How young Kenyans are quietly fighting with social awkwardness

Pauline Adatia stood meekly next to a table; her soft drink of Fanta already halfway gone. She was trying to listen to the DJ mixing the songs, but her whole heart wanted to go back to her phone. A stranger had joined her table earlier, maybe hoping for a fun conversation, but Pauline has never been very good at those. That girl probably sensed the awkwardness too quickly and left.

“Well, I had no idea that none of my friends were going to be here, it would have been easier,” Pauline, 26, shares. “It got awkward really quickly for such a wonderful event. Someone I really liked actually showed up too, a crush, and it made things even harder, so an hour later, I left.”

She laughs. But it is the kind of laugh that covers something. For Pauline, a night out isn’t fun. It’s a test she’s afraid of failing. The music, the lights, the chatter — all of it feels like a stage where she doesn’t know her lines.

In a very different room, at a workshop in Mombasa, facilitator Amina Hassan, 19, was leading a session on public speaking. Amina’s voice was steady. She made eye contact. She asked questions and waited for answers. When someone stumbled over words, she nodded and said, “Take your time.”

A year ago, Amina was Pauline. “I used to sit in the back, hoping the teacher wouldn’t call on me,” Amina says.

With practice, encouragement, and a space where it was safe to fail, things changed. Amina’s story shows that awkwardness isn’t permanent. It can be unlearned, reshaped, and replaced with confidence.

Social awkwardness is the moment your mind goes blank mid-sentence. The pause that lasts one second too long. The urge to check your phone instead of meeting someone’s eyes. It’s leaving an event early because being there feels harder than explaining why you left.