Kenya’s Map | Source – https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/
By Daisy Okiring.
ELDORET, KENYA – In the vibrant, culturally rich tapestry of Kenya, two distinct yet interconnected struggles are unfolding, revealing the intricate dance between deep-seated traditions and the inexorable march of modernity.
From the rolling, maize-filled landscapes of western Kenya, where the Luhya people grapple with evolving burial rites, to the expansive plains of southern Kenya, where Maasai girls fight for their right to education over early marriage, the nation is a crucible of change.
These narratives, though geographically separated, share a common thread: the profound impact of socio-economic shifts, urbanization, and evolving belief systems on the bedrock of cultural identity.
The Luhya: A Farewell in Flux
A traditional Luhya homestead | Source – https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/
For the Luhya, Kenya’s second-largest ethnic group, death is more than a moment of grief; it is a meticulously choreographed cultural process, a grand farewell steeped in obligation, ritual, and ancestral memory.
Traditionally, Luhya burials are extensive communal events, often spanning days, drawing in hundreds of mourners from immediate and extended families. The rituals, while varying slightly among the 18 Luhya sub-tribes like the Bukusu, Maragoli, and Banyala, commonly involve poignant wailing, rhythmic drum performances, animal sacrifices, and specific cleansing rites.
Bulls, for instance, are historically slaughtered to nourish guests and honor the departed, while elders maintain night vigils around fires, and songs, some unique to death, resonate late into the night. The deceased are typically laid to rest near their homesteads, men on the right and women on the left, facing the sunrise—a powerful symbol of spiritual rebirth.
This elaborate process, as the Luhya understand it, is not merely about mourning but about forging a profound connection between the living and the ancestors, binding the community to the land and to one another. However, this deeply rooted tradition now finds itself at a crossroads.
In villages stretching from Kakamega to Bungoma, these long-held burial customs are being subtly reshaped, and sometimes even replaced, under the relentless pressure of modernity. Several forces are at play, quietly chipping away at this once-unchallenged cultural pillar: the pervasive influence of Christianity, mounting financial strains, the growing phenomenon of urban migration, and the continuous evolution of social values.
This clash between the old and the new compels Luhya families to make profound choices: prioritize tradition or practicality, ritual or religion, communal solidarity or individual privacy. The growing footprint of Christianity is arguably the most significant driver of this transformation.
Bible verses are increasingly recited in place of traditional clan incantations, church choirs have supplanted ancestral drumming, and spiritual elders are being replaced by pastors. As Christianity, particularly Pentecostal and evangelical movements, expands deeper into rural Kenya, many churches actively discourage practices they deem “pagan,” such as ancestral invocation, animal sacrifice, and night vigils that involve drinking or dancing. Some denominations even impose strict burial guidelines for their members, mandating Christian-only ceremonies, denying rites to those considered “backslidden,” and even dictating who can speak or pray during the funeral.
With over 96% of Luhya people identifying as Christian according to the 2019 Kenya Population and Housing Census, the influence of these new denominations pushing for simplified, expedited burials devoid of traditional rituals is undeniable. Consequently, many younger Luhyas are losing their understanding of, and participation in, the meticulously observed customs of their grandparents.
Yet, this profound shift is not without its resistance. Some elders, especially in more rural settings, steadfastly insist on traditional rites, passionately arguing that denying a proper cultural send-off can invite misfortune or ancestral unrest. This often ignites generational tensions, with younger, urban, churchgoing relatives advocating for brief services, while older kin demand full cultural observance.
Economic pressure presents another formidable challenge to traditional Luhya burial practices. Traditional funerals, particularly those that adhere to all cultural expectations, can incur costs soaring into hundreds of thousands of shillings. In an economy where many households subsist on small-scale farming or informal employment, such a financial burden is often simply unsustainable.
Bulls are historically slaughtered to nourish guests and honor the departed | Source – https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/
The slaughter of a bull alone can exceed Ksh. 50,000. When factoring in the cost of feeding dozens, or even hundreds, of mourners, purchasing a coffin, hiring tents and public address systems, and paying funeral service providers, the expenses become truly staggering. In extreme cases, families find themselves plunged into debt or are forced to delay burials for weeks as they desperately try to fundraise.
A 2021 study by the Kenya Medical Research Institute (KEMRI) in western Kenya revealed that the average rural funeral costs between Ksh. 80,000 and Ksh. 150,000, with some exceeding Ksh. 300,000 depending on the deceased’s social status. This immense financial strain compels families to simplify funerals out of sheer necessity, even if it means sacrificing core cultural components.
The problem is further compounded in urban centers like Nairobi or Kisumu, where a significant number of Luhyas now reside. Transporting a body back to the ancestral village can cost tens of thousands of shillings, and holding a week-long wake is nearly impossible within the confines of cramped city apartments.
Consequently, urban funerals are becoming increasingly compact—sometimes condensed into a single-day church service followed by immediate burial—leaving little to no room for traditional ceremonies.
Urban migration has also contributed to a growing disconnect among many Luhyas from their cultural roots. Young people born and raised in cities may never have experienced a traditional burial, might speak little of their mother tongue, and only encounter their ancestral land during major holidays or funerals.
For this demographic, long-standing customs can feel alien or simply unnecessary. Unlike older generations who view funerals as vital moments of cultural and familial reaffirmation, urban youth often perceive them as logistical burdens or mere religious obligations. The communal essence of mourning—the shared food, collective storytelling, and communal grief—has undeniably diminished.
The COVID-19 pandemic further accelerated this shift, with strict government protocols forcing families to bury loved ones within 72 hours, in private ceremonies with limited attendance. Although these restrictions have since been lifted, they established a precedent for more efficient, scaled-down funerals, a practice some families have continued to adopt.
Despite these formidable pressures, cultural beliefs remain deeply entrenched in many rural Luhya villages. It is increasingly common to witness funerals that gracefully blend Christian practices with traditional rites. A pastor may offer prayers, but an elder will still pour a libation. Hymns may fill the air, yet a cow will still be slaughtered.
The body might be buried facing the east, but a gourd of beer might be placed nearby for the spirit to sip. This syncretism—the conscious blending of old and new—is becoming a prevalent compromise, allowing families to honor their faith while simultaneously preserving a profound sense of identity.
However, even this delicate balance is under threat as younger generations become less fluent in the profound meanings behind these customs. Some elders voice deep concern that cultural loss is accelerating. “If we stop burying our dead the right way,” lamented one elder at a community forum in Mumias, “we will forget who we are.
We will become orphans, even when our parents are buried in our own soil”. As Kenya continues its journey of modernization, the pivotal question for the Luhya community is not whether burial traditions will change—they already have—but rather whether these transformations will be the result of conscious adaptation or a slow, insidious erosion.
There is indeed ample room for evolution. Some families now leverage WhatsApp groups to fundraise for funerals, while others livestream services for relatives in the diaspora. The traditional bull slaughter is sometimes replaced with smaller goat feasts, or families opt for symbolic acts rather than full animal sacrifices.
These shifts powerfully demonstrate that culture is not static; it bends, it breaks, and it reforms with the passage of time. Yet, preserving the profound meaning behind these rituals—the sense of community, the unwavering respect for the dead, and the vital continuity between the living and the ancestors—remains absolutely critical.
Funeral customs, at their heart, are not solely about the deceased; they are fundamentally about the living’s relationship with memory, identity, and each other. In the years to come, the Luhya will continue to bury their loved ones. Whether they do so with bulls, Bibles, or a harmonious blend of both, the fervent hope is that each burial will not only mourn a life lost but powerfully affirm a culture that continues to breathe and evolve.
The Maasai: A Silent War for Childhood
Jill Biden having a chat with Maasai women during her visit in Kenya | Source – https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/
Parallel to the Luhya’s struggle for their burial rites, a more urgent and often silent battle is being waged in southern Kenya among the Maasai people: the fight against early and forced marriage. In some Maasai villages, the value of a girl can still be starkly measured in cattle—twelve cows for a twelve-year-old, fifteen if she has not yet begun her menstrual cycle.
This is not a metaphor; it is a transactional reality that dictates the very trajectory of a girl’s life, abruptly curtailing her childhood, education, and future. While the world progresses, thousands of Maasai girls are still being drawn into marriage before they are physically and mentally ready, all in the name of tradition and dowry.
Early and forced marriage stands as one of the most persistent threats to the fundamental rights of Maasai girls today. Despite robust legal protections and widespread advocacy, the practice endures in quiet corners, often shielded by ingrained cultural norms, pervasive poverty, and an atmosphere of fear.
In communities where dowry is meticulously measured in livestock, and marriage is perceived as an inescapable family obligation rather than a personal choice, girls as young as twelve are still being married off, sometimes to men two or three times their age.
According to the Kenya Demographic and Health Survey (KDHS) 2022, approximately 23% of Kenyan women aged 20-24 were married before the age of 18, with significantly higher rates reported in pastoralist communities like the Maasai. In some Maasai regions, this alarming number escalates to as high as 40%, propelled by long-standing traditions, endemic poverty, and deep-seated gender inequality.
Although early marriage is explicitly illegal under Kenya’s Children Act and Marriage Act, it remains deeply embedded in cultural practice—an exchange where girls are tragically viewed less as children with dreams and more as brides with dowry value.
A depiction of Maasai girls who are ready for marriage | Source – https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/
For the Maasai, marriage is inextricably linked to cattle, family honor, and the crucial continuity of clan lineage. Cows are not merely symbols of wealth; they represent life itself, status, and a profound spiritual connection. In many rural Maasai villages, the number of cows a man can offer as dowry not only determines whether a marriage proceeds but also powerfully reflects the family’s reputation and standing within the community.
Girls, within this complex equation, are often perceived as conduits to augment a family’s cattle stock.Traditionally, Maasai girls are considered ready for marriage immediately after undergoing female genital mutilation (FGM), a practice that persists in many areas despite a nationwide ban.
The „cut“ is seen as a pivotal rite of passage, marking the abrupt end of girlhood and the commencement of womanhood, regardless of the girl’s actual age. Once circumcised—sometimes as young as twelve—a girl is considered eligible for marriage, frequently to a significantly older man, and occasionally to someone she has never even met.
While FGM and early marriage are often discussed in tandem, activists emphasize that each practice fuels the other. Once a girl undergoes FGM, her chances of continuing her education plummet sharply. Teachers and health workers in Maasai populated counties report alarming rates of school dropout directly linked to these customs.
Maasai women yearning for education and a better future | Source – Canva Design AI
A 2023 report by UNICEF grimly states that girls in pastoralist regions of Kenya are four times more likely to drop out of school before completing primary education compared to the national average. The driving forces behind child marriage in Maasai communities are multifaceted, extending beyond mere tradition to encompass economics, patriarchy, and sheer survival.
A girl can fetch anywhere from 10 to 20 cows, with the exact number dependent on her age, health, and family status. For a family living below the poverty line, in communities where livestock often equates to survival, this presents a powerful and often irresistible incentive. Marrying off a daughter early means fewer mouths to feed and, crucially, more cattle for the household.
However, the invisible costs associated with dowry are far greater and profoundly devastating. Early marriage exposes girls to a litany of severe health risks, including premature pregnancies, obstructed labor, and a heightened risk of maternal mortality.
In Narok County, where child marriage remains distressingly prevalent, the rate of teenage pregnancies hovers at nearly 28%, one of the highest in the country. These pregnancies often occur without access to proper healthcare, leading to severe complications such as fistulas and even death. Girls who are married young are also disproportionately vulnerable to domestic violence, crippling economic dependency, and long-term psychological trauma.
The intergenerational cycle of poverty is perpetuated: a girl married at 13 is highly unlikely to complete her education, severely limiting her capacity to earn an income and contribute meaningfully to her family or society. Her children, in turn, frequently face similar challenging circumstances, thus perpetuating the same struggles for generations.
On paper, Kenya has indeed made commendable strides in protecting its children. The Marriage Act (2014) explicitly outlaws marriage for anyone under 18, while the Children Act (2022) significantly strengthens safeguards against child abuse, neglect, and harmful cultural practices.
The country is also a signatory to crucial international conventions, including the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child (CRC) and the African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child. Yet, the enforcement of these vital laws in remote rural Maasai areas remains disturbingly weak.
Traditional structures and elders continue to wield enormous power over family decisions, frequently superseding national laws. Police officers in remote villages are often under-resourced or, at times, reluctant to intervene in what are perceived as “cultural matters”. In some instances, early marriages are clandestinely arranged and conducted without formal registration, making them exceedingly difficult to track and address legally.
There is also the pervasive element of fear and silence. Girls who dare to oppose forced marriage risk ostracization, physical abuse, or even being disowned by their families. Parents who resist community pressure may face significant pushback from elders or other community members. Social stigma continues to cast those who speak out as traitors to tradition.
Despite these overwhelming challenges, hope is far from lost. Across Narok, Kajiado, and Laikipia counties, a growing network of dedicated activists, non-governmental organizations (NGOs), educators, and progressive religious leaders are actively challenging the deeply entrenched status quo.
Organizations such as AMREF Health Africa, Nashipai Maasai Girls Foundation, and the Anti-FGM Board of Kenya are spearheading grassroots efforts to eradicate child marriage through multifaceted approaches that include education, the establishment of rescue shelters, legal aid, and robust public awareness campaigns.
Rescue centers and safe houses have emerged as vital sanctuaries for runaway girls, offering them a precious opportunity to continue their schooling and painstakingly rebuild their lives. These centers provide not only physical shelter but also crucial counseling, mentorship, and invaluable legal support.
In 2022 alone, over 800 girls were successfully rescued from early marriages in Narok and Kajiado counties, according to reports from local child welfare offices.Education has also become a critical battleground in this silent war.
Community-based schools and boarding facilities are enabling girls to remain in school longer, thereby significantly reducing their vulnerability to early marriage. Teachers and headmasters frequently act as crucial first responders, diligently alerting authorities when a girl is identified as being at risk.
Furthermore, in some villages, public ceremonies featuring alternative rites of passage are gradually replacing traditional FGM and marriage rituals. These innovative initiatives, thoughtfully designed in collaboration with local elders, successfully preserve cultural celebration while simultaneously eliminating harmful practices.
The Kenyan government, through the Ministry of Gender and the State Department for Social Protection, has also launched the National Strategy to End Child Marriage (2019-2023), although progress remains uneven and heavily dependent on strong county-level leadership. Perhaps the most profound and encouraging shift is occurring in attitudes.
Slowly but surely, more parents are consciously choosing to educate their daughters rather than marry them off. More elders are courageously speaking out against harmful traditions, recognizing that culture possesses the innate capacity to evolve without being erased.
Crucially, more boys and men are actively joining the movement, acknowledging that their sisters and daughters deserve a future far beyond a childhood spent in servitude. Yet, the path ahead remains long and arduous.
The battle against child marriage is not merely about policy; it is fundamentally about power dynamics, the grinding realities of poverty, the pervasive influence of patriarchy, and deeply ingrained perceptions.
Changing laws is an essential first step, but changing hearts and minds requires immense time, unwavering courage, and collective community effort. In the powerful words of a local Maasai women’s rights advocate: “Our daughters are not cows. They are not a transaction. They are our future”.
A Nation in Transition
Images of Maasai men demonstrating how to throw a spear and an Abaluhya ritual ceremony | Source – https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/
The struggles faced by the Luhya and Maasai communities underscore a larger national dialogue in Kenya: how to navigate the complex interplay between cherished traditions and the undeniable forces of progress.
Both communities are grappling with the pressure to adapt, driven by economic realities, changing belief systems, and the increasing interconnectedness of a globalized world.
While the specifics of their challenges differ—one centered on the dignified departure of the dead, the other on the fundamental rights of the living—the underlying theme is consistent: the profound impact of modernity on cultural identity and societal well-being.
The syncretism observed in Luhya burial rites, where Christian prayers blend with traditional libations, offers a potential blueprint for cultural evolution, demonstrating that tradition is not static but can incorporate new elements to remain relevant.
However, the dwindling understanding of the deeper meanings behind these customs among younger generations highlights a critical risk: that adaptation without preservation of essence can lead to cultural amnesia.
For the Maasai, the fight is more immediate and often a matter of life and death, or at least a life of dignity versus one of forced servitude. The growing network of activists, rescue centers, and alternative rites of passage signifies a powerful grassroots movement.
These efforts, coupled with legal frameworks, are slowly but surely chipping away at harmful practices, demonstrating that cultural norms, no matter how deeply entrenched, can be challenged and changed for the betterment of individuals, particularly vulnerable girls.
The increasing willingness of parents, elders, and even men and boys to question long-held practices offers a beacon of hope for a future where Maasai girls can choose their own paths. Kenya stands at a pivotal juncture. The narratives of the Luhya and Maasai are not isolated incidents but represent a microcosm of the challenges and opportunities inherent in a rapidly developing nation.
The conscious adaptation of cultural practices, supported by education and advocacy, offers a path forward where tradition is not abandoned but reimagined, where cultural identity is not lost but transformed, ensuring that the rich heritage of Kenya’s diverse communities continues to breathe and thrive in the modern world.
The choices made today, in villages and cities across the country, will ultimately shape the future of a nation striving to honor its past while boldly embracing its potential.
Daisy Okiring
Journalist – Reporter (Eldoret, Kenya)
