The country of dreamers and the dreams we export

 There’s something quietly heartbreaking about the way young Kenyans talk about the future nowadays. Not with excitement, not with idealism, but with a kind of pragmatic detachment. The kind you develop when you’ve watched too many promises collapse in real time. The kind that makes you say things like, "Mimi, I just want to leave,” even when deep down you wish you didn’t have to. For many twenty-somethings, “abroad” is no longer a fantasy. It is an escape route. A pressure valve. A way to breathe in a country where everything feels like squeezing into a matatu that was already full. And we can act shocked, but we shouldn’t be. People do not abandon home out of boredom. They abandon home when home stops making space for them.

We grew up being told that education was the key. Study hard, get top grades, and then the world, or at least the country, would unfold gently before you. Except somewhere between KCPE and adulthood, that promise got lost. Job markets shrunk. Corruption expanded. The cost of living ballooned out of proportion with salaries. Public institutions deteriorated right under our noses. If a twenty-four-year-old today is “dreaming of Canada,” it is not because they hate Kenya. It’s because they have done the math. They have looked at the salary scale, the rent prices, the unemployment statistics, and the political circus and asked themselves a painfully rational question: “Is staying here compatible with survival?” And for many, the answer is no. When we talk about brain drain, we often reduce it to a spreadsheet issue. “We’re losing doctors.” “We’re losing engineers.” “We’re losing talent.” But the truth is heavier than that. We are losing imagination. We are losing possibility. We are losing the very people who were supposed to shape the next century of this nation. Other countries recruit our best not because they love us, but because they know what we produce: resilient, educated, multilingual, adaptable young adults who can rebuild economies that are not their own. Meanwhile, Kenya invests in its youth only for another nation to reap the returns. It’s the ultimate irony: we export brilliance and import disappointment. Brain drain is not just an economic concern. It is a social rupture. A quiet draining of national potential, one passport photo at a time. Let’s imagine a Kenya where the majority of its brightest minds leave. Who remains to innovate? Who remains to challenge flawed systems? Who remains to lead? A country without its young people is like a future without architects; buildings will still stand for a while, yes, but eventually everything collapses from lack of maintenance. What we risk is not simply a shortage of workers, but a shortage of visionaries. People who understand technology, climate shifts, global markets, governance, culture, and the lived realities of the next generation. When you hollow out a country of its youth, you weaken its spine.

Leaving is not betrayal. Leaving is not disloyalty. Leaving is not a lack of patriotism. Sometimes leaving is what survival requires. And no one should feel guilty for choosing a stable income, functional healthcare, or political sanity. What matters is not the leaving; it is what we do with our mobility. Many diaspora Kenyans are already building, sending remittances, creating networks, funding startups, and supporting families. Some will not return, and that’s okay. But many dream of coming back, not just to visit but to rebuild. And that return, even if delayed, is powerful. We must reach a point where loving Kenya does not mean enduring dysfunction quietly. Patriotism is not silence. Patriotism is accountability. Patriotism is refusing to normalize systems that demand perseverance instead of offering dignity.

If we are going to dream of a better Kenya, whether from Nairobi or anywhere in the world, we have to participate in shaping that Kenya. And that begins with something very simple, often overlooked, but powerful: Registering as a voter. Because if we want new systems, new policies, new leadership, and new economic priorities, we cannot outsource political responsibility the way we outsource labor. Change does not happen because we tweeted about it. Change begins when we decide that our citizenship is not passive. A future worth staying for, or returning to, is a future built intentionally. Truth is, we are a generation on the move physically, mentally, and emotionally. We are leaving, returning, questioning, grieving, and rebuilding. But mobility has never been the opposite of loyalty. It can be an extension of it. Whether we stay or leave, we carry Kenya with us, in our frustrations, in our hope, and in our insistence that things can be better. And maybe that is the real story: not a generation that gave up. But a generation that refused to settle for less than a country worthy of its people.