Kenya’s Financial Mirage: How the Illusion of Inclusion Masks Deep Exclusion in the Margins

Access to financial services is not just a statistic; it is the pulse of a nation’s economic soul. It defines who has the key to opportunity and who remains locked out of growth. In 2024, Soko Directory Research reveals that while Kenya boasts an 84.8 percent inclusion rate, the fine print tells a different story — one of inequality, exclusion, and systemic neglect.

At first glance, an inclusion rate nearing 85 percent sounds like progress. It paints the picture of a country galloping toward modernity, driven by mobile money, bank accounts, SACCOs, and digital lending. But buried beneath this glowing number is a grim reality — 9.9 percent of Kenyans remain financially excluded. That’s nearly five million citizens surviving outside the formal or informal financial grid, trapped in an economy that doesn’t recognize them.

Turkana County sits at the very edge of this abyss, with 31.5 percent of its residents excluded from any form of financial service. That means almost one in every three people in Turkana operates entirely in cash or barter, hidden from the national financial radar. West Pokot follows closely at 27 percent, while Trans Nzoia trails at 21 percent — all counties that tell the story of forgotten Kenya.

When policymakers celebrate digital inclusion, they speak the language of Nairobi and Kiambu, not Marsabit or Migori. Migori’s exclusion stands at 19 percent, Marsabit’s at 17.6, Narok’s at 17.4, and Tana River’s at 16.7. These numbers reveal a truth that can’t be polished away by PR statements — the financial revolution hasn’t reached the grassroots; it’s merely orbiting around them.

The myth of Kenya as Africa’s financial hub collapses when you look beyond the expressways and towers. While Nairobi enjoys a mere 5.1 percent exclusion rate, the pastoralist counties remain barren of financial access. The irony is painful — the nation that pioneered M-PESA still has people walking 30 kilometers to access a mobile agent or a cooperative.

The data shows that Busia at 15.9 percent, Kwale at 15.1, and Samburu at 14.2 continue to struggle. These counties face not just geographic exclusion but infrastructural apartheid — the invisible wall of distance, poor network coverage, and lack of documentation that denies them access to accounts and loans.

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Financial exclusion is not an economic issue alone; it is a governance failure. A person without an ID cannot open an account. A person without electricity cannot power a mobile phone to transact. A mother without an income cannot save. The exclusion figures mirror the government’s failure to connect every Kenyan to the economy it taxes so aggressively.

Consider Kilifi at 13.6 percent, Kitui at 13.3, and Vihiga at 13.1. These are not remote regions, yet thousands there still hide their money in mattresses, fearful of systems that neither protect nor empower them. When 16.6 percent of borrowers default on loans, it signals not recklessness but economic strain born of survival.

Counties like Kericho (12.4), Nakuru (12.2), and Nyamira (12.2) show moderate progress, yet their inclusion rates mask inequality within them — urban centers are thriving, but rural wards remain isolated. Financial inclusion, in Kenya, is not evenly distributed; it’s urbanized and elitist.

Kakamega and Bungoma each at 11.8 percent exclusion reveal another dimension — the failure of financial education. Only 42.1 percent of Kenyans are financially literate, and just 18.3 percent are financially healthy. The rest may have access but lack understanding, making them easy prey for digital lenders and shylocks.

In counties like Bomet (11.3) and Homa Bay (11.1), the story repeats. The infrastructure exists, the agents exist, but trust is missing. Financial systems built on exploitation cannot breed inclusion; they breed fear. Many still prefer chamas over banks because banks have become symbols of bureaucracy and predation.

Elgeyo Marakwet (10.9) and Wajir (10.5) illustrate the rural paradox — people are connected via mobile phones but disconnected from value chains. Financial inclusion without productive inclusion is empty; it gives people accounts, not income.

Then there is Makueni (9.8), Lamu (9.6), and Garissa (9.5), where micro-entrepreneurs exist in the shadows of data. These counties remind us that financial inclusion must be more than access; it must translate into growth, investment, and resilience. Otherwise, it’s cosmetic inclusion.

Counties like Kajiado (9.5) and Siaya (9.5) straddle the middle — their proximity to economic hubs helps, but local poverty dynamics keep exclusion alive. The rural-urban divide here is not a gap; it’s a canyon.

Mandera at 8.9 and Uasin Gishu at 8.5 show modest progress, while Machakos (8.0) and Murang’a (7.8) reflect the stabilizing influence of proximity to Nairobi’s financial ecosystem. Yet even here, the specter of loan default and youth unemployment weakens the foundation.

Laikipia (7.6) and Kisii (7.5) demonstrate the role of cooperatives and SACCOs in mitigating exclusion. Where banks fail, community-driven models thrive. Yet even SACCOs are now strained by overregulation, limiting their outreach.

The coastal and urban regions — Mombasa (6.8), Taita Taveta (6.4), Kisumu (6.3), and Nyeri (6.0) — show how urbanization reduces exclusion but does not eradicate vulnerability. Many urban residents are financially active but not financially secure.

Isiolo (5.8) and Nairobi (5.1) are examples of inclusion masking fragility. Nairobi may have the lowest exclusion rate, but it also has the highest informal debt levels. Access does not equal stability. Inclusion does not equal prosperity.

Counties like Meru (4.7), Tharaka Nithi (4.7), and Embu (4.5) lead in Eastern Kenya’s quiet financial revolution. Their progress is a blend of cooperative culture, education, and digital literacy. These counties should be Kenya’s model for rural financial transformation.

Kirinyaga (4.0), Kiambu (2.7), and Nyandarua (2.6) are the crown jewels of inclusion. They show what happens when financial education, economic productivity, and access align. But their success throws the failures of Turkana and West Pokot into sharper relief.

The overall narrative of 84.8 percent inclusion and 9.9 percent exclusion hides Kenya’s two-tier financial system — one vibrant, one invisible. The former powers Safaricom’s quarterly reports; the latter is left counting coins in dusty markets.

If Kenya is to become a truly inclusive economy, then financial access must not stop at an M-PESA line or a dormant bank account. It must include affordable credit, transparent interest rates, and financial literacy that transforms knowledge into wealth.

As the Central Bank of Kenya, KNBS, and Soko Directory Research remind us, inclusion without empowerment is another form of exclusion. Kenya’s next financial revolution must not be digital; it must be human. It must begin in Turkana and end in Nairobi, not the other way around.

Financial inclusion is not just a metric. It is justice. It is dignity. And until every Kenyan, from the fisherman in Lamu to the herder in Marsabit, can access, understand, and benefit from financial systems, the illusion of inclusion remains just that — an illusion wrapped in statistics.

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