles to scroll TikTok, but we can’t commit to saving Sh 500 a week. People wear debt like fashion—stylish but suffocating. Loans for phones, loans for holidays, loans to pay loans. Your grandmother survived on one meal and a savings tin. You, on the other hand, can’t survive 24 hours without mobile credit and a KFC bucket.

Cutting even 50% of these indulgences could transform your life. That Sh 10,000 in monthly waste could be redirected to actual growth: SACCO contributions, emergency funds, starting a small side hustle, or even buying books (yes, those things with pages). You’re not in financial prison; you’re just burning your escape rope slowly, daily—with every ride-hailing trip you take instead of a matatu, every “I’ll just order in,” and every “I deserve this.”

So no, you don’t need more money. You need more sense. Financial peace doesn’t come wrapped in more income—it comes when you learn to plug the holes in your pocket. Because even Titanic didn’t sink in one go—it was a small leak, left unchecked.

And you, my friend, are leaking.

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