The Cost of Survival

 Apathy. Such a short word, yet so lethal, so poisonous like a viper on a seductress’s shoulders. Scholars define apathy as a quantitative reduction of goal-directed activity compared to an individual’s previous level, affecting multiple dimensions including behavior, cognition, emotion, and social interaction. In other words, apathy is not just “not caring.” It is the slow erosion of motivation, feeling, and connection. When understood this way, apathy becomes less about laziness and more about loss, loss of meaning, agency, and belief that effort will lead to anything worthwhile. It may even explain the quiet misery many people carry: the constant complaining, irritation toward joy, or resentment of those who seem fulfilled, or at least pretend to be. Too harsh? Maybe. But this article is for me too. 

 I reckon this could explain the whispers in city corners and matatu conversations about the Kenyan 2027 elections, a premonition shaped by the memory of elections past. Beneath casual jokes and forced optimism lies a quiet dread formed over years of failed leadership and the normalization of greed among those entrusted with power. Many citizens no longer argue about manifestos or ideology; they trade rumors, hedge expectations, and prepare themselves emotionally for disappointment. Misuse of public funds, the recycling of political elites, and the widening gap between promises and reality have taught people to expect little and hope even less. For some, disengagement feels safer than belief. Trust in electoral processes has thinned, not because people do not understand democracy, but because repeated experiences have shown that participation does not always translate into change. What remains is a cautious, almost defensive apathy, masking fear, exhaustion, and deep uncertainty about whether the future can be negotiated through the ballot at all. 

Beyond the whispering corners, the political landscape itself shapes opportunity, or the lack of it. Policies that favor urban elites, underfund local industries, or recycle political patrons create structural barriers for youth. Demonstrations in Nairobi over employment and financial bills, as well as youth-led civic movements across counties, reveal frustration but also resignation: many know that even protest rarely translates into sustainable change. This political fatigue feeds directly into decisions about migration, education, and career paths. When elections feel like ritualized theatre, survival, personal stability, and short-term gain naturally take precedence over civic engagement. 

 It is almost pathetic to see how political leaders seize every public moment as an opportunity to trend in the media. Take, for example, Truphena, the girl who hugged a tree for 72 hours, when every politician scrambled for a photo-op, or the arrival of IShowSpeed in Kenya, which became a “world stop” moment. Recognition itself is not the problem; it is the prioritization of fame over responsibility. Political leaders must remember that their role is not to be popular, but to make consistent, progressive decisions that strengthen the country’s economic and diplomatic sectors. As public speaker Vusi Themekwayo wisely said, “You will know how great the leaders of a state are by how little her citizens know about them.” When leaders focus on optics instead of meaningful governance, the consequences ripple down to citizens, particularly youth, who are left navigating a world where promises abound but opportunity remains scarce. 

 Unfortunately, this disappointment does not remain emotional; it is absorbed into economic structures. Kenyan youth are encouraged to dream boldly, yet reality often steers them toward the blunt end of survival. Aspirations of becoming journalists, pilots, or DJs are slowly abandoned for hawking, domestic work in foreign lands, or, in more tragic cases, criminality. What begins as hope gradually gives way to resignation. Increasingly, the narrative being sold is that of “visa-free opportunities abroad,” many of which amount to modern-day exploitation, long hours, humiliating wages, and dignity traded for survival. 

The irony is that when youths find loopholes to create their own finances, the government often interjects and demands tax. Recently, governments including Kenya, the Philippines, and Ethiopia have made significant progress in establishing tax regimes for digital influencers and content creators, with laws either already enacted or in the final stages of approval. In Kenya, taxation is fully implemented and operational through platform deductions. There is nothing inherently wrong with paying tax; the problem arises when corruption and the stagnation of individual progress become the key players. When young people’s earnings are siphoned or slowed by inefficient systems and political rent-seeking, the very mechanisms meant to support the state feel like obstacles to survival. 

The lack of choice and limited opportunities also pushes youth toward online work, which, if unvetted, is rife with scams. While legitimate jobs such as virtual assistant or digital freelancing exist, many young people fall prey to schemes that promise quick, easy income. These opportunities, often advertised as requiring little more than a phone or internet connection, create anxiety, disappointment, and frustration. Youth invest time, energy, and hope, only to discover that the income is either minimal, delayed, or entirely illusory. This cycle mirrors the broader structural failings of the economy: the promise of independence and success exists, but the systems to achieve it are absent or exploitative. Over time, repeated exposure to these scams reinforces feelings of inadequacy and fuels a pervasive sense of instability, perpetuating the cycle of work apathy. 

Hope does not disappear all at once; it erodes. Slowly. Cruelly. When a society forces its young people to trade their dreams for bread, it does not just lose productivity, it fractures identity. Survival replaces curiosity. Choices narrow, fulfilment is postponed, and practicality begins to feel safer than belief. When options are few, dreaming becomes a gamble rather than a goal. Over time, this quiet resignation reshapes how young people relate to work itself. Shifts in labor markets, particularly those driven by technological innovation, have created new sectors that demand diverse skills and constant retraining, often without clear pathways for inclusion. Yet technology alone does not explain the disconnect between youthful aspirations and employment realities. Geography, childhood experiences, economic status, and social influence all play decisive roles in determining whose dreams are encouraged and whose are quietly abandoned. In such a landscape, aspiration is not merely a personal choice; it is structured, limited, and, for many, slowly suffocated. 

Emotions are central to productivity and purpose. When work offers no meaning, dignity, or progress, motivation withers. Many young people recalibrate their dreams around financial stability and independence rather than fulfilment. A “dream job” slowly shifts from what brings joy to what simply pays the bills. Yet beneath this adjustment lies a quiet yearning: young people still want to feel excited, motivated, passionate, and proud of their work. They want achievement, relief, and a sense that their effort counts. When these emotional needs go unmet, apathy sets in, spilling across behavior, emotion, and social interaction, hollowing out both the worker and the workplace. 

This erosion is sharpened by poverty, despair, and precarity. The transition from school to work has become increasingly unforgiving, leaving many youths with little room to experiment, fail, or grow. For most, the immediate priority is survival: making ends meet, supporting parents, siblings, or extended family, and proving one’s worth through contribution, however small. In such conditions, aspiration becomes secondary, even indulgent. Work is no longer a site of growth or identity, but a means to endure. And endurance, sustained long enough, quietly becomes apathy. 

This contradiction leaves young people suspended between expectation and reality. They are told to be flexible, to innovate, to embrace the dignity of all work, yet the economic structure consistently rewards some forms of labor over others. Informal and blue-collar sectors, where the majority of opportunities exist, remain underpaid, unprotected, and socially devalued. Choosing such work often feels less like a decision and more like a defeat. Over time, this reinforces the very apathy society condemns, as effort appears disconnected from reward. 

 In Kenya and across much of Africa, this is not merely an economic failure; it is a political one. Wage structures, labor protections, and public investment priorities are shaped by policy choices. When governments neglect to strengthen industries that employ the majority, or fail to ensure fair pay and dignity of work, they silently instruct young people on what kinds of futures are worth pursuing. The preference for white-collar employment, then, is not arrogance, it is survival logic. 

What follows is a generation forced to navigate contradiction: urged to be patriotic while being priced out of opportunity, encouraged to stay while being underpaid, and told to believe while repeatedly disappointed. In such a climate, apathy is not rebellion; it is fatigue. And fatigue, left unaddressed, becomes resignation, not just from work, but from the social contract itself. 

What we must resist is the normalization of working zombies, young people moving through their days with drained energy, muted ambition, and no joy. We must resist workplaces where despair settles so deeply that it tips into tragedy, as seen in the cluster suicides once reported in companies in France and China. Most of all, we must resist systems that crush youthful ambition by underpaying labor in the very sectors where creativity, innovation, and energy could drive transformation. 

If we are serious about transcending the label of “developing countries,” a phrase that too often sanitizes structural neglect, then we must confront the cost of survival-driven economies. Progress cannot be measured by GDP alone while an entire generation is priced out of dignity. It demands a rethinking of how we value work, protect human labor, and expand opportunity. The future of the next generation should not be endurance. It should be possibility. 

 

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 ~ Wangui Kinyua