It started with a phone call from your best friend last October. Their voice was a tense wire. They needed Ksh50,000 urgently. No questions, no explanations, just trust.
You didn’t have it. So, you did what good friends do: you took a digital loan of Ksh30,000, merged with the last Kshs 20,000 from your M-Pesa savings, to bridge the gap, and sent it to them. What are friends for? They promised, hand on heart, to settle it before Christmas as a big deal was coming. You heard the sigh of relief, you felt the friendship bond tighten.
Fast forward to January, and the festive warm cheer has been replaced by a cold reality: the deal haijaiva, and your friend is silent. Their WhatsApp shows a blue tick. Their Instagram shows a new pair of blue heels. The deal, it seems, has not yet matured.
The loan notifications are no longer reminders; they are alarm bells. You avoid unknown numbers, terrified it’s a digital lender calling to collect. School fees glare back at you, unblinking. Rent is due, and the landlord will soon start knocking. The electricity token sings its relentless melody like success cards. Your fridge and pantry are as empty as your friend’s promise.
You went into debt to rescue a debtor. Now you are drowning in it, staring down the barrel of a CRB blacklisting, your own financial name ruined for a promise that wasn’t yours.
So, do you remind them?
Kenyans’ debt dilemma with friends
This is the modern Kenyan crucifix. To ask is to be the villain; the impatient, transactional friend who destroys a bond over “just a little money.” To stay silent is to become a slowly boiling pot of resentment. You watch them live their life while you drown in disbelief. It is a special kind of torture, funded by your own goodwill.
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Here lies the tragic core of the standoff. For the borrower, that 50k is now wrapped in a thick coat of shame. Every day they don’t have it, the shame grows. To speak of it is to touch the shame. So, they master the art of feigned amnesia. They convince themselves you have forgotten. Or, in twisted logic, they decide that you reminding them is the permission they need to finally prioritize it. Your silence becomes their excuse.
And what of you, the lender? Your kindness has built your own prison. You are the “soft” one, the “understanding” one. Suddenly presenting a bill breaks character. So, you stay quiet, a martyr to your own generosity.
This is where we mislabel the loss. We think it’s about Ksh50,000. It is not. The real debt accruing is against the friendship itself. Every unpaid day is a withdrawal from the bank of trust. The inside jokes fade. The invites dry up. You become accountants where you were once confidants. The friendship doesn’t end with a bang; it starves to death, slowly, in a room filled with the unspoken.
And the final, salt-in-the-wound irony? The lender, in desperation, often becomes a liar. They concoct emergencies, such as a sick child or being stranded in the middle of the night with a flat tire, just to beg for their own money back. Think about that. You are forced to perform poverty, to fabricate crisis, to reclaim what is rightfully yours, given in a moment of naked trust. The power dynamic has completely, cruelly inverted.
Next time, before you send money
So, here is the uncomfortable truth we must all digest, whether we are holding the phone waiting to ask for money or holding the phone, avoiding the borrower’s text:
Before you send money, decide what you are willing to lose. Is it the money or the person?
Before you accept money, understand what you are pledging. It is not just cash. It is the other person’s peace of mind, their financial safety net, their faith in you.
Also Read: Mobile Money Borrowing Hits 86% in Kenya as Uganda catches Up
The most expensive loan carries no bank’s name. It is the one given between friends, where the interest paid is in silence,e and the final repayment is the ghost of the friendship itself.
Let us be better. Let us have difficult conversations. Let our word be our bond, not our burden.
Pay your debts. Keep your friends.
This article was written by Margaret Ngugi. Ngugi is a Sociologist based in Eldoret who uses storytelling to decode the complexities of modern life. She believes that every social issue has a human face and she employs short narratives to explore the daily interactions that shape our society.”
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