I knew romance was on life support for our generation the day a man I had just briefly met at a party the previous weekend sent me a “U up?” text at 1.13am.

The kicker: He asked if I could take an Uber to his place three minutes later, expecting me to cater for the fare and the pizza that I would buy on the way. In that moment, I envisioned a telenovela actress fainting dramatically onto a velvet couch at this absurdity.

Growing up in Kenya, romance looked cinematic. It looked like my aunt carefully ironing my uncle’s shirts on Sunday evenings, while humming along to Luther Vandross. It looked like the neighbour who sold mutura in our estate bringing his wife Fanta and mandazi every evening before opening his kibanda. It looked like Mexican soap operas dubbed in terrible English on KTN, where men crossed oceans, fought villains and got amnesia — twice — all for love.

We were raised on drama. On pursuit. On longing. Then we became adults and entered the era of ‘seen at 9.42pm’.

I genuinely mourn the lost art of romance among my generation because I know we were capable of tenderness once. I saw it growing up in Rongai, in Nairobi matatus where conductors blasted Sauti Sol songs loud enough to shake your ancestors awake.

Love was everywhere then. Couples shared roasted maize at bus stops. Men walked women home after church keshas. Women sprayed their scarves with perfume before dates at Kenyatta Market.

Even heartbreak had effort. Somebody would stand outside your gate with flowers and regret.

Today, romance feels like a customer care ticket. Modern dating in Kenya has somehow become a bizarre Olympic sport, where whoever cares less wins. You could be talking to someone for three months, exchanging memes, trauma, playlists and “goodnight” texts, only for them to suddenly vanish like serikali promises after elections. We have normalised emotional unavailability to frightening levels. Everyone is “protecting their peace,” but somehow nobody is protecting intimacy.

HOW WE GOT HERE

I blame, in part, the Internet culture we inherited. Dating apps transformed human connection into endless scrolling. Romance became gamified. Why commit when there are 47 other people in your DMs, posting thirst traps from Diani? Social media taught us to perform love rather than practise it. Grand gestures today are mostly ring lights and Instagram captions written in fake American accents.

And yet, I still remember the romance I witnessed growing up so vividly that it hurts. I remember one rainy evening in Thika Road traffic, when my father stopped at a hawker selling roses. We were all irritated because the jam was terrible and the matatu behind us kept hooting. But he bought one rose anyway and handed it to my mother casually, like it was nothing.

She laughed the entire drive home. One rose. Twenty years later, I still remember it. That is the tragedy of modern romance: We stopped valuing small intentional acts because they do not trend online.

Of course, not everyone agrees with me. Some Gen Zs insist romance is not dead, just different.

“People say we don’t love deeply, but honestly we’re just tired,” says Ben Mutinda, 24. “Our parents stayed in toxic marriages for appearances. We want emotional safety first.”

And honestly? He has a point. Many young Kenyans grew up watching silent suffering disguised as commitment. Women tolerated disrespect because society told them endurance was virtuous. Men carried financial pressure until it hollowed them out emotionally.

Gen Zs’ resistance to traditional romance sometimes comes from fear of repeating those cycles. But somewhere between protecting ourselves and pretending not to care, we lost softness.

Meanwhile, Mitchelle Wambui, 22, told me bluntly, “Nobody has time for all that movie romance. If he likes me, he should just send money and communicate properly.”

I laughed for five business days after hearing that because, in Kenya, sending money has genuinely become a love language. Forget poetry. Forget handwritten letters. M-pesa notifications are now emotional foreplay.

Still, I cannot help grieving what romance used to feel like. Not because I want fantasy, but because I miss effort. I miss anticipation. I miss sincerity unfiltered by irony.

We are the first generation that struggles to express genuine affection without adding “lol” afterwards to soften the vulnerability. Even our flirting sounds like job interviews. “What do you bring to the table?” Please. We are trying to fall in love, not pitch to investors on Shark Tank.

Romance is not dead because women want too much or men are broke or feminism ruined everything — the usual tired arguments floating around Kenyan podcasts hosted by men in sunglasses indoors.

Romance is fading because cynicism became fashionable. Vulnerability became embarrassing. Everybody wants connection, but nobody wants to risk looking foolish while reaching for it.

And maybe that is what saddens me most. Not that my generation no longer falls in love, but that we now approach love like people entering a Nairobi river during rainy season: cautiously, suspiciously, already expecting disaster.

Still, a stubborn part of me refuses to give up. I still believe in flowers bought from traffic lights. In long phone calls at midnight during blackouts. In men walking women to the stage after dates. In forehead kisses. In soft love. In effort.

Because somewhere beneath all the memes, ghosting, situationships and emotionally unavailable ‘aesthetics’, I think my generation is starving for romance. We just forgot how to ask for it without pretending we do not care.