When I arrived in Kenya, thirty-six years ago now, I thought that Africans were a people who traveled on foot.
The coastal roads had little traffic, but along their sides there was a constant stream of the colorful humanity that I still never tire of observing: men, women, and children walking for miles, often barefoot, because that was how they had always done it and because any other means of transportation belonged to the realm of luxury. There were no status symbols. There were needs.
For a man, the goal was to own a bicycle. For a woman, perhaps, a sarong large enough to cover her breasts. Everything else was the future.
A few years later, Kenyans had become a people on two wheels. Chinese and Indian bicycles appeared everywhere, and those who couldn’t afford them relied on boda-bodas, which back then were literally bicycles with a passenger on the rack and a cyclist pedaling under the sun for a few shillings.
When I returned permanently to live in Malindi in 2005, I found the next stage of evolution: thousands of motorcycles that would become millions across the country. The boda-boda had stopped pedaling and started the engine.
In the meantime, a new object of desire had appeared.
The cell phone.
Not a brick-and-mortar house, not a television, not a car. The cell phone.
Today, Kenya has about 79 million mobile connections and nearly 49 million smartphones. This means there are more phones than people, and that a large part of the population now lives permanently connected.
But reducing the phenomenon to a simple technological addiction would be a Western mistake.
For millions of Kenyans, the phone is not just a phone.
It is a bank. Over 51 million users rely on mobile money services, and for many, it represents their only connection to the financial system.
It is an office.
It is a radio.
It is a television.
It is a school.
It is a betting shop, unfortunately.
It is a movie theater.
It is a newspaper.
It is even a flashlight when the power goes out, and in many parts of the country, the power continues to go out more often than government reports care to admit.
With the phone, the motorcycle taxi driver finds customers. The fisherman checks the weather. The merchant receives payments. The preacher finds followers. The politician finds voters. The aspiring influencer dreams of fame on TikTok. The village boy watches the world without ever having left the village.
The cell phone has become the center of Kenyan social life.
Once, in the evenings, people in the villages would gather around the fire.
Then around the radio.
Today around a screen the size of a hand.
Thus, in a single generation, Kenya has made a leap that elsewhere took a century: from walking barefoot to having a digital bank in one’s pocket.
The ultimate irony of the story is that the cell phone is still called a phone.
Yet the one thing we do less and less with that little glowing rectangle is actually make phone calls.
When I arrived in Kenya, thirty-six years ago now, I thought that Africans were a people who walked everywhere.
The coastal roads were not very busy, but along their sides there was a constant parade of the colorful humanity that I still never tire of observing: men, women, and children walking for miles, often barefoot, because that’s how they’d always done it and because any other means of transportation belonged to the realm of luxury.
There were no status symbols. There were needs.
For a man, the goal was to own a bicycle.
For a woman, perhaps, a sarong large enough to cover her breasts. Everything else was the future.
A few years later, Kenyans had become a people on two wheels. Chinese and Indian bicycles appeared everywhere, and those who couldn’t afford them relied on boda-bodas, which back then were truly bicycles with a passenger on the rack and a cyclist pedaling under the sun for a few shillings.
When I returned permanently to live in Malindi in 2005, I found the next stage of this evolution: thousands of motorcycles that would become millions across the country. The boda-boda had stopped pedaling and started the engine.
In the meantime, a new object of desire had appeared.
The cell phone.
Not a brick-and-mortar house, not a television, not a car. The cell phone.
Today, Kenya has about 79 million mobile connections and nearly 49 million smartphones. This means there are more phones than people, and that a large part of the population now lives permanently connected.
But reducing the phenomenon to a simple technological addiction would be a Western mistake.
For millions of Kenyans, the phone is not just a phone.
It is a bank. Over 51 million users rely on mobile money services, and for many, it represents their only connection to the financial system.
It is an office.
It is a radio.
It is a television.
It is a school.
It is a betting shop, unfortunately.
It is a movie theater.
It is a newspaper.
It’s even a flashlight when the power goes out—and in many parts of the country, the power goes out more often than government reports care to admit.
With a phone, a motorcycle taxi driver finds customers. A fisherman checks the weather. A merchant receives payments. A preacher finds followers. A politician finds voters. An aspiring influencer dreams of fame on TikTok. A village boy watches the world without ever leaving his village.
The cell phone has become the center of Kenyan social life.
Once upon a time, in the evenings, villagers would gather around the fire.
Then around the radio.
Today, they gather around a screen the size of a hand.
Thus, in a single generation, Kenya has made a leap that elsewhere took a century: from walking barefoot to having a digital bank in one’s pocket.
The ultimate irony of the story is that the cell phone is still called a phone.
Yet the one thing people do less and less with that little glowing rectangle is actually make phone calls.
- Advertisement -
- Advertisement -