In 2002, Kenyans were polled and ranked as the most optimistic people on the planet. The decades-long rule of President Daniel arap Moi, that had seen cynics spout witticisms such as “L’état, c’est Moi,” had finally ended. After 24 years under Moi’s rule Kenyans witnessed the first peaceful transfer of power through the ballot box since their independence. A significant departure from the norm in many African countries at the time, where power often changed hands violently. The fact that Moi gracefully accepted defeat and did not attempt a military takeover contributed to the sense of optimism. People celebrated late into the night, feeling as though they had achieved a miracle.

They felt that Moi had reduced the country’s once prosperous economy to a state of bribery and corruption. Mwai Kibaki’s campaign had focused on the issue of corruption, promising to eliminate it from public life. He vowed that the government would no longer be run based on the whims of individuals. Ordinary citizens began refusing to pay bribes and demanded accountability from officials. The media was able to freely depict Kibaki in cartoons, a stark contrast to the fear and self-censorship that existed during Moi’s reign. Kibaki reinforced this optimism with actions, such as refusing to put his face on currency and pledging not to disrupt traffic with presidential motorcades. He also appointed a new permanent secretary in charge of governance and ethics, signaling his commitment to fighting corruption. The country believed they were being shepherded into a new era, devoid of all the ills that had marked the previous reign. These expectations were, of course, in hindsight, quite a bit off the mark. Some have described the reign of the then people’s chosen Moses, President Mwai Kibaki, as an orgy of corruption and looting. Still, hope did not die.

Some years later, the period between 2007 and 2008 saw the nation plunged into its darkest hour of recent times. The post-election violence that erupted following disputed presidential election results threatened to tear the country apart. Scores died, and even more were displaced, losing their homes and livelihoods. Still, Kenyans did not lose hope. In 2010, the adoption of a new constitution and the overwhelming support for the new governance framework showcased Kenyans’ enduring hope. Kenyans were optimistic about the new constitution in 2010; a poll taken just before the new constitution’s implementation showed that 77 percent of Kenyans believed that it would lead to a better economy in the coming year. This optimism was comparable to that seen in 2003 after the election of the National Rainbow Coalition (NARC).

In the 15 years since, this hope has been tested time and again. The 2013 election, the first under the new constitution, was marked by tensions but ultimately saw Kenyans peacefully accepting the results. The 2017 election cycle proved even more challenging, with the initial election nullified by the Supreme Court—a first in Africa—and a repeat election boycotted by the opposition. Most recently, many have stepped up in protest to demand that our administration do better. In the best instances, we were ignored; in the worst cases, we were abducted, mutilated, tortured, and murdered. Even still, we have held on to hope. There’s a joke that you cannot depress Kenyans, because there is nothing you can do to them that their government has not already tried.

Kenyans do not give up hope. It’s just not something we do. Even after hope is dashed, we pick ourselves up and slog through. After Moi, we were counted the most optimistic people on the planet. After the promulgation of the 2010 constitution, post the devastating violence of 2007, we still retained hope. Every election cycle, we have held on to hope. Hope is having something to latch onto in the midst of a storm, something that enables us to know that as long as we hold on, it might be long, very long, but “this, too, shall pass.”

It’s hard to believe that it’s going to get better, especially when you see folk heroes slowly morph into the very things they were advocating against—like pieces of white cloth that turn slowly black as they sink to the bottom of a dyeing vat. That’s our country. Every time we turn on the news, we gain another reason to be angry and afraid. But if there is pain, there is hope. That’s the magic of the universe, of this reality that we inhabit: We cannot know everything that could happen, and thus we cannot effectively rule out a favorable outcome to whatever predicament we find ourselves in, and so, we hope. We hope, even against reason, because hope is something outside of the machinations of our mundane human minds—something beyond them.

It is the nature of the democratic process that sees us take a meandering dance with development as a nation, but slowly and surely, we win in the end—because of hope. Hope is the barrier to our loss of humanity. Kenya’s collective consciousness is sustained by one thing: hope. When I think of hope, I think of Boyan Slat, who saw that our oceans filling with garbage is a problem that needs solving, and if no one else is going to take care of it, then that someone might as well be him. He did away with helplessness and decided to actively bring the world that was in his heart of hearts into being.

Kenya today is easily one of the most heartbreaking places to live in. Our ministers peddle dirt as fertilizer, sell our airports, and posture in churches. Now imagine if every single Kenyan citizen decided that this was the way to be? It would be the Purge come to life, every damn day—everyone trying to defraud everyone, to get ahead at all costs, to destroy everything in their pursuit of more, more, and even more. Still, today, people show up on the streets to protest and demand a better way of being. Why? Because of hope, hope that somehow, someway, the world around us can become that which we hold in our heart of hearts—full of joy, peace, and serenity. Hope is driven by the light in our hearts. It is not extrinsic; it is of the soul, it is divine. Without hope, we become helpless receptacles of our circumstances—passive, inert humans. The world becomes gray and lifeless. We can lose everything else, but let us never lose hope.