Insight of a Kenyan Girl

A new age. A supposedly modern era. And yet, I still find myself tiptoeing around fragile egos, walking on eggshells to avoid shattering male pride so delicate it might crack at the slightest hint of discomfort. I am expected to consider their feelings as if mine do not exist. My emotions are secondary, optional, irrelevant. I am to be on constant call for these self-proclaimed masters, men whose authority I must never question and whose knowledge I must defer to simply because I am female.

I am told to dress “appropriately” so as not to trigger their primal instincts. I must walk carefully, lest my natural posture be considered provocative. I must lower my gaze constantly because eyes that look freely and boldly could be misconstrued, misinterpreted, and, heaven forbid, provoke violence. And if violence occurs, it will always somehow be my fault, my body, my clothes, my confidence, my very existence.

I am expected to attend after-work dinners with bosses I barely know, smiling and laughing in ways that feel unnatural, just so they will “like me” enough to consider a salary raise or a promotion. Even when I achieve professional success, it must be measured, tempered, packaged to reassure them that I am still ultimately “just a woman” who knows her place.

And it does not end there. I must cook. Yes, cook. A proper woman is supposed to know her way around a kitchen, preparing meals so that the alpha male can parade around, boasting about how lucky he is to have a wife or female employee who feeds him. Meanwhile, I must also maintain my body, work out diligently, sculpted and toned, because a woman’s weight is never hers to own. It reflects the male ego, a measure of whether I embarrass them or uphold their pride. They do not care if I have given birth, if my body bears life. My worth is still measured by whether I meet their impossible standards.

The ridiculous rules, the invisible expectations, the systems built to accommodate male insecurities rather than human dignity—all of it demands compliance without question, without complaint. I am the “stupid little woman,” whose body, choices, and very presence exist to validate their authority. And we call this progress. We call this equality.

The truth is exhausting. It is infuriating. It is not fair. We are told we live in a new age, yet the same oppressive structures persist, cloaked in charm, subtle smiles, and polite words. Every time I comply, bend, and silence my own needs to accommodate theirs, I am reminded that this so-called modern era has a long, long way to go.

It is time to question. It is time to demand change. It is time to stop walking on eggshells.