The other day I posted about Kenyans in diaspora dying alone in their houses. And what most people said was the same thing: there is a loneliness here that we do not talk about.
And it is not the loneliness of being physically alone. Many of us grew up surrounded by people—relatives, neighbours, friends—yet still felt misunderstood.
This diaspora loneliness cuts deeper.
It comes from having no one you can be unguarded with.
It thrives not in empty rooms, but in rooms where the truth has no one to speak to.
Researchers say loneliness is not solitude. It is the gap between the relationships we have and the relationships we need.
You can live in a city of millions, work with dozens of coworkers, greet familiar faces at events, and still feel that quiet ache—the sense that if you collapsed tonight, no one would know until tomorrow.
For many Kenyans abroad, that gap grows slowly and silently until it becomes a rhythm of life. You stop noticing it because it is always there.
Some of it comes from the emotional luggage we carry.
Most adults know what it feels like to trust the wrong person: the secret you shared that became gossip, the vulnerable moment someone treated as entertainment.
And let’s be honest—diaspora gossip channels have turned pain into “tea.” People follow them religiously, even when they are the ones most afraid of being exposed.
After a few of those wounds, you learn to protect yourself. Psychologists call it relational trauma. We call it being wise. Intimacy becomes a risk. Silence becomes a strategy. Before long, self-protection turns into isolation wearing a mask. And we name that mask “I am just private.”
In addition, our upbringing deepened that silence. We were raised on endurance: do not cry in public, do not show weakness, do not tell your problems to anyone.
If you are a man, they tell you “Wewe ni mwanaume” (You are a man).
If you are a woman, they tell you “vumilia” (endure) through anything.
That armour helped our parents survive hard times. But in Australia, it can harden into something else. It becomes almost impossible to say, “I am lonely,” or “I need someone.”
And then comes the work.
According to research by the Centre for Multicultural Youth and reports from settlement services, African migrants in Australia often face significant underemployment, working below their qualification levels. This reality pushes many into taking multiple jobs, long hours, or split shifts to meet financial expectations both here and back home. The hours show it—double shifts, overnight shifts, split shifts.
Healthcare workers carrying the weight of other people’s sickness.
Truck drivers crossing time zones but never crossing into anyone’s arms.
Restaurant workers whose weekends belong to customers.
Corporate workers stretched thin by expectations their parents could never imagine.
Hard work is honourable. But it leaves little room for connection. While a day has twenty-four hours, for many, only three of those hours truly belong to them—and by then, they are too tired for anything beyond survival.
Isitoshe (enough),
Take Ann from Melbourne. She is a licensed nurse practitioner with two top-dollar jobs. In the early morning you will find her slipping out of her scrubs after a fourteen-hour shift, warming the food she packed yesterday, scrolling through WhatsApp without replying, and sliding into bed.
To the world, she is hardworking. To her family, she is a blessing—they live off her sacrifices. But if you stand in that room long enough, you feel another presence.
Not exhaustion. Not ambition.
Loneliness.
Yet loneliness is not only the result of busyness.
Often it sprouts from something quieter: fear.
Fear of being judged.
Fear that the Australian dream you sold back home no longer matches the life you’re living.
Fear that Kenyans will measure you by your car, your postcode, your job title, your remittances, or how quickly you built a house.
Fear that the version of yourself you show will disappoint.
So people hide—not because they dislike others, but because they dislike the version of themselves they fear will be seen.
Loneliness rarely arrives loudly. It creeps. First, you stop calling. Then you stop showing up. Then you convince yourself this is just who you are—an introvert, a loner.
But humans are not built for emotional isolation.
Even the strongest people unravel when they go too long without being known.
So how do you begin again, when the very thing you need—connection—requires vulnerability, and vulnerability requires trust, and trust is the very thing you lost along the way?
You do not fix loneliness by throwing yourself into crowds. You soften it through proximity—slow, steady, safe proximity. Little moments that do not demand confession, but open the door for connection.
For me, it often starts with sports.
Growing up, I never followed AFL. But now I live in Sydney, where the Swans are a language. Saying “they’re on fire this season” with the right enthusiasm has opened more conversations than I ever expected.
Cricket grounds have become another soft landing. Out of nowhere I find myself talking about the Ashes or the Big Bash with strangers, and somehow that turns into laughter, debate, even friendship.
Even rugby—a sport that initially felt overwhelming—has become a bridge. People connect over teams long before they connect over truths. And for those who prefer global sports, the Premier League creates its own community. Supporting Arsenal or Liverpool can spark instant connection across cultural lines.
Music has opened doors too: Jazz nights, Afrobeats, reggae, even open mics—these are spaces where people come not to impress, but to feel. The crowd becomes a temporary family, and for a moment, the heart remembers it belongs somewhere.
Nature helps. A walk. A hike. A jog. In fact I saw research that shows people open up more when moving side by side than sitting face-to-face. There is something about movement that frees the tongue.
And yes—even Kenyan spaces can heal when approached intentionally.
A small group roasting goat.
A church where volunteering lets you blend in naturally.
A WhatsApp group where you say something once in a while—not for attention, but for belonging.
See, connection does not arrive fully formed. It grows the way trust grows—slowly, unevenly, in small shared moments with someone who feels safe enough to return to.
And maybe that is the quiet truth of the Kenyan diaspora: beneath the ambition and the grind, beneath the remittances and responsibilities, many are simply longing for someone they can be unguarded with. Someone who can hold their story without dropping it, who can hear their truth without turning it into content, who lets them stop performing for a moment and be human.
The antidote to loneliness is not noise. It is not constant activity. It is one person you can be honest with.
A day has twenty-four hours. Most belong to survival. But at least one must belong to the self—one hour to breathe, one hour to reach out, one hour to allow someone in.
That is how loneliness loosens its grip.
Slowly. Quietly.
One human moment at a time.
Let us connect over Parramatta Coffee
May the day break
ATTRIBUTION
This article is adapted from an original piece by Mukurima Muriuki. While the context has been localized for Australian migrant communities, the insights and framework remain rooted in Mukurima’s original work exploring loneliness in the Kenyan diaspora.