At this point, I am convinced some Gen Zs do not use clocks. They use vibes. Time, to them, is not a fixed measurement. It is a suggestion. A rumour. An optional side quest.

You tell someone, “Tupatane Junction Mall at 2pm,” and at exactly 2:17pm, they text: “Girl, niko karibu.”

In Kenya, “niko karibu” can mean anything from “I’m still choosing an outfit” to “I have just entered a matatu in Rongai and I’m fighting for my life.”

I know this because I have suffered personally. As someone who values punctuality, I have spent a dangerous amount of my life waiting for fellow Gen Zs who treat time the way Nairobi landlords treat security deposits: casually and without shame.

One Saturday afternoon, I organised a brunch in Kilimani for my birthday. Cute dress, fresh braids, lip gloss behaving itself for once — the whole production. I left the house early because unlike many people my age, I still believe ‘2pm’ should not become a spiritual metaphor.

By 1.50pm, I was already seated at the restaurant, pretending not to notice the pity in the waitress’s eyes. Every few minutes she’d ask, “Your friends are coming?” the same way nurses gently ask relatives if the patient has “made peace”.

Meanwhile, my friends were updating me from entirely different dimensions. “Babe, I’m almost there.” Almost where? Kenya? Earth? Another one texted me saying she was “just finishing makeup,” as if she was preparing for the Grammys instead of eating pancakes off Ngong Road.

By the time everyone arrived, I had ordered fries out of emotional exhaustion, watched two couples break up quietly over cocktails and nearly formed a support group with another girl who had also been abandoned by late friends. My own birthday brunch started looking like a hostage situation.

And the thing is, this behaviour has become painfully normal among many Gen Zs. Chronic lateness is now packaged as charm. Entire friend groups operate on fake timelines. If an event poster says “starts at 6pm”, everybody instinctively knows the real action begins at 9. We lie to each other professionally now.

I once told my friends dinner reservations were at 5pm when they were actually at 7pm. They still arrived late.

What fascinates me is how this culture especially affects women socially. A woman waiting alone in Nairobi is not experiencing some cute cinematic moment. There’s discomfort attached to it. There’s safety anxiety.

I remember waiting for a friend outside Imaara Mall in South B one evening after work. Darkness started creeping in, boda bodas were buzzing past, and every five minutes some random man was asking, “Mrembo unaenda wapi?” My friend eventually arrived 40 minutes late, holding boba tea and smiling like she had survived a national crisis. “Traffic ilikuwa crazy,” she said casually.

And yes, Nairobi traffic is genuinely evil. One stalled matatu on Waiyaki Way and suddenly, society collapses. Sometimes lateness is unavoidable. Kenya itself is not exactly built for precision. Even Google Maps sounds uncertain here. You can leave the house with 30 extra minutes and still end up questioning your ancestors in traffic near Museum Hill.

But let us be honest: not all lateness is accidental. Some of it comes from a culture of overconfidence mixed with digital distraction. Many young people today genuinely believe they can shower, film TikToks, reply to WhatsApps, stop at Quickmart, order iced coffee and cross Nairobi in 20 minutes. Delusion has entered the group chat.

Researchers who study social behaviour in African cultures often note that time here has traditionally been more relationship-oriented than schedule-oriented. Human connection mattered more than rigid punctuality.

Fair enough, but modern urban life does not always allow that flexibility anymore. Jobs, businesses, transport systems and even friendships depend on reliability.

And many young Kenyans are noticing the problem, too. “I honestly think being late repeatedly is disrespectful,” says Sharon Muthoni, 22. “If somebody keeps waiting for you all the time, eventually they feel unimportant.”

Others think people like me need to relax. “Why are we acting like we work for the military?” laughs Michael Odhiambo, 24. “Kenya is already stressful. If someone comes 30 minutes late, life moves on.”

And he is partly right. Kenyan Gen Z culture is beautiful in many ways. But somewhere along the way, many people confused spontaneity with unreliability. Because time is not just numbers on a clock. Time is effort. Time is respect. Time is somebody choosing to show up for you.

And maybe that is why chronic lateness irritates me so much. Deep down, it feels like a tiny public announcement that your presence can wait.

So these days, I protect my peace aggressively. If reservations are at 7pm, I tell my friends 5.30. If they ask why I’m “strict”, I simply remind them of my abandoned birthday brunch in Kilimani, where I nearly became part of the furniture. Honestly, at this rate, Gen Zs might be the first generation capable of arriving late to their own surprise party.