GEN Z CORNER: Stick to passion or do anything for payslip?

I used to believe my biggest problem in life would be deciding which of my novels would win the TBC Penmanship Awards first. Not if, which one.

In my head, I wasn’t just any writer; I was going to be part of a generation that revived Kenyan storytelling. The kind of stories people actually see themselves in. Not just dusty set books or stories that feel like they’re written for exams, but real, living narratives, with matatus, estates, awkward family dinners, love, chaos, Nairobi in all its contradiction.

That was before I discovered rent, Excel spreadsheets and the uniquely Kenyan sport of being asked, “So, hii writing yako inalipa?”

The short answer is no. It ‘pays’ in compliments from friends, the occasional “This is so good” reply, and that one aunt who says, “At least hauko idle,” which is not exactly the endorsement you want when you’re trying to build a literary empire.

Growing up in Nairobi, I was that kid who carried a notebook everywhere. Not for class notes, those were more of a suggestion; but for writing stories inspired by everything around me. Snippets of conversations in CBD, the drama of family WhatsApp groups, the quiet tension of people pretending everything is fine when it’s clearly not.

While other children revised KCPE past papers, I was busy creating entire fictional worlds, where Kenyan characters were complex, funny, flawed, generally human. I genuinely believed those stories mattered. Still do. But somewhere between campus and adulthood, the dream started to feel expensive.

There’s a moment I keep replaying. I’m sitting at the dining table, deep in a story that felt important. One of those ones where you’re convinced, This is it, this is the one that changes everything. My mum walks past and casually asks, “Umesema umeapply jobs ngapi leo?” Not harsh. Not dismissive. Just practical.

That’s when it hit me: Storytelling might feed the soul, but Nairobi will still ask for rent on the 1st. No extensions. No plot armour.

And I’m not alone in this slow, reluctant migration from passion to “something that makes sense”. Among Gen Zs in Kenya, there’s this quiet, collective grieving happening. We don’t always say it out loud, but you hear it. In the jokes, in the “I used to”, in the wistful statements.

Take George Kimani, 24, who once ran a small but promising photography page. “I loved it,” he told me. “Capturing people, telling stories through pictures. Ilikuwa poa.” Then he paused. “But after two years of inconsistent pay, I just gave up and went into procurement. At least now I can plan my life.” No drama. No big speech. Just a quiet pivot from passion to predictability.

On the flip side, there’s Jane Akinyi, 26, still holding the line. “Honestly, I’d rather struggle doing what I love than be comfortable doing something I hate,” she said. Brave. Slightly terrifying. Financially questionable, but brave. She runs a thrift business and is betting on herself in a way most of us are still negotiating with fear about.

Honestly, both of them make sense. Because what’s happening to us isn’t just personal, it’s structural. Kenya’s job market doesn’t exactly reward creative risk. Youth unemployment remains high, and even for those who are employed, many are underpaid or working jobs that barely connect to what they studied, let alone what they love. Creative fields like writing are growing, yes, but they’re still unstable, still undervalued, still treated like hobbies unless you’ve ‘made it’.

So when an opportunity comes, be it corporate job, tech role or anything else that promises stability, you take it. Not because it excites youbut because tokens don’t buy themselves and landlords don’t accept “I’m building something meaningful” as rent.

And let’s be honest, we’ve been trained for this. From primary school, success is framed in very specific terms: doctor, lawyer, engineer. Maybe IT if your school was feeling progressive. Even career days felt like a menu with no room for imagination. So we adapt.

I tried to play the game, too. I cleaned up my CV, removed anything that made me sound too ‘creative’, and applied for roles that felt safe. Acceptable. Explainable at family gatherings. And for a while, it worked. I got interviews. I landed something stable.

But every evening, I’d open my laptop and stare at half-finished stories. Characters frozen mid-conversation, plots waiting to be resolved. And I’d feel like I had quietly abandoned something important. Not dramatically. Just slowly.

The tricky part is that being ‘realistic’ is such a slippery concept. Is it realistic to walk away from something you’re genuinely good at just because it doesn’t pay immediately? Or is it realistic to accept that passion alone won’t cover your rent in Kilimani, no matter how powerful your stories are?

I don’t have a clean answer. Most days, I feel like I’m balancing two lives. One that makes sense on paper, and one that actually makes sense to me. Because here’s the thing: Even as we pivot, the passion doesn’t die. It lingers. In late-night writing sessions. In random ideas that come to you at the worst possible times. We become people who say, “I used to pursue my passion,” when really, we still do. Just in between everything else.

But maybe the story isn’t over. Maybe this isn’t abandonment; it’s just a delay. A necessary detour in a system that doesn’t always make space for the things that matter. Or maybe that’s just something I tell myself so I can keep going. Because deep down, I still believe Kenyan stories deserve to be told. And I’m not quite ready to stop telling them.