Searching for a Future in Nairobi
The sun hung low over Nairobi’s skyline, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement where I stood, clutching a worn folder of certificates. At twenty-three, I was a graduate of Kenyatta University, armed with a degree in business administration and a head full of dreams. But those dreams had begun to feel like burdens. Youth unemployment in Kenya wasn’t just a statistic to me—it was the weight on my chest every morning, the silence of my phone despite the dozens of job applications I’d sent. I wasn’t alone in this struggle; millions of young Kenyans like me faced the same invisible wall, a barrier built from a sluggish economy, limited opportunities, and a society that seemed to promise more than it could deliver.
It started with a single rejection email. I’d applied for a junior analyst position at a bank in the city centre—a job I was sure I’d get. The interview had gone well; the hiring manager even smiled as she shook my hand. But the email came two weeks later: *“We regret to inform you…”* That was the first crack in my optimism. Then came the complication that turned my quiet frustration into a full-blown crisis. My younger brother, David, dropped out of secondary school because my parents couldn’t afford the fees anymore. They’d been counting on me to find work, to lift some of the financial strain. Instead, I was still sleeping on the thin mattress in our shared room, waking up to the sound of my mother praying for a miracle. The pressure wasn’t just mine—it rippled through my family, threatening to pull us all under.
Days blurred into weeks as I roamed Nairobi’s streets, chasing leads that went nowhere. I’d sit in cyber cafΓ©s, the hum of outdated computers buzzing in my ears, typing cover letters until my fingers ached. Once, I overheard two men at a roadside tea kiosk complaining about “connections”—how every job seemed to go to someone with a rich uncle or a friend in high places. I wanted to scream that I had no such luck, that my only “connection” was a stack of photocopied CVs and a stubborn hope. One afternoon, I stumbled into a youth empowerment workshop hosted by a local NGO. The facilitator, a wiry man with a voice like thunder, spoke about entrepreneurship—about turning problems into opportunities. I listened, sceptical, as he described how young Kenyans were starting small businesses, from selling secondhand clothes to offering mobile repair services. It sounded like a fairy tale, but something in his words stuck: *“If the system won’t open a door, build your own.”*
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The air in our small house was thick with the smell of kerosene, and David’s soft snores filled the silence. I stared at the ceiling, replaying the workshop in my mind. The next morning, I borrowed 2,000 shillings from a neighbour and bought a sack of used shoes from Gikomba Market. With a bucket of water and a brush, I scrubbed them clean, then set up a makeshift stall near a matatu stop. The first day, I made 500 shillings—barely enough for supper. But by the end of the week, I’d earned enough to buy another sack. Months later, I was paying David’s school fees, and my mother stopped praying for miracles because she saw one unfolding.
Looking back, I realise the struggle wasn’t just about finding a job—it was about finding myself. Unemployment had pushed me to the edge, but it also forced me to see beyond the rejection letters and the pitying looks from relatives. The lesson wasn’t mine alone; it’s one every young Kenyan could carry. When the world says no, you don’t have to stop—you can start something new. It’s not easy, and the dust of Nairobi’s streets still clings to my shoes, but I learned that transformation begins where despair ends.
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