Insight of a Kenyan Girl

You’d think that with all the advancements humankind has made from splitting atoms to decoding DNA, from building skyscrapers that kiss the sky to robots that can mimic human speech evolution would have done us one more favor: upgrading the romantic circuitry in men.

But alas, here I am, still attracting what I’ve come to call culture‑maintenance men. You know the type rooted deep in outdated beliefs, clutching patriarchy like a family heirloom that must never be questioned or dusted off. These are men who believe they are inherently entitled to worship, to unwavering respect, to blind loyalty, even when their actions deserve none of it.

They gallivant freely, flirting with chaos, serenading multiple women while expecting the one who loves them to remain anchored, calm, and endlessly forgiving. To them, masculinity is a crown worn regardless of behavior and the woman, she is expected to kneel, emotionally, mentally, and sometimes literally, in reverence.

Romance, for them, is a plate of food placed before them like an offering at an altar. It is the silence of a woman who swallows her pain because she doesn’t want to “nag.” It’s the transactional idea that affection equals access that a few kind words or a shared joke should inevitably lead to sex. Love, in their eyes, is less about nurturing and more about ownership.

Then there are the ones who drift through life with indifference the emotionally unavailable, the nonchalant thinkers. They hold back their words like treasure, expecting women to become mind‑readers. They offer nothing but expect everything. You’re left over‑analyzing glances, interpreting silences, and crafting emotional bridges where there are no foundations.

And let’s not forget the new branch on this tired old family tree: the hug‑on‑demand zombies. These are the men who must be coaxed—sometimes pleaded with for the simplest gestures of warmth. A hug feels like a board‑meeting agenda item; closeness is rationed out in teaspoons. Their emotional quotient registers somewhere between flatline and fossil. They are present in body, absent in spirit, blind to the power of a simple embrace, and deaf to the quiet plea behind “Can I just have a hug?”

A partner who won’t lean in for a moment of softness is a partner who hasn’t learned that intimacy is nourishment, not charity. Begging for basic affection is the loneliest place in a relationship standing inches away from someone who feels miles out of reach.

And I ask myself, why?

Why do I keep drawing in this particular breed? Why do I, a woman evolved in thought and feeling, seem to pull in those still trapped in the ancient blueprint of manhood?

It’s a question I sit with more than I’d like to admit. Maybe it’s because somewhere along the line, society confused masculinity with dominance and left no room for softness, vulnerability, or emotional depth. Maybe it’s because women were taught to endure, to fix, to nurture even the emotionally bankrupt.

But I’m unlearning that now.

I’m no longer interested in preserving tradition at the cost of my peace. I no longer romanticize struggle or reward inconsistency with devotion. I crave softness, thoughtfulness men who understand that true romance isn’t about performance, but presence. That respect is not demanded; it’s reciprocated. That love is not owed it is earned and nurtured through mutual effort.

So no, I will not worship you.
No, I will not make guessing my second language.
And no, food is not a gateway to my body.

Let evolution catch up. I’ll be waiting.

But not holding my breath.