There’s a moment in every 20-something-year-old’s life when they realize that being an adult isn’t about doing fun things whenever you want. It’s about budgeting. Or in my case, pretending to budget while dodging endless requests from friends to hang out.
It was the 28th of the month, and the familiar dread of rent day was creeping up on me. I stared at my M-Pesa balance like it was supposed to magically increase. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
I had just enough to pay the landlord, but not much left for anything else—no extravagant Uber rides, no random KFC splurges. Just a plain, boring week until payday. But then my phone buzzed.
“Yooooo, uko wapi?” It was my friend Carol, her text as casual as ever, like she wasn’t plotting to destroy my carefully constructed broke-life plans.
I sighed. Of course, it’s Carol.The girl could find a reason to party even on a Monday morning.
“Kwa nyumba,” I texted back, hoping she’d get the hint that I wasn’t in the mood to socialize.
“Si you come out tonight, we’re hitting Rafikiz later. I got paid jana, and it’s my treat.”
My heart sank a little. I wanted to go, I really did. But Rafikiz? I had seen too many people lose their whole monthly grocery budget there in one night. I could already picture it—Carol would cover the first round of drinks, and then we’d all be expected to chip in as the night went on. And knowing Carol, the ‘rounds’ would be endless.
I sighed again, running a hand through my hair. It’s always the same dilemma. Do I save money and feel like I’m missing out, or go and risk being broke for the rest of the month?
Before I could text a proper excuse, my phone buzzed again.
Carol: I’ve already told everyone you’re coming, sasa si utakuja tu?
I groaned. No one ever respects the introvert’s "Niko kwa nyumba" message.
I texted back, “I’m broke AF, you know that right?”
Carol replied almost instantly, “Si I said it’s my treat, relax!”
Yeah right, I thought. Her treat until the waiter shows up with the third round of shots. But, the FOMO was already creeping in. The thought of everyone having fun while I sat at home with my rent woes wasn’t appealing either.
“Fine, I’ll come, but just for a while,” I texted reluctantly.
Fast forward to 10 PM, and I was sitting at a dimly lit table in Rafikiz, nursing a Coke while my friends downed their cocktails and beers. The music was loud, the place packed as usual. Everyone was vibing, catching up on the week, laughing at inside jokes. I had to admit, it felt good to be out of the house for once, even if my bank account was already crying.
“Si you try at least one drink?” Carol nudged me, giving me that look—like I was the odd one out for not having something stronger.
“I told you I’m broke,” I laughed. “Let me enjoy my soda in peace.”
But she wouldn’t let it go. “Come on, just one cocktail, sijui gin and tonic ama something. It’s on me.”
“Kwisha na hizo drinks zako. I know how this ends,” I teased her. “You start with ‘it’s on me,’ then by midnight, we’re all splitting bills.”
She burst out laughing, shaking her head. “Eh, Nairobi tumetoka mbali! Lakini don’t worry, tonight I got you. No splitting.”
As the night wore on, I watched my friends drink, dance, and generally have a great time while I sat worried of overspending. Carol, true to her word, kept ordering drinks for the table. But somewhere between her fourth mojito and someone else’s second shot of tequila, I could see where the night was headed.
By the time the waiter came over with a tray of cocktails and another round of beers, I knew what was coming. Carol, who was now thoroughly tipsy, flashed me a guilty look.
“Uhm, so... we might need to split this last round. The bill is a bit high.”
I groaned internally. Hapo ndio tulikuwa tunaelekea. I mean, who was I kidding? This was Carol. The same friend who once forgot her wallet at a party and casually expected me to cover her entire meal and drinks.
I fished out my phone, already checking my M-Pesa balance. I had enough to cover my share, but only because I hadn’t touched my rent money yet. I couldn’t believe I was even considering this. Surely, adulting can’t be this hard every single month.
“You know what, let’s just call it a night,” I said, standing up and grabbing my bag. “Before I spend money that I don’t have.”
“Eiiish, si you relax! Kwani what’s the rush?” Carol slurred, clearly tipsy but still laughing.
“Relax? Girl, rent is due tomorrow. If I stay any longer, I’ll be sending my landlord a text like, ‘Hi, can I pay you in vibes?’”
The whole table burst out laughing. Even though I was dead serious, the way I said it seemed to crack everyone up. I waved them off and headed for the exit before I could be guilt-tripped into paying for anything more.
As I rode back home in a matatu, I couldn’t help but laugh at the situation. It’s the same thing every month. We all try to act like we’ve got money to spend, like Nairobi isn’t slowly draining our wallets one plan at a time. But deep down, we’re all just trying to survive, juggling rent, food, and the occasional fun night out.
When I got home, I collapsed on my bed, grateful that I had left when I did. Carol would probably wake up the next day with a massive hangover and an even bigger dent in her wallet. But me? I had my rent money safely tucked away, ready for tomorrow.
Sometimes, being the broke friend isn’t such a bad thing after all.
Comments