“The year had gone mad. Rain fell as it had never fallen before. For days and nights together it poured down in violent torrents, and washed away the yam heaps. Trees were uprooted and deep gorges appeared everywhere. Then the rain became less violent. But it went from day to day without a pause.
The spell of sunshine which always came in the middle of the wet season did not appear. The yams put on luxuriant green leaves, but every farmer knew that without sunshine the tubers would not grow.
“That year the harvest was sad, like a funeral, and many farmers wept as they dug up the miserable and rotting yams. One man tied his cloth to a tree branch and hanged himself. Okonkwo remembered that tragic year with a cold shiver throughout the rest of his life. It always surprised him when he thought of it later that he did not sink under the load of despair. He knew that he was a fierce fighter, but that year had been enough to break the heart of a lion. ‘Since I survived that year,’ he always said, ‘I shall survive anything.’”
These words from Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart could partly describe how most Kenyans experienced the year 2025. On the days leading up to Christmas, Nairobi’s festive veneer was almost convincing: a pale sun bleaching the rooftops of Eastlands flats and turning the chaotically painted matatus into ghostly silhouettes. At dusk, stray bulbs twinkling along Kirinyaga Road, and the distant crackle of fireworks over Uhuru Park made holidaymakers pause in their tracks.
Uhuru Park, which was recently renovated.
Photo credit: Wilfred Nyangaresi | Nation Media Group
There were the green lights in the malls and the blinking Christmas decorations. They seemed so cheerful, like receptionists in Nairobi’s CBD offices blinking their mascaraed eyes while offering cheery greetings to clients about to make purchases.
Sitting in the upstairs café in one of the city malls, here and there was a hand-painted mural of Congolese rumba stars, and through the narrow glass panels behind the booths one could glimpse shoppers moving through the supermarket—families pushing trolleys, children tugging at their parents—completely unaware they were being watched from above.
Elsewhere in Nairobi, there was the man at a street corner with ears of maize hissing and popping in a swirl of sweet smoke. At a nearby stall, new vitenge clothes—each piece an angry riot of reds, blues, yellows, greens, blacks, and oranges combining their contrasts and intricate patterns—rustling as customers touched the glossy fabrics.
In contrast, Westlands felt like paradise. Everything that had ever bothered me about downtown Nairobi—the surly pedestrians, the litter scattered along River Road, the matatus overloaded with passengers and shopping bags—was gone.
Far away from the urbane and bustling Westlands, in Kamakis and other parts of Ruiru, Kenyans huddled around low-flame stoves, passing platters of steaming ugali and nyama choma , the aroma washing over them like incense in temples.
However, beneath that gentle façade, for most Kenyans, 2025 was a tough year—venomous, abrasive, fierce, serrated, scalding and heartless—skewering the needy and helpless.
As the modern saying goes, “poverty is the enemy.” Inflation eroded household incomes, and there were other economic challenges. Yet, amid the chaos, Kenyans took it all in stride, refusing to surrender to despair.
A view of the Nairobi city skyline.
Photo credit: Wilfred Nyangaresi | Nation Media Group
The struggle was real, but there was also ingenuity. From the crowded markets of Gikomba to the digital corridors of fintech innovation, one could hear the voice of the novelist Dostoevsky: “Man is what he believes.” Kenyans believed in possibility even as they faced tremendous odds.
Drought-stricken counties
The country experienced sad echoes from the drought-stricken counties where pastoral families migrated from place to place in search of water and pasture. Yet, alongside hardship, there was celebration: cultural festivals, eco-tourism initiatives, and the Great Migration in the Maasai Mara brought the usual convoys of safari jeeps threading between grunting herds of wildebeest. Tourists raised cameras, marvelling at a world unchanged by politics or poverty. In the tourist hotels, Maasai dancers spun in bright shukas, beaded necklaces jingling like coins. And with this, Kenya drew its share of global eyes.
There is much fiction literature that highlights how the Christmas season, all the way to New Year’s, is a season of reflection, gratitude, and sharing. Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women opens with a line that has become emblematic of this season: “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents.” In this book, the March sisters understood that celebrations are not huge parties but small acts of charity, shared meals, and the warmth of family unity. This is the spirit of the season. Kenyans should share with each other what they have.
Of course, one of the most popular novels for this season is A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. It also personifies the spirit of sharing and redemption as the main character, Ebenezer Scrooge, transforms from a miser into a generous person, highlighting charity, compassion, and the joy of giving.
“I am not the man I was,” Scrooge says after his transformation. As we move into the year 2026, may we look at our past failings and, like Scrooge, resolve to change—to be more generous, tolerant, and accommodating of each other. Such positive change will benefit us, our loved ones, our communities, and our country.
