Wacha Niongee!

Remember the good old days? When mornings meant getting ready for school—only to count down to break time. The boys would rush to play football (the kind crafted from sacks, polythene, thread, and, if lucky, some mattress stuffing for extra bounce—arguably the peak of childhood engineering). The ball had no FIFA approval, but in our eyes, it was World Cup-certified.

We played askari-mwizi, and the more ‘daring’ girls sometimes joined in. Likewise, the ‘braver’ boys crossed over to play kati with the girls. For what it’s worth, I was often a kati finalist. Clearly, I’ve been swift in finessing girls’ approval since the 1900s. Always a seasoned charmer.

Then came the long-awaited school bell in the evening. We’d squeeze in another round of football before heading home, showering, and doing our homework. That is, if you were lucky enough not to have a mum who expected to find you freshly showered and homework done by the time she walked in at six sharp. The culmination of it all, eating our mother’s cooking, and finally, crashing into sleep. Only to repeat it all the next day.

Those days are slowly becoming a blur. Like a vague sweet dream that you are now struggling to remember.

Then came upper primary school and boarding school (for some of us). The academic requirements list included an Oxford dictionary, a Kamusi (specifically the TUKI one — Kiswahili teachers talking ’bout some Karne haina misamiati yote”), and of course, an atlas.

In primary, it was the Comprehensive School Atlas; by high school, you had to upgrade to the 360° Secondary School Atlas. There were levels to this. A novel was optional, for your leisure reading.

When I joined Form One, I carried Coming to Birth by Marjorie Oludhe Macgoye — my first real taste of a grown-up book, one that tackled themes far beyond a child’s comprehension.
We spent most prep times “reading” — that is, flipping through the atlas, dictionaries, and kamusi… mostly to look at the pictures.

But those days are also long gone.
We’re adults now. Or rather, most of us are adults.

Mirror Mirror, Who’s the Most Unaware of All?

Adulting.

Let’s be honest. Adulting isn’t just about paying bills, showing up to work, or basically having your shit together. It is also about growth in awareness. One has to be emotionally, socially aware, and culturally sensitive; the kind of adult who understands not just language, but people. Makes sense? You must understand how to navigate your own life, but also how to honour and engage with other people’s cultures, regional identity, and beliefs.

And that’s where many of us fall short.
I hate to say it, but a lot of us are ‘partial adults’. We’re operating with limited social and geographic awareness. We don’t know much about people from other regions, and sometimes, we don’t even care to. The ignorance is loud.

I actually might have a hint of when the problem started. It started quite early. When we spent our free time “reading” pictures in our school materials instead of actually learning from them. Or, had we started cramming for exams as early as when we had those Social Studies classes?

Tell me: how is it that a purported full-grown adult can’t geographically place a county in Kenya? They have been born and raised in Kenya.

Watu wa Nairobi na watu wa murima (I sought Riggy G’s consent), please step closer, I need a quick word with you.
Not because I’m picking a fight, but because I care. And honestly, I don’t like what I’m seeing.

Now, before anyone starts clutching their identity badges, this is not a blanket statement.

But many of you tend to make them broad, sweeping generalisations that treat entire communities like stereotypes in a bad script. People have been lumped together, bold claims made about them, and without pausing to consider that individuals are, well… individuals.

This is especially when it comes to referring to people from the western parts of Kenya — the Rift, the lakeside, the Kisii, Luhya, you get the drift. Now, that’s not to say the rest are saints. Truth is, we ,Kenyans as a collective, can sometimes hold shockingly dim views about our own people, especially those from northern or far eastern Kenya. But that’s a conversation for another day. Today, let me fix the WiFi connection where it’s buffering the most. This is from my personal experience.

I’ve come with receipts. So don’t worry. Let me break it down for you.

You see, the West — yes, the mzungus — have earned a reputation for their spectacular ignorance of Africa.
We’ve all laughed at those memes and clips online: the ones where someone confidently refers to Africa as a country. I recently came across a TikTok testimony of a Kenyan lady who said, after mentioning she was from Kenya, a white person responded with, “Oh! I have a friend in DRC. Do you happen to know them?”

And we laughed. Boy, did we laugh.

But here’s the thing: there’s nothing new under the sun.

Societies mirror each other. What we mock at the top, we replicate at the bottom. From the “globally superior” systems trickling down to the “historically and systematically disadvantaged” ones.

The truth is, many white folks live in a bubble. They are isolated from the rest of the world, protected by privilege and blind spots.

But guess what? Turns out some of our very own live in a bubble too.

Stereotypes and Regional Biases in Kenya

For people from Nairobi and murima folks, Western Kenya is a rumor.

Matter of fact, a lot of them have never set foot west of Limuru, and they plan to keep it that way. This is evident during the high school and university placements. People will pull every favour, prayer, and the arms of those in authority to avoid the ‘undesired fate.’ You’ll hear things like, “Nili-placiwa kuendea MMUST/Moi/Kisii but nikaforce transfer.” They’ll literally file a petition to stay close to Thika Road.

And because of the over-glorification of Nairobi and central Kenya, guess what happens? Even, we, from Western Kenya start packing our dreams and running away from our own home.

I mean, look at me. I mostly go home during the circumstantial December holidays, an event, or when mom threatens to stop calling me her child.
I’ve grown into adulthood away from home land to the point that my grandfather hates to see my Ekugsii coming. We actually beef about it.

Moreover, I have had some sour experiences when introducing myself. I have once introduced myself as Kisii and people started laughing like I cracked a joke. “Ati you’re Kisii? You don’t look like it!” So how are Kisii’s supposed to look like?

I’ve been told I look Kikuyu. Even by my own tribesmen. Which leaves me wondering? What is it about them that calls for that comparison. Is it the lack of an accent? The fact that I can say “kuja” without sweating? The clean fit? Basically, I don’t look or sound mshamba? I’ve been forced to admit that I come from Nairobi or that we have a home there. Like Bro!?

Even more interesting, I’ve even been asked whether we have supermarkets in Kisii. And that’s not even the wildest one yet. Rumour has it that some people doubt the existence of electricity networks in the region.

And it’s not just us Kisiis. My lakeside people and kina Wafula get it too. Kalenjins? If I had a shilling for every time someone made a running joke—pun intended—I’d buy land in Kileleshwa.

We’re all lumped together and judged off memes.

The Nairobi Dream

Remember the book I mentioned earlier; Coming To Birth? Well, this is where it earns its place.

It is set between 1956 and 1978, a transformative period spanning the end of British colonial rule, Kenya’s independence in 1963, and the early post-independence years.

The story follows Paulina, a young woman from western Kenya, who moves to Nairobi to join her husband, Martin, in 1956. Her personal journey of growth and self-discovery parallels Kenya’s transition from colonialism to independence, highlighting the challenges and transformations experienced by her and the nation during that period.

Martin, had left his rural home for Nairobi in search of a better life. Kenyans have long seen the capital as the promised land. And it’s not entirely unfounded. During colonization, the British didn’t settle in the central region because it was inherently superior. They chose it for its favorable climate and centrality for administrative control. Naturally, development followed. Roads were built, institutions established, and Nairobi became the heartbeat of it all.

That growth didn’t just stay in Nairobi, it spilled over into surrounding central counties. Over time, communities in and around this region have benefited from continued access to infrastructure, investment, and opportunity. And with privilege comes perception. For many, especially those from these well-developed areas, it’s easy to assume their experience is the Kenyan norm.

Meanwhile, for people from western Kenya, the story feels eerily familiar—just like Paulina, who was married off and moved to the city, not always out of choice, but circumstance. Nairobi is still the destination, still the ‘abroad’ and ‘greener pastures’ many chase after.
To say “nishawhi fika Nairobi” is still a flex in some corners. It could potentially end an argument.

As a result, western counties haven’t experienced the same levels of development. Some practices may seem culturally rigid or “backward,” but really, it’s just the impact of being historically overlooked.

And that, right there, is the root of the problem. Colonisation. So I hope you can now see the coronisation in your…

Unlearning the Divide

Truth is, none of us chose where we were born or the systems we found ourselves in. Much of what we know, or think we know about others, is circumstantial — shaped by history, proximity, and privilege. So, no one is entirely to blame. But now that we know better, what do we do?

We unlearn.

We go back, not to ignorance, but to the innocence of our younger days. The good old days. When our worlds were still wide open. Before the stereotypes, the memes. Before we were taught to look at others through tinted lenses.

This, to me, is what decolonisation looks like today. Mental decolonisation. Reclaiming perception. Rebuilding how we see each other.

So when you receive that notification — update that software, tafadhali. Your inner atlas needs to include every county, every culture, every story.

Imenitoka. Adiós muchachos.

First Published: May 17, 2025