By Chelangat Caren,

Fashion is no longer dictated by seasons alone. It
is shaped daily—by mood, movement and the
changing rhythm of modern life. Reinventing
fashion today is less about dramatic
transformations and more about small,
thoughtful choices made one day at a time.

Across cities and communities, style has become
deeply personal. People are mixing old with new,
pairing thrifted finds with tailored staples, and
reworking pieces already in their wardrobes. A
jacket worn differently, a scarf tied with intention,
or shoes chosen for comfort as much as style—
these quiet decisions are redefining what it
means to be fashionable.

Sustainability has played a central role in this
shift. Consumers are becoming more aware of
where their clothes come from and how they are
made. Fast fashion’s quick fixes are slowly giving
way to longer-lasting pieces that tell a story.
Repairing, reusing and restyling have become
acts of creativity rather than compromise.

Designers, too, are rethinking their approach. Many are focusing on versatile designs that
transition easily from day to night and season to season. Clean lines, quality fabrics and
thoughtful craftsmanship are taking precedence over fleeting trends. Fashion is being
built to last—not just physically, but emotionally.

Beauty trends mirror this evolution. The emphasis has shifted toward authenticity, with
people embracing their natural features and unique identities. Style is no longer about
fitting into a mould, but about standing comfortably in one’s own skin. Confidence has
become the most powerful accessory.

Social media continues to influence fashion, but its role has softened. Instead of
dictating what to wear, it now inspires experimentation. Everyday individuals—office
workers, creatives, parents and students—are setting trends simply by showing up as
themselves. Fashion has become more inclusive, more accessible and more real.

Reinventing fashion one day at a time means dressing with intention. It is about choosing
pieces that reflect who you are and how you live. It is about allowing style to evolve
naturally, without pressure or perfection.

In this new era, fashion is not a performance. It is a daily practice—quietly rewritten with
every outfit, every choice, and every step forward.

By MarieJoy Agoya and Ivy Wafula,

 

“We were tired of rooms full of people staring at their phones. So we built a space where we could actually look at each other.” — Lydia Mwikali, founding member.

On a warm Sunday evening in Machakos County, the scent of simmering ginger and garlic chicken wafts through a modest two-bedroom apartment as a handful of young adults slip quietly through the door. Shoes come off, phones drop into a wicker basket near the entrance, and someone calls from the kitchen, “Who brought the ugali this week?”

This is the Sunday Supper Club, part potluck, part group therapy, part board-game battleground, and for its members, a weekly lifeline.

What started as three friends trying to beat loneliness has grown into one of the region’s most intriguing new social rituals, a secular gathering that feels, by design, almost sacred.

“We were tired of pretending we were fine,” says Lydia Mwikali, 25, a public health enthusiast who helped form the club in early 2023. She sits cross-legged on the carpet, balancing a paper bowl of stew on her lap. “We were going out, posting photos, doing all the things you’re supposed to do, yet somehow feeling more isolated than ever.”

Her roommate, Faith Kinyanjui, nods in agreement. “There’s something uniquely lonely about being surrounded by people who are all staring at their phones,” she says. “We wanted something that felt human again.”

At first, they simply met for dinner on Sundays as three friends, with borrowed game night card games and a rule to keep phones out of sight. By the fourth week, each invited another friend. By the tenth, the group had grown to 12.

Now, the Supper Club includes teachers, engineers, small business owners, and freelancers, each arriving with a dish, a story, or a game.

Every gathering follows three gentle but unwavering rules: no phones or other devices go into the basket at the door. “It’s symbolic,” says Lydia. “We’re choosing each other.” Secondly, share something—a meal, a poem, a playlist, a board game, anything that contributes to the evening—and lastly, full presence, where there is no multitasking, no rushing off, and no pretending.

“It sounds strict, but it actually frees you,” says Brian Kilonzo, 29, an IT technician and one of the club’s most enthusiastic members. “You’re not thinking about who’s texting back or what’s happening online. You’re just here.”

He pauses, then adds with a grin, “Also, it turns out people get very competitive when there aren’t phones to distract them. Our Scrabble nights are basically warfare.”

Kenya, like much of the world, is seeing a quiet shift in how young adults socialize. Bars still bustle on weekends, but a growing number are seeking alternatives that feel less transactional and more nourishing.

“Post-pandemic, we’ve observed a meaningful rise in what we call intentional community practices,” explains Dr. Robert Wafula, a social Scientist and Educator at Friends Theological College. Though he is not affiliated with the group, he’s fascinated by it. “People are rebuilding social habits that prioritize depth over breadth. The Sunday Supper Club is a perfect example with a clear structure, where each member is allowed to be vulnerable hence fostering a healthy connection.”

He also points to rising interest in sober meetups, book circles, craft nights, and hiking groups as part of the same movement. “Young adults are asking, ‘How do we find each other again?’ These rituals are the answer.”

Each Sunday, by 7 p.m., the apartment is alive. In the kitchen, someone is plating chapati while two others debate whether pineapple belongs in pasta salad. On the living room floor, a deck of cards is being shuffled with dramatic flair. A speaker plays mellow blend of Kenyan music.

“This is my favorite part,” says Terry, a soft-spoken graphic designer. She’s one of the newer members and admits she nearly didn’t come the first time. “I’d been feeling disconnected from everyone, like my family, old friends, and even myself. But on my first night, someone asked me, ‘How was your week really?’ And I almost cried. No one had asked me that in a long time.”

She’s not alone. Several members describe the group as grounding, even healing.

“I used to have Sunday anxiety,” says Kevin, an accountant who commutes from Nairobi. “Now I look forward to this. It resets me.”

The magic of the Sunday Supper Club isn’t in the food though the food is good. It’s in the consistency, the safety, and the permission to be unguarded.

“Friendship takes work,” Lydia says, “but no one teaches you how to maintain it in adulthood. This is our way of choosing each other every week.”

Brian puts it more simply: “It’s not just a social event. It’s a home.”

As the night winds down, members trickle out into the cool Machakos air, retrieving their phones not with relief, but with a kind of reluctance. They hug longer than typical friends do. Plans are made for next Sunday.

Back inside, the apartment is quiet again, except for the sound of dishes being stacked in the sink.

“It’s funny,” Faith says, wiping the counter. “When we started this, we thought we were just bored. But now I realize, we were starved. Starved for presence. Starved for belonging.” And in a world buzzing with notifications and noise, the simple act of sitting down together every Sunday feels, if not revolutionary, then certainly rare and refreshing. A sacred ritual for a disconnected world.”

By Joan Kamau and Rosemary  Nyambura,

Switching to online learning hit university life like a quiet storm. In the beginning, it seemed like a break from the usual rush; no more squeezing into overcrowded matatus or running late for an 8 AM lecture. But with time, the real toll began showing up in ways no one expected. Students I spoke to described it as a slow drain on their energy, where the excitement of university life slowly faded into staring at a screen all day. Amina, a second-year student from a public university in Nairobi, shared her experience in regards to the shift. “Before, campus felt alive. You’d meet friends at the mess, laugh about a bad grade over chapati and beans. But now, it’s just me in my room, camera off most times because I didn’t want people to keep seeing my messy room. I feel invisible.”

The emotional side is where the real problem lies. Loneliness crept in for many. Kevin, a final-year engineering student, shared how he used to play football with his hostel mates every evening as a form of relief after tough classes. “Online, the motivation is zero,” he said over the phone. “You submit assignments with a button, no high-fives, no group study sessions that turn into all-night debates. I failed two units last semester because it was hard to focus alone. Depression crept up on me.” It’s not just a single story; counsellors note the pattern everywhere. Dr. Jane Mwangi, a psychologist at a private university in the city. She told me her office used to handle almost 10 walk-ins a week for anxiety or stress. Now, even with virtual sessions, the cases tripled. “Students report higher isolation,” she explained. “The lack of face-to-face interaction means no casual check-ins, you can’t see when someone’s down. We’re dealing with more cases of burnout and even suicidal thoughts resulting from this detachment.”

Practically, routines have fallen apart. Group projects became a nightmare. Sarah, a third-year business student, bitterly laughed when recalling a team assignment. “We’d meet on Zoom, but half the time someone lost connection, sometimes they’re multitasking with house chores. Commitment is really low. I got disappointed by the group and ended up doing 80% of the work myself. Friendships suffer too; distance grows without those random hangouts.” Motivation tanked. Without the buzz of campus events, social clubs or even library vibes, studying somehow feels pointless. A report from the Kenya Universities and Colleges Central Placement Service noted that dropout rates surged by 15% in public universities during the heavy online periods after 2020, associating it directly to social disconnection.

Counsellors including Dr. Mwangi describe how the pandemic accelerated the psychological fallout, but even now in 2025, with some hybrid options in place, the damage still lingers. “Humans live on connection. University is where lifetime networks are built. Online strips that away, leading to anxiety disorders. One student told me she cries after every class because she misses her squad” Another student, Tom, echoed this during our in-person meet-up at a coffee shop near his off-campus digs. “I came to campus for the full experience—parties, debates, crushes. Now it’s all on screen. I often get irritated, sleep less, and my grades are suffering. Feels like I’m not living anymore, just surviving.”

The challenges of staying connected are real hurdles. Platforms such as WhatsApp groups help a bit, but they can’t compare to real-life experiences. Kevin mentioned trying virtual game nights, but “it feels forced, lags sometimes, and ends early because everyone’s tired from screen fatigue.” Stress piles up from home distractions too, such as family expectations and unreliable internet connections in rural areas. A study by UNESCO highlighted how remote learning widened mental health gaps in Kenya and across Africa, with 40% of students reporting increased depression symptoms.

Overall, this shift has bruised many. Students feel unmotivated, counsellors are overwhelmed, and the joy of university has dimmed. It’s not all doom, but ignoring these impacts means losing the human side of universities, the part that makes them more than just places to earn degrees. Student leaders create Telegram and WhatsApp groups that became lifelines for communication. One leader admitted, “It’s not the same as meeting in person, but at least we still have a space to share updates and laugh together.”

When classes shifted online, students and staff had to quickly find new ways to keep their social lives alive. The campus buzz of clubs, casual hangouts, and shared study sessions disappeared, but people didn’t stop trying to connect. For many, adaptation meant turning everyday tools into social hubs. Final-year students turned Discord into a mix of study room and hangout spot, where group work often ended with games or casual chats. Others leaned on simple acts of care, sending voice notes to friends, checking in, and offering encouragement. “Sometimes we just laugh about how strange everything feels,” one student said, “and that’s enough to make the day lighter.” Administrative staff also stepped in, organizing virtual trivia nights and wellness check-ins. These small gestures gave students a sense of belonging, reminding them that community can exist even through a screen

Traditional clubs found creative ways to survive, hosting online talent shows and virtual meetings to keep their spirit alive. While none of these innovations fully replace the energy of campus life, they reveal a determination to stay connected. In the face of distance, students and staff are proving that community isn’t defined by physical walls. It is built through effort, creativity, and care. As systems evolve, the need for human connection remains a necessity. Students and lecturers need social interactions to have them fulfilled while going about campus life.