Grand projects mean little when the ordinary citizens feel no real change

I arrived at Mombasa International Airport (and someone should fix those phone-charging points to fit the “international” part). I called a cab. The driver answered pleasantly, as one who genuinely liked his work. His warmth and openness made him the kind of person you think, “If I ever return to Mombasa, I’ll call him again.” I knew I’d probably forget—but in that moment, it felt sincere.

From the start, the ride carried hints of something more than just taxi fare. He was more than a driver—he was an informal tour guide. His voice brightened as he pointed to the proliferation of trucks clogging the road: “See all these trucks? The traffic they are causing is good news—Mombasa is back!” He remembered when the city “was dying” because there was no business at the port. Now, with movement and vehicles, he saw revival.

He drew my attention to the new tunnel and the Ndongo-Kundu road—quick to ad-lib that credit belonged to former President Uhuru Kenyatta. New infrastructure, new possibilities. He spoke of settlements that hadn’t existed before. Distance was shrinking; with the new road, he said the drive to Diani could now take about an hour. That alone felt like progress. I felt relief—the earlier I arrived, the better.

But somewhere along that progress story, reality intruded. As we climbed a gentle incline, I heard the driver say, with gentle shame, “The car is not picking up speed.” The speedometer stuck around 40–50 km/h; no matter how hard he pushed the accelerator, the engine labored.

He admitted he had spent a whole day last week in the garage trying to fix it. “It will take us longer to arrive,” he said. And indeed, the cab app estimated we’d now arrive thirty minutes late.

The discrepancy

He tried overtaking slow trucks and tuk-tuks—but even that was not possible. I suggested he stop by a mechanic on his return. He sighed, “I was hoping to make something from this trip. The car has even consumed more fuel than I’d budgeted—which means it’s a loss for me.” He sounded weary.

I leaned forward in the seat. “Since this is your trade—your livelihood—please get it fixed today for the sake of your work.” He responded suddenly with frustration: “Serikali imetufinyilia sana.” (The government has squeezed us too much). His words were clipped with fatigue.

He answered a phone call, speaking in a low tone that carried more than just a business concern—perhaps a promise to a wife, child, or parent, someone waiting for support he had hoped to send sooner. In that moment, something shifted. The warm tour guide had dropped into vulnerability, laying bare the distance between the infrastructure he praised and the life he led. 

I sat back, reflecting. Here was a man who had to hustle every day. He saw new roads and growing traffic and called them good news. He believed—or wanted to believe—that the city was being renewed. Yet he himself did not benefit nearly as much as the roads themselves suggested. His car suffered mechanical strain; he barely made a profit on the trip; his voice betrayed the pressure of making ends meet. He was part of the system—but also a victim of it.

What I witnessed in that single ride summarises a fundamental tension in Kenya’s current development model: spectator infrastructure rather than participatory prosperity.

On one hand, large-scale investment in roads, tunnels and new urban zones is real. People see trucks, new town-centres, faster links. These are tangible, visible signals of growth. Politicians and planners can point to them. They offer promise and generate pride.

On the other hand, the people who “use” that infrastructure rarely feel the benefit beyond the appearance. They still bear risk, uncertainty and expense. They fuel cars that are old or barely efficient. They pay for maintenance out of thin margins. Their earnings remain unpredictable. The cost of living rises around them even as roads improve around them.

In economics terms, infrastructure investment has high visibility but low inclusion. The benefit (lower travel times, expanded land values) accrues mostly to those with capital—property developers, land-owners, investors, corporate logistics. The cost often hits those with fewer buffers. In effect, the infrastructure is a stage lighting shining on the city—but many of its citizens remain in the shadows.

The moral question is: Who is infrastructure for?

If roads are built and tunnels carved, but the people who live by those roads struggle to buy good vehicles, repair them, or benefit from rising property values—they are spectators rather than participants. Development should not merely change the skyline; it should change livelihoods.

Moral angle

True progress means not only cutting hours off a journey—but cutting anxiety from a wage-earner’s life. It means enabling the Uber-driver to invest in a reliable car without risking every trip; it means allowing small-scale business to thrive, not just survive; it means designing public works so that the everyday person experiences benefit—not invisibly, but tangibly.

When development becomes the privilege of the elite—not by accident, but by structure—the debt is paid by those whose labor fuels it. The moral cost is high: we risk turning citizens into passive witnesses while resources flow upward. A new tunnel is laudable—but only if someone who drives through it daily sees their income stabilize, their family supported their dignity intact.

New roads, tunnels, and rising town-centres tell a story of ambition. But ambition without equity creates fractures. The fragrance of progress must reach the cab driver, not just the driver of big business.

If Kenya’s future is to be more than polished highways, it must also repair the lives beneath them. Infrastructure should not simply pass through neighbourhoods—it must uplift them.

Until then, the roads will shine in the sun, but many who drive on them will still struggle to afford the fuel.