The City That Broke Its Builders
In the choking heat and relentless rhythm of Nairobi, where matatus scream, hawkers shout, and time itself seems to sprint, there walks a silent army very few ever notice.
They blend into the crowd seamlessly—faces hardened by routine, dreams carefully folded and tucked away. These are not the unskilled or the lazy. They are engineers. Trained minds that once mastered equations, systems, and designs meant to build a nation.
Once, they were full of certainty. They were told the future was engineered, that the path was clear, that society had already laid out the red carpet for them. Graduation caps were tossed into the air with confidence, not hope. Hope would have implied doubt.
But Nairobi has a way of grinding optimism into dust.
Today, many drift through the city chasing survival rather than purpose. Some drive boda bodas, others hawk goods, man shops, write code for pennies, or sit idle scrolling through phones—anything to numb the ache of wasted potential. A few have sworn never to practice engineering at all, repelled by the brutal mismatch between effort and reward, between years of study and the indignity of unpaid internships, nepotism, and closed doors.
For some, the fall is devastating. Destitution is not theoretical; it is lived. Rent overdue. Degrees gathering dust. Talents rusting quietly. What hurts most is not poverty—it is the betrayal. The realization that brilliance alone is not currency in a system rigged against merit.
Yet beneath the exhaustion and disillusionment, something still flickers. A dangerous, stubborn awareness: that a society which abandons its engineers is quietly sabotaging its own future.
Nairobi moves on, loud and indifferent. But somewhere in that chaos walks a generation that was promised the world—and handed survival instead.
