No One Is Coming to Save You: What 18 Young Men, Six Older Men, and a Noisy Metal Hall Taught Me About Responsibility

 

The first Men's Group Mtaani session

A recap of the first Men’s Group Mtaani session

There are places where we usually gather as men. Nice hotels. Clean spaces. Tasteful décor. Order. A certain dignity to the environment. The kind of places where even your problems behave themself for two hours. You arrive, sit well, speak well, take tea, nod thoughtfully, and leave feeling like life has a sense of order.

Then, some places don't care about your structure—places that give you reality straight up, without any fluff.

That Saturday, I transitioned from one world to another. I had just finished serving as Toastmaster of the Day at Magnetic Toastmasters Club. That alone already requires sharpness of mind, presence, timing, and social energy. Then I left there and headed toward Langata for our first-ever Men’s Group Mtaani meeting. If I am honest, I didn't fully know how it would go. I had hope, yes. Vision, yes. But certainty? Not even a little.

The weather itself seemed uncertain. The sun was shy. Cloud cover leaned toward rain. It had the mood of a day that could either become memorable or turn into a story you later laugh about because it nearly fell apart.

And I was carrying both possibilities in my chest.

This was different from our usual Men’s Group sessions. Very different. I had involved a young man from the area, a motivated guy who seemed capable of rallying his community and making things happen. He was helping gather the young men for this first meeting. I also enlisted seven men from the larger Men’s Group to come and speak to whoever showed up. That in itself was a statement. These are men with lives, responsibilities, families, work, rest, and options. Yet they chose to spend a Saturday afternoon speaking to younger men they had never met, in a place that didn’t promise comfort, applause, or prestige.

That matters.

It matters because purpose is often shown not in what men say, but in what they are willing to inconvenience themselves for.

I had also been warned that the timing was challenging. It was election season. Politicians had set certain expectations among many young men: that if someone invites you over, there must be something in hand. A token. A facilitation. A little something for your time. So that became part of the budget. I understood the practical reality, but I was also quietly wrestling with what we were truly up against. Because sometimes what appears to be a money issue is actually a mindset issue. A culture issue. A long-standing conditioning issue.

When I entered the venue, I was immediately struck by how different it was from the spaces we are used to. No polished reception area. No carefully arranged ambiance. No warm hotel-like lighting that makes everyone look like they have healed from all known trauma.

This was a metal structure with plastic chairs. It also served as a storage space for the metalworks community near the market. Items were placed here and there in a way that says, “We are making do.” The sound of metalwork in the background was constant—clanging, scraping, movement. You couldn't pretend this was a curated environment. It was raw, functional, and honest.

I took a deep breath and told myself, everything will be fine.

Now, sometimes when you tell yourself that, it is faith. Other times, it is prayer hidden as self-talk. That day, it was both.

Then something happened that immediately steadied me: the young men arrived early. They walked in before any of the speakers had shown up. Eighteen of them. That mattered to me because suddenly, this was no longer just an idea. It wasn't simply a plan written on paper. It wasn't a vague “let us try and see.” They were there. Eighteen young men from the surrounding area, sitting in that metal hall, not entirely sure what this meeting was about, probably suspicious of our intentions, likely wondering whether we were about to preach at them, sell to them, recruit them, or waste their Saturday.

And honestly, that's fair. Young people are not naive. They can detect hidden motives from afar, especially those who have grown up around performative concern, broken promises, and transactional gestures.

Then the speakers began arriving one by one. That sequence felt symbolic to me. The younger men were already seated, waiting, present. Then the older men began to enter the room one by one. It felt almost like a relay of responsibility.

Not perfection. Not superiority. Responsibility.

Men who had lived enough life to gather some scars, some lessons, some bruises, some wisdom, some regret, and—most importantly—some humility.

As I looked at the room, I kept thinking: What will actually work here?

I had considered whether I needed to simplify my language. At a previous event, I worried that using too much English might create distance from the audience. I wondered whether I needed to heavily redact myself, edit my natural way of speaking, reduce the ideas, flatten the language, and make it simpler so that it lands.

But then something happened that I have now seen enough times to trust: once the conversation began, things started to flow. Real human conversation has a way of finding its own language. And after thinking through what might work best with an audience that was still judging us, still a little nervous, still unsure if we had hidden motives, I reached a simple conclusion:

Let the speakers tell their stories.

No complicated theories. No long lectures. No polished motivational speeches. Just stories. Because almost nothing brings people together faster than a personal story told honestly. Advice can come across as condescending. Instructions can feel heavy. But a story? A story opens the door from the inside.

And that is what happened.

The older men shared their stories, and what struck me was not only the pain in them but also the honesty. They were not speaking as men who had everything figured out and now wanted to descend from the mountain to teach the village. No, they were speaking as men who had been bruised, confused, and broken by life in some seasons, and yet had learned enough to tell a younger man, “If I can save you some unnecessary wounds, let me try.”

Gibson spoke first, and his story carried a quiet weight. He spoke as a son from a family that had gone through tough times. He hadn't been able to attend university as he planned, and that disappointment shaped him. Then an opportunity arose—a well-paying job abroad. On paper, it looked like a victory. The kind of victory many families pray for. The kind of move people congratulate you on without hesitation.

But life is rarely as simple as the salary figure.

While abroad, he earned well, yes, but he also sacrificed meaningful family interactions. He did not lose his family, which is important, but he gave up the closeness, the everyday bonds, the simple moments that are actually not simple at all once you no longer have them. Eventually, he caved in and returned home. After that, he faced the full impact of COVID-19—no income—and the humbling reality of relying on family again when he had once seen himself as a provider. Such a reversal does something profound to a man. It strips him down. It reveals him. It forces him to ask what truly matters.

Ravi spoke about success in business, then about the setbacks that followed—a failed marriage, the COVID disruption, the collapse of income, and the mental toll from fractured relationships and uncertainty. That mental toll is significant. The event itself does not first destroy many men; they are broken by how they interpret the event. By the voices that start saying, “You are finished. You have failed. You are alone. This will never recover.” If left unchecked, these voices can cause a man to start sinking long before his external life fully falls apart.

Tony’s story had that rugged texture only life can produce. He spoke of fighting poverty, working as a cleaner, and having little more than grit, honesty, and a commitment to do whatever was in front of him exceptionally well. That last part is a vital lesson. Many people desire exceptional results but treat ordinary opportunities casually. Tony didn’t. He cleaned thoroughly. Then he asked for a chance to sell while still working for his employer. He met his goals. Then he earned more trust. Then he received additional training. Then he became exceptional. But his story wasn’t neat and polished. He also spoke about alcoholism and how, even while trapped in that vice, he was still performing so well that his employer couldn’t complain about his results. That is sobering in its own way. A man can be talented, effective, and productive, yet still be fighting a private war. We must never confuse performance with wholeness.

Martin’s story carried a different kind of heaviness. He discussed the struggle of caring for his siblings’ children, the burden of black tax, the weight of integrity, and the high cost of trying to live uprightly when life itself isn’t fair. He talked about being deceived in business, mounting debts into the millions, and facing shame and guilt while dealing with people whose money was lost in a failed venture. The thief was free, living large, while he was left carrying the burden. There’s a particular pain in being a trustworthy man who publicly suffers due to someone else’s betrayal. It tests not only your finances but also your sense of self.

Muiruri talked about divisions at home, earning a decent paycheck early on, and then losing everything when he spent weeks in detention on remand while others pursued their case. Losing your footing so suddenly is significant. He described hitting rock bottom and starting over, and how his saving grace was his work ethic—his diligent work was recognized by those who later helped him rise again. This is one of the subtle laws of life: discipline often speaks for you when words can no longer defend you.

As each man spoke, what stood out to me was how deeply personal the stories were. These weren’t just superficial testimonies; they weren’t polished for reputation’s sake. They were raw stories filled with failure, mistakes, crisis, humiliation, disappointment, and survival. And still, the men stood there and shared them.

That offering matters because most men live under the illusion that their pain is uniquely incomprehensible. They think no one will understand, so they hide. They close off all avenues where help might come in. They lock their issues away in the dark until those issues turn into rage, addiction, depression, recklessness, numbness, or some other kind of explosion.

Not because the burden is light. But because silence can become a man’s prison.

One of the deepest lessons from that meeting is: sharing a problem doesn't instantly solve it, but it often lessens its hold when spoken aloud. Language helps organize chaos. Speaking allows a man to hear himself. Guidance becomes possible when hiding ends.

Another thing became painfully clear during the meeting. Many people cope with difficulty by surrounding themselves with others who complain, blame, numb themselves, and rehearse hopelessness. That is a dangerous brotherhood. It feels like solidarity, but it is actually slow collective drowning.

What the speakers repeatedly emphasized in different ways was a hard truth: no one is coming to rescue you from your situation. That may sound harsh until you see its true gift. Because once a man genuinely accepts this, something inside him shifts. He stops waiting. He stops blaming others. He stops writing long internal speeches about fairness. He begins to act.

Community matters, yes. Brotherhood matters, yes. Guidance matters, yes. But even with all of that, you still need to be the one in control of your life. No one else can take responsibility for it.

And that word—responsibility—sat in the room like a hammer and an invitation.

The speakers stressed it repeatedly. Even when beaten, broken, humiliated, or ashamed, a man must still crawl if he cannot walk. However, he must move toward taking responsibility for his emotions, thoughts, actions, and the consequences of those actions. We also need to accept responsibility for our inaction, because, in truth, inaction is not neutral; it is a choice with consequences.

There was another example shared that struck me sharply: the comparison between duthi riders and employees in stalls. Many duthi riders earn more, sometimes far more. Yet often the stall employees seem cleaner, more stable, and more progressive in life. Why? Lifestyle. Drinking. Multiple partners. No long-term planning. No delayed gratification. No structure. This is one of the great traps of manhood: earning enough to survive, but living in such a way that nothing compounds.

What also became clear is that men require planning. Men need organization. Men need to focus on income generation. Men need values.

And among those values, integrity stood tall.

Integrity in small things.

Integrity in little projects.

Integrity when the money is not impressive.

Integrity before anyone is watching closely.

The truth is, trust is built during unglamorous moments. When you perform small tasks well and consistently, people start recommending you to others. You become known as reliable, and that reputation turns into a valuable asset.

Many young people miss out on long-term opportunities because they prioritize immediate gratification over trust. They produce poor work and cut corners. They want money now and don’t realize that they are sabotaging ten future opportunities to get a cheap reward today.

The speakers who had grown their businesses, and in some cases achieved great success, did so not just because they were clever, but because they treated people with integrity and aimed for excellence in their work. They became the individuals others could trust to deliver.

That meeting wrapped up on a high note. There was energy in the room, and a shared desire to keep meeting with the young men over the coming weeks, to keep engaging, to keep guiding, and to keep showing up.

But during our debrief, I shared a warning with the speakers: we need patience. We are confronting a culture of handouts. We are battling an education of dependency. We are resisting the myth that a savior in white—or in a campaign vehicle, or in a big office, or in a fortunate opportunity—is coming to rescue us.

That fantasy has harmed many lives. It has suppressed creativity. It has diminished curiosity. It has delayed maturity. So, we must be patient. Patient enough to keep showing up. Patient enough to keep speaking the truth. Patient enough to watch young men either choose change, or slowly realize over time that they must.

That Saturday reminded me of something I believe very deeply: older men still have something sacred to offer younger men. Not perfection, control, or superiority, but witness, warning, wisdom, presence — stories that say, “Life can hit hard, but you do not have to surrender your agency.”

And perhaps that is the real work before us. To build men who do not wait to be rescued.

Men who tell the truth.

Men who value integrity.

Men who plan.

Men who act.

Men who learn from scars instead of hiding them.

Men who understand that community matters—but only if they are willing to invest in it too.

And if I can leave you with just one thought, it is this: You might not be able to control what life has done to you, what has been delayed, what has been denied, what has been stolen, or what has fallen apart. But you can still take the driver’s seat. That is where dignity starts. That is where healing begins. That is where transformation begins.

 

If this message stirred something in you, don’t let it fade.

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