Reflections of an Ordinary Senior Citizen-Part1

Why I Write

I write neither as a politician nor as an economist. I write simply as a Kenyan citizen who has been privileged to witness our nation’s journey over many decades.

My career took me through publishing, systems development and systems integration. I witnessed and played small roles in Kenya’s transformation from typewriters to computers; from handwritten ledgers to digital banking; from landlines to mobile phones; from the early internet to artificial intelligence.

My small contributions played out in private businesses, government institutions, development organizations and, for many years, as a small business owner. These experiences exposed me to different sectors of our economy and gave me opportunities to observe how decisions made in boardrooms, ministries and international organizations eventually affect ordinary citizens.

Throughout that journey I have also sought to live according to Christian convictions. There were times when this meant swimming against the current, believing that integrity is ultimately more valuable than profit, and that truth must be spoken even when it is uncomfortable.

Those experiences have provided me with a vantage point from which to appreciate both Kenya’s remarkable achievements and her persistent shortcomings.

Today, however, I write from a very different setting.

Kenya Through Village Eyes

In my senior years I chose to return to rural Kenya and live among the people who still represent a substantial share of our population. Although Kenya continues to urbanise rapidly, more than half of our people still live in rural areas, and agriculture remains the country’s largest source of livelihoods, even if many farming households are quietly sustained by sons, daughters and relatives employed elsewhere.

The concerns that dominate life here are very different from those discussed in Nairobi’s boardrooms, conference halls and political rallies.

A family’s wealth may consist of a small parcel of land, a goat, a few chickens, an avocado tree, one hundred tea bushes, fifty coffee stems and a modest vegetable garden. Such assets may appear insignificant to an economist, yet they represent years of sacrifice, security and hope.

Life in rural Kenya follows the rhythm of the seasons. Each planting season begins with hopeful prayers for rain, yet every harvest now depends on weather that has become increasingly erratic and unpredictable. The cost of fertiliser, crop protection chemicals and farm labour continues to rise, while the widespread availability of counterfeit agricultural inputs leaves many farmers uncertain whether the products they buy will work at all. Pests and crop diseases further erode already fragile incomes, often wiping out months of hard work. Beyond the farm, opportunities for stable, paid employment remain scarce, leaving many households with few alternatives when agriculture fails.

These families work with remarkable diligence. Long before sunrise, they are already in their own fields or labouring on the farms of more prosperous neighbours. They cultivate, weed, prune, harvest and carry produce to market with unwavering perseverance. Their resilience, discipline and hard work are undeniable, yet the rewards they receive are too often meagre. Few people labour more faithfully, yet few remain so vulnerable to circumstances beyond their control.

Yet despite their hard work, many remain trapped on the edge of financial crisis, where a single failed harvest, a medical emergency or the arrival of a school-fees deadline can plunge an entire household into immeasurable hardship.

Every January, countless parents quietly ask the same anxious question: “Where will the school fees come from?” A single illness can plunge a family into crisis, forcing impossible choices between medical treatment, a child’s education, and putting food on the table. Too often, families are compelled to organise harambees—public appeals for financial assistance—to meet expenses that should never require begging. What was once a noble tradition of communal solidarity has, for many, become a painful admission that they cannot survive without the charity of others.

In recent years another disturbing trend has emerged. Increasing numbers of farmers borrow against future tea bonuses and coffee payments. By the time those long-awaited earnings finally arrive, much of the money has already been consumed repaying debt. What was once a season of celebration has, for many households, become merely another exercise in settling obligations.

Meanwhile, life in the village changes very little.

Coffee prices, after accounting for inflation and rising production costs, have failed to generate lasting prosperity for many smallholders. Tea farmers express similar frustrations. Production costs continue to outpace incomes. Increasing numbers of young people abandon agriculture altogether because they no longer see a future in it.

This is not the Kenya that dominates our headlines, nor the Kenya we sang about with such hope at independence more than sixty years ago. It is, however, the Kenya we have today—a Kenya in which millions of our fellow citizens endure lives of persistent hardship and deprivation. Their daily struggle is not an occasional misfortune but a relentless reality, marked by uncertainty, sacrifice and the constant effort simply to survive.

It is from this perspective, of a lived observation—not from ideology, political loyalty or partisan interest,—that I offer these reflections on the state of our nation.

The Question That Matters

Much public discussion focuses on economic growth, government borrowing, exchange rates, inflation, infrastructure projects and international credit ratings. These are important matters and deserve careful attention.

Yet they are not the questions that occupy the minds of most Kenyan families. The ordinary citizen asks much simpler questions.

Can I earn an honest living?

Can I educate my children?

Can I afford healthcare?

Can I save for the future?

Will my children enjoy greater opportunities than I did?

These questions lead to one larger question that, in my view, should become the true measure of our nation’s progress: Is the ordinary Kenyan family better off today than it was ten years ago?

The reflections that follow will attempt to answer that question—not through political slogans or ideological arguments, but through observation, evidence and experience.

Kenya has made genuine progress in many areas. We have expanded our infrastructure, embraced new technologies, strengthened our institutions and opened opportunities that previous generations could scarcely have imagined. Yet alongside these achievements remain profound economic, social and moral challenges that we can no longer afford to ignore.

A nation is ultimately judged not by the eloquence of its leaders, the height of its skyscrapers, or the size of its economy, but by the wellbeing, dignity and hope of its ordinary citizens. The true measure of national success is found in the daily lives of those who rise before dawn to work, who struggle to educate their children, who seek healthcare when illness strikes, and who dream simply of a better tomorrow.

That is the Kenya whose story I seek to tell in these reflections—not the Kenya portrayed in official speeches or political campaigns, but the Kenya encountered every day by millions of ordinary men and women. It is their story that deserves to be heard, for it is through their lives that the true state of our nation is revealed