At some point, my weekends started on Thursdays and ended… well, never. If you’ve ever woken up in a stranger’s bedsitter in Kasarani with your phone at 2 per cent and your dignity at 0 per cent, then you already understand the gospel of sherehe. And if you haven’t, congratulations, your liver is probably thriving.
Let me explain. Sherehe, a word borrowed from Kiswahili, loosely meaning ‘celebration’, has been rebranded by Kenyan Gen Zs into a full-time lifestyle. It’s not just about parties. It’s a rhythm, a social currency, a survival mechanism, and sometimes, a carefully curated performance for Instagram. It’s themed nights in Kilimani, rooftop link-ups in Westlands, road trips to Naivasha that are more alcohol than scenery, and spontaneous “Tuko wapi leo?” texts that derail an entire week.
Back then, I wasn’t just participating, I was a stakeholder. I knew the bouncers by name. I had a mental map of which clubs had the cheapest tequila shots before midnight and which DJs would resurrect your mood at 2am. I remember one Friday in particular. I had just been given an allowance by my parents, Nairobi was buzzing and my plan was “just one drink”.
By 4am, I was ugly crying to a stranger named Brian outside a club, holding a shot glass in one hand and questioning why finding love was so difficult.
And yet, at the time, it felt necessary. There’s a reason sherehe culture has taken root so deeply among Gen Zs in Kenya. Youth unemployment is high, the cost of living is unpredictable and the pressure to ‘make it’ is relentless. So people turn to joy where they can find it, something loud, immediate and communal. When the future feels uncertain, the present becomes a party.
“Honestly, at sherehe is the only time I feel like I’m actually living,” says Aaron Kioko, 24, a graphic designer in Nairobi. “The rest of the week is just stress. Rent, work, expectations… it’s too much. At least when we’re out, none of that matters.”
And he’s not wrong. There’s something almost therapeutic about dancing in a packed room where nobody cares who you are or what you do. For a few hours, you’re just part of the noise. No deadlines. No comparisons. Just vibes.
But here’s the part we don’t talk about enough: the cost of that escape. And I don’t just mean money, though, let’s be honest, I’ve seen people spend their entire Helb disbursement in one weekend. I mean the exhaustion. The emotional hangovers. The slow realisation that you’re chasing a feeling that never quite lasts.
For me, the turning point wasn’t instant. No rock-bottom moment. Just a series of small, embarrassing realisations. Like the time I decided to follow a friend group I had just met as they headed to a house party at a second location, only to be left behind when the actual owner of the house stormed in, seething with rage. Or the Sunday afternoon I spent calculating how much I had spent on alcohol that month and briefly considered fasting for financial recovery.
And then there was the fatigue. Not the “I need a nap” kind, but the deep, bone-level tiredness of always being on. Always social. Always loud. Always chasing the next plan.
“I think people overdo it,” says Jasmine Naliaka, 22, a university student in Thika. “It’s fun, yeah, but sometimes it feels like you’re just going out because everyone else is. Like if you stay home, you’re missing out on something, even if you’re not.”
That fear of missing out (Fomo) is the real engine behind sherehe culture. Social media amplifies it. Every story, every reel, every blurry video of people screaming lyrics in unison becomes proof that life is happening somewhere else. And if you’re not there, are you even living?
I used to think the answer was no. Now, I’m not so sure. These days, most of my weekend nights look very different. I’m at home. There’s a kettle on the stove. I’m probably halfway through a novel, wrapped in a blanket like someone’s retired auntie. And yes, I drink herbal tea — voluntarily. The same person who once debated whether to go out twice in one night now debates between chamomile and peppermint. And you know what? I don’t miss the outings. Not really.
That’s not to say sherehe culture is inherently bad. It’s vibrant. It’s creative. It’s a reflection of a generation finding ways to cope, connect and celebrate in a world that often feels stacked against them. There’s community in it. There’s expression. There’s even entrepreneurship; event planners, DJs, content creators all thrive in this ecosystem. But like anything powerful, it can consume you if you don’t set boundaries.
What I’ve come to realise is that rest is also a form of rebellion. Choosing quiet in a world that glorifies noise is not boring, it’s intentional. It’s saying, “I don’t need to be everywhere to be enough.”
So when my friends text, “Tuko wapi leo?” I sometimes reply, “Kwa nyumba.” And surprisingly, the world doesn’t end. The party goes on without me. And for the first time in a long time, I’m okay with that. Because as it turns out, the real flex isn’t how hard you party, it’s knowing when to go home.
