I took a slow walk through Nairobi this afternoon, the kind you take when you’re not in a hurry, when you just want to pick up a few things and get back home. But the city I walked through didn’t feel like the Nairobi I know. It felt thinner somehow, like someone had taken a bit of life out of it and forgotten to put it back.
I stopped by a chemist I’ve used for years, the sort where the shelves usually brim with stock and the attendants float around with that practiced pharmacy cheerfulness. Today it looked… bruised. The lights still worked, the counter was still there, but the place felt like it was packing up to leave. Shelves sat half-empty, some looked like they were being dismantled, and that usual sense of organisation had been replaced by a kind of quiet resignation. Even the pharmacist, usually chatty, had that look of a man who has been having long conversations with his calculator and losing all of them.
Outside, I then crossed over to a supermarket I’ve frequented for 10 years. It’s usually busy enough that you bump into at least two people you know, and three trolleys you don’t. But today, and in the last 6 months, the aisles felt like abandoned corridors. You could walk from one end of an aisle to the other and only hear your own footsteps. On the shelves, items were lined up in single, lonely rows, nothing behind them, as if the supermarket had run out of things to hide. Everywhere you looked, big yellow signs shouted “HOT OFFER,” which in this economy often translates to: “Please buy this before it expires.” Even the cashier, usually juggling a queue of impatient customers, simply stood there waiting for someone, anyone, to approach. It felt like time had slowed down inside that supermarket.
Later in the CBD, I ducked into a bookshop, hoping to escape this strange mood by finding something fresh to read. But the bookshop wore the same tired face as everywhere else. Shelves that once overflowed with new titles now looked sparse and unconvincing. The charm was missing. It felt like someone had taken the soul out of the place and left only a skeletal frame of what once was. That’s when it hit me: this wasn’t coincidence. This was Kanairo telling a story.
And the story is simple: the economy is hurting.
Experts will tell you that Kenya is still growing on paper, that the numbers are moderate and inflation is calming down. But the truth behind the spreadsheets is that people are simply spending less because they have less. Jobs aren’t being created fast enough, especially the solid, formal ones that give people confidence to spend. The cost of living has eaten into everyone’s budget, and every shilling now has to justify its existence before it leaves someone’s pocket. Businesses, big and small, are feeling that squeeze. When customers stop buying, stock stops moving. When stock stops moving, shops stop restocking. That’s how you get empty shelves, subdued shopkeepers, discounts that feel desperate.
The government is also wrestling with heavy debts, using a big chunk of revenue to pay interest rather than invest in things that would help ordinary people feel the growth. Retailers are dealing with expensive imports, unpredictable supply chains, and customers who have become extremely selective. Some sectors are doing okay, others are barely breathing, and all this mixes together to create a city that looks exactly like what I saw today: dimmer than usual, quieter than it should be, slower than it once was.
But if this is the reality, then maybe the only thing left is to adjust ourselves before the storm passes. Belts will need tightening, proper tightening, not just in the political slogans sense, but in the personal, practical ways that keep households afloat. This might be the year to cut non-essentials with the precision of a surgeon. To rethink impulse buying. To buy only what you’ll actually use. To compare prices, to cook more at home, to put off that upgrade, to consider cheaper brands without shame, to save any spare coin even if it feels like an insult to the word “savings.” It might be the time to support the businesses that are still holding on, to stretch your money with intention, to prepare yourself mentally for a season that demands discipline.
The economy will eventually stabilise. It always does; but until then, maybe the only sensible thing is to brace ourselves and walk lightly. Because if there’s one message my quiet afternoon in Nairobi whispered to me, it’s that the city is tightening its belt. And perhaps, painfully but necessarily, we must tighten ours too.
