The history of the Indian community in Kenya is a tapestry of economic success, cultural preservation, and a recurring, uncomfortable friction with the broader national identity. While officially recognized as Kenya’s 44th tribe in 2017, the community often finds itself at a crossroads of belonging.
In a recent soul-searching episode of the Mic Cheque Podcast (Episode 354), media personality Shiksha Arora opened up about the identity crisis that defines the lives of many Kenyans of Indian descent. Her central question, “In India, you’re told you don’t belong there. In Kenya, you’re told you’re not Kenyan enough, so what am I?”, has reignited a long-standing debate about integration, privilege, and the true meaning of being Kenyan.
To understand why this identity crisis exists, one must look at the historical “middle-man” position the British Empire created for Indians in East Africa. Under colonial rule, a three-tier racial hierarchy was established, placing Europeans at the top, Indians in the middle (handling trade and administration), and Africans at the bottom.
This system was designed to prevent solidarity between the two marginalized groups. Indians were granted better access to education, housing, and capital than their Black counterparts, baking a sense of superiority into the social structure. Today, this manifests in the estates you can’t rent if you’re not Indian, and the economic gatekeeping that many Kenyans describe as modern-day segregation.
A trans-oceanic import
The friction isn’t just a Kenyan phenomenon, it is deeply rooted in the anti-blackness prevalent in India itself. Historians and sociologists point to several factors that exported these prejudices to Kenya:
- Colourism and Caste: In India, ancient caste hierarchies often equated lighter skin with higher status and darker skin with manual labor.
- The Raj Syndrome: Centuries of British rule in India reinforced the idea that whiteness was the standard of civilization. This created a national identity that looked down on darker skin, a sentiment that traveled with the diaspora to East Africa.
- The Gandhi Legacy: Early civil rights icons like Mahatma Gandhi initially held views in South Africa that sought to distinguish Indians from Black Africans, arguing that Indians were of a higher civilization. While Gandhi’s views evolved, this initial framework left a lasting scar on how the diaspora viewed their neighbors.
The fragility of this relationship often shatters on social media. When moments of national friction occur, such as the visit of the Indian Prime Minister or the demolition of a Hindu temple on riparian land, many Kenyan Indians instinctively lean toward India for intervention.
Hey Indians in Kenya,we see where your heart is.During elections most of you bankroll corrupt politicians. Big shame pic.twitter.com/Ld6fegUlpu
— The People’s President (@bonifacemwangi) July 11, 2016
When activists like Boniface Mwangi challenged this dual loyalty, the resulting digital attacks highlighted a defensive mechanism. For critics, this behavior confirms the suspicion that the community is “more Indian than Kenyan.” For the community, it stems from a feeling of being unprotected by the Kenyan state, causing them to look toward India.
The human cost of the gap
On the podcast, Arora addressed this gap with vulnerability, speaking of the constant need to perform Kenyanness to bridge a trust deficit. She has also been a rare voice within the community calling out internal prejudice. Arora has previously addressed the dietary preference argument, where landlords in areas like Parklands or Lang’ata use vegetarianism as a mask to exclude Black tenants, urging her community to look inward and fix the anti-blackness they practice at home.
Arora’s approach to charity reflects the deep mistrust she navigates. When she facilitates school fees for children, she insists donors pay the schools directly. “I do not want to be accountable, anything could go wrong,” she admitted. This caution speaks to a fear that any interaction involving a Kenyan Indian will be viewed through a lens of suspicion or accusations of exploitation.
Shiksha Arora’s interview serves as a mirror to a community still grappling with the ghosts of colonialism and the realities of modern tribalism. The identity crisis she describes is not just about where one belongs, but about unlearning a centuries-old hierarchy that tells Indians they are above the very land they inhabit.
Until the community addresses the systemic anti-blackness inherited from India and the colonial era, the question “What am I?” will remain unanswered. For many Kenyans, the answer isn’t found in a birth certificate, but in the willingness to finally tear down the walls, social, economic, and mental, that keep the communities apart.