By Salim Mbogo
I still remember evenings that did not need electricity to feel alive.
The sun would sink slowly behind the hills, and the air would cool in that gentle way that makes you want to sit outside a little longer. A cow would be heard somewhere. Somewhere, a radio would be playing faintly. But the real center of the evening was not a screen. It was people.
We sat around the elders. At times, we were seated on stools; at other times, on the ground. At times, we were tired, and restless, but we were always attentive. Stories came out the way rivers do: slow, winding, and full of lessons you didn’t realize you were learning until much later in life. There were tales of foolish boys, brave girls, greedy men, and wise women. We tell stories about our origins and the reasons behind certain practices.
Back then, culture was not something you argued about online. You lived inside it.
Today, many Kenyan homes are quiet in a different way. Not the peaceful kind. The distracted kind. Everyone is there, but everyone is also somewhere else. Heads bent. Thumbs moving. The eyes are fixed on the glowing rectangles. The fire is gone. The circle is gone. The stories are gone.
In their place, TikTok plays.
And it’s not that TikTok is evil. It’s not that the internet is the enemy. It’s that something very old and very important is slowly being crowded out, and most of us are too busy scrolling to notice.
When Culture Lived in People, Not in Phones
There was a time when you did not need Google to tell you how to behave.
You learned by watching. And you learned by being corrected. You learned by being part of something bigger than yourself.
A child did not belong only to their parents. They belonged to the aunties who would scold you in public. The uncles, who could send you on errands, were also part of the family. The neighbors had the authority to report you before you reached home. It sounds strict, and sometimes it was, but it also meant something powerful: you were never alone.
Respect was not a theory. It was practice. Greeting elders properly. Listened when they spoke. You didn’t talk back just because you were angry. And when you messed up, and you did, you were corrected, not by a comment section, but by real people who cared whether you turned out right or not.
Culture is lived in language. In proverbs. There were jokes that only made sense to those who grew up in that culture. The ceremonies, which seemed ordinary when you were young, suddenly took on a profound significance as you grew older.
Was it perfect? No. Some traditions were unfair. Some were painful. Some deserved to change. But culture gave people roots. It told you: You come from somewhere. You belong to something. You matter because you are part of us.
Then the World Moved Into Our Pockets
The first time you get a smartphone, it feels like magic.
Suddenly, the world is not far away. You can see New York, Lagos, Tokyo, and London while sitting on a plastic chair outside your house. Many can learn things their parents never had access to. They can watch, read, listen, and create.
That part is beautiful. Truly.
But slowly, quietly, the phone stopped being just a tool. It started becoming a teacher. A role model. A mirror we check more often than we check our own hearts.
TikTok does not just show dances. It shows lifestyles. Attitudes. It illustrates various ways of speaking, dressing, and thinking. And because it is quick, entertaining, and addictive, it teaches without asking for permission.
Trends travel faster than traditions ever could.
A dance from another continent can reach a Kenyan village in minutes. A proverb from your own grandparents can die without being passed on.
And without noticing, many young Kenyans now know more about influencers they will never meet than about the elders who raised them.
The New Classroom Has No Teachers
Social media is like a school where everyone is talking, and no one is in charge.
You can learn amazing things there. Business ideas. Art. Music. Confidence. Courage to speak up. Many young people have built real opportunities from these platforms, and that deserves respect.
But you can also learn some very dangerous lessons.
You learn that being loud is more important than being right.
You learn that attention feels like love.
You learn that your worth can be counted in likes and views.
And when those numbers are low, it doesn’t just feel like your content failed. It feels like you failed.
In the old days, your value came from your place in the community. You mattered because you belonged. You mattered because people knew your name, your family, and your story.
Now, many young people are growing up feeling like they must perform to deserve space.
Not live. Perform.
When Language Starts to Slip Away
Language is not just about words. It is about memory.
It carries jokes that don’t translate. Memory contains wisdom that defies concise captions. Ways of seeing life that can’t be replaced by borrowed phrases.
However, an increasing number of Kenyan children today struggle to communicate effectively in their mother tongue. Some understand it but are shy about using it. Some can’t follow a full conversation with their grandparents.
It’s not because they lack intelligence. This is not due to a lack of interest or concern. The world they live in tells them that these languages are not “useful,” “cool,” or “modern.”
When a language fades, something else fades with it. A whole way of thinking disappears along with a language. This includes a comprehensive understanding of the world.
And one day, you realize you can no longer fully understand the people who came before you. Not because they are gone, but because the bridge is gone.
Respect in the Age of Content
Once, some things were simply not jokes.
Some things were handled quietly. Many topics were approached with care. Some people were spoken to with a certain tone because age, experience, and responsibility meant something.
Today, everything can become content.
A mistake. A fight. A funeral. A serious issue. Someone records, someone edits, and someone posts. People laugh, they comment, and then move on.
Questioning authority is not wrong. Challenging harmful traditions is necessary. But when everything becomes a joke, when everything becomes a clip, when nothing is allowed to be serious for more than 30 seconds, we lose something important: depth.
Some lessons need time.
Some wisdom needs silence.
Some conversations should not be rushed.
TikTok is swift. Culture is slow.
And when speed always wins, slowness starts to look like weakness, even though it is often where the real meaning lives.
Living vs Showing
One of the strangest changes social media has brought is this quiet pressure to prove you are living.
You don’t just eat when you post.
You don’t just travel when you document.
You don’t just help when you record.
Life becomes a performance. And without noticing, we start doing things not because they matter to us, but because they will look good to others.
Many Kenyan traditions involve quietly doing good deeds. Helping because it was right. Visiting because it was expected. And give because you were human.
Currently, it’s difficult to distinguish between kindness and content.
And when showing becomes more important than being, something inside us slowly shifts.
Yes, we are gaining something too.
Let’s be honest.
This new world has also given us a lot.
Young Kenyans are more informed. More expressive. More willing to talk about mental health, injustice, and struggles that older generations were told to suffer through silently. Talent that would have died unnoticed can now find an audience. Stories that were never told can now be heard.
That matters. A lot.
The problem is not change.
The problem is that we forget ourselves while changing.
The Quiet Things Slipping Through Our Fingers
We are losing long conversations without checking our phones.
Are we losing the habit of sitting with elders just to listen?
We are losing patience.
And we are losing stories that unfold over time.
We are losing the feeling of being shaped by a place, not by an algorithm.
And maybe most painfully, we are losing that old, steady sense that we are part of something bigger than just ourselves.
The Sadness of Becoming Copies
There is something quietly painful about seeing a young person who knows every global trend but does not know their clan history. They can mimic accents from all over the world, yet they find it difficult to communicate with their own grandmother. Who dreams only of leaving, not because they are curious, but because they believe nothing good can come from here?
When we stop valuing our stories, we start borrowing other people’s dreams.
And borrowed dreams never fit quite right.
So Where Do We Go From Here?
We cannot switch off the internet. And we should not.
But we can choose balance.
We can choose to record less and live more.
Or we can choose to teach children their languages alongside English.
We can choose to sit with elders even when their stories feel slow.
Or we can choose to use these platforms to tell our stories in our own voices.
Tradition does not have to die for technology to live.
But culture does have to be carried. On purpose. With care.
One Day, They Will Ask Us
One day, our children will ask us who we were.
Will we tell them about trends we followed?
What values did we uphold?
Will we show them the old videos?
Or will we tell them old stories?
Maybe the real question is not whether tradition and TikTok can exist together.
Maybe the real question is this:
Can we move forward without forgetting who we are?
If we lose our identity, we won’t just lose our culture.
We will lose ourselves.
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