“We can’t breathe. We’re merely surviving; we’re not making any progress”
“What I have in my savings account is hardly worth mentioning. Honestly, I can’t even recall the last time I interacted with it.” This sentiment echoes the struggles faced by many, as expressed by Fatuma Mohammed, a determined small-scale vegetable trader at the vibrant Majengo Market, nestled in the bustling heart of Mombasa.
Her stall, draped under a wide yet worn-out umbrella, struggles to shield her colourful assortment of produce from the relentless sun — a metaphor for her fight against an economy that offers little hope for growth, much less for any meaningful savings.
“Why should it be like this?” she sighs, adjusting the tattered edges of her umbrella that barely withstand the elements. Fatuma reveals that the profit margins are disappointingly slim when one lays out the math.
“As small traders, we are burdened with daily operational taxes imposed by the county government, and these hikes seem to emerge out of nowhere,” she explains, her voice laced with frustration.
The challenging economic climate is compounded further by surging transportation costs for goods arriving from the interior. As a single mother in her late twenties, she decries the inadequacy of both county and national governments in alleviating the mounting costs associated with running a business.
Fatuma’s willingness to share her insights comes with the condition that she remains unphotographed and unfilmed.
Her eyes widen as she contemplates the possibility of securing a business loan from institutions like Saccos or banks.
“I yearn for such support, yet I find myself gripped by fear,” she confides, her expression reflecting deep concern. “What if I fail to repay the loan in a timely manner, given the economic turmoil? I’m not content with my current situation, but taking on a loan could plunge me deeper into despair.”
Grace Muthoki, another young entrepreneur battling the harsh realities of life, shares similar apprehensions. “Loans can be beneficial, but the pervasive fear of failure looms large over us,” she asserts with conviction. “What if circumstances take a turn for the worse, and I’m left struggling to manage my repayments? The government needs to step in and lower the cost of doing business; then we, the youth, could see our hustle yield fruit.”
Like Fatuma, Grace aspires to save, yet her meagre daily earnings thwart her aspirations. “I funnel whatever profit I manage to make into daily survival — paying shop rent, covering personal living expenses — it leaves me with little to spare,” she explains as she gestures around her cosy shop, adorned with rows of colourful, second-hand clothes hanging like vibrant banners against the walls.
“Often, I find myself unable to restock my shop due to the high costs of essentials like flour and sugar, which have become prohibitively expensive for many.”
Both women lament that the prevailing economic climate appears to suffocate the ambitions of young entrepreneurs, stymieing any hope for progress.
We can’t breathe. We’re merely surviving; we’re not making any progress.
The plight of bodaboda riders, too, paints a stark picture of desperation. Omar, who typically ferries passengers across the busy routes of Kwa Jomvu, Magongo, and Changamwe, arrived in the city with dreams of expanding his earnings through increased foot traffic. Yet, the harsh reality quickly became apparent. “When times are tough, people prefer to walk, which means fewer customers for us. And the competition is cutthroat — overpricing can send potential passengers straight to the next rider,” he explains, disheartened.
Many motorbikes are bought on loan, with daily repayments looming heavily over their heads. Rising fuel prices coupled with a dwindling number of passengers have resulted in some riders facing repossession of their bikes. “We also contend with the harassment from corrupt traffic officers,” James, another rider working in the Mla Leo area, adds bitterly. “They threaten to impound your bike for even minor infractions unless you pay them off. It’s crushing. It wrecks your day and leaves you with nothing. We can’t breathe. We’re merely surviving; we’re not making any progress.”
From the open-air markets of Mombasa to the chaotic motorbike ranks, young Kenyans are raising their voices in unison — seeking not just financial aid but something much more valuable: breathing space. For many, the economic landscape resembles not a ladder leading out of poverty but a treadmill that keeps them in the same place, toil for toil’s sake. Their weary voices resonate with a singular, urgent plea: “We’re not lazy. We’re just stuck.”
“We’re not lazy. We’re just stuck.”
