I Was Pressured to Contribute in My Friend’s Ruracio Group as He Led Luxury Life

In Kenya, contributions have become the new love language and a measure of friendships. This is a tradition that now challenges the very definition of friendship.

When someone is planning to get married, it’s common to find yourself in a WhatsApp group described as a committee of friends. This is done for both the groom and the bride.

Now, what I’ve always believed was that these committees were acts of pure goodwill. A team of close friends comes together behind the scenes to handle logistics, cheer on a friend, and maybe even contribute something small financially. You know, a way of saying we’ve got you on your big day.

But the truth is, I don’t think it works like that anymore. Not in the way it used to.

These days, the committee of friends has slowly morphed into something else. The line between friendship and obligation is blurred. The financial contributions, often running into the hundreds of thousands, no longer feel optional. It’s less about inner circles and more about group pressure.

And somehow, it’s always assumed you’ll give. No one asks if you can.

In addition, the economy is rough. Everyone is trying to stay afloat. So being asked to contribute to dowry payment and ruracio, sometimes multiple times a year, forces many of us to choose between maintaining the “good friend” tag or staying financially sane.

Are Friendships Still Free?

If you are wondering about why I am ranting, here’s the story.

Well, a few months ago, I was added to a new WhatsApp group with the title “Nick’s Big Day”. The description read something about his wedding and ruracio, so I figured it was another contribution group.

A few minutes in, more people were added, and soon the greetings and emojis started flooding in. Then Tobby, Nick’s best friend, broke the silence with the message: “Guys, finally the ruracio is here. Time to get your tuxes and dancing feet ready. But our friend Nick needs our help.”

He continued, “Target is 600K. Nick has pledged 100K. The rest he trusts us to handle.”

People kept sending in their cheerful and congratulatory messages without minding the figure that Tobby just slapped us with. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy for him, but it just didn’t make sense to me that once again, it was up to us, friends, to raise the remaining half a million shillings for someone else’s wedding.

It wasn’t the first time a friend was relying on us for such a huge personal milestone, either. Tobby soon added a paybill number and a spreadsheet to track contributions.

I scrolled through the group, recognizing many names, mostly friends from campus, people I hadn’t seen in ages. However, there were also some whom I just saw a few months ago during my dad’s funeral.

You see, just two months earlier, I lost my father.

Friends had rallied around me, contributed generously, and stood with me through the darkest days. Some even followed me home to help me lay my old man to rest. They stood by me when I needed them the most. Seeing them in the same group made me feel a mix of pressure, guilt, and an urge to “give back.”

However, I was also drained and still trying to get out of the financial jam the funeral put me in. I didn’t mind contributing; I was just bothered by the amount we were expected to raise and how much they expected each to give because I knew I wouldn’t be able to give much without sinking even deeper into a financial mess.

Contributions started rolling in.

Meanwhile, as friends in the group kept pushing for urgency, Nick did little to show his support and appreciation. Instead, his lifestyle got even more lavish, which was very confusing.

He wasn’t posting in the group, no. But his Instagram stories painted a completely different picture.

That same week, people were making sacrifices to send in Ksh5,000 or Ksh10,000 contributions. Nick checked into a luxury tented camp in Nakuru that charges Ksh25,000 per night, captioning it, “Needed this escape.”

The next weekend, he was at the Sol Fest concert at KICC, not just in the regular crowd but clearly in the VVIP section — front row, sipping champagne with artists in the background. Days later, he tagged himself at a high-end lounge in Karen, popping bottles with friends while someone in the background was grilling meat.

There was also the Blankets & Wine event. Not only did Nick attend, but he showed up in a custom outfit, had a private cabana, and later posted a selfie with one of the international headliners. Not that I’d know, but this kind of backstage access ran into the tens of thousands.

And while no one was bold enough to raise the concern in the group, I knew we all had questions.

I Didn’t Do It

The longer I stayed in the group, the more conflicted I became. So, I didn’t contribute, not even a shilling.

At first, it was out of principle. I told myself I couldn’t justify sending money that I didn’t even have to someone who didn’t even acknowledge the efforts of those trying to help him. I couldn’t see how he needed help when he clearly didn’t think twice about spending.

I probably needed the money more than he did. I just turned 28, work in credit control, and live alone, which means I don’t have a lot of extra money lying around. Whenever something huge shook my account like the funeral, I’d go into survival mode: I batch-cook lunches, avoid Uber rides, say no to most weekend plans, and take on freelance gigs just to stay afloat.

But after years of doing the same things, I had to face a hard truth: while I genuinely love celebrating my friends’ milestones, such as weddings and birthdays, I simply couldn’t afford to keep showing up the way everyone expects me to.

In the last three years, I’ve contributed to more than ten ruracios, weddings, and countless committee harambees. All in, I’ve spent close to Ksh200,000 on contributions, gifts, travel, outfits, and all the unspoken social costs that come with “being a good friend.”

And here’s my financial situation: my rent takes up nearly half my monthly salary. I haven’t managed to save consistently, though I do have about Ksh300,000 tucked away in a Sacco. I’m also trying to clear Ksh55,000 in mobile loan and credit card debt, mostly accrued in the past month.

So, I wasn’t being stingy when I said I was drained. Usually, I would even borrow to contribute, but like I said, it no longer made sense to me.

However, the guilt I carried was no joke either. I had this knot in my stomach that wouldn’t go away. Was I being selfish? Had I failed a friend?

And while most people kept sending their contributions, I kept quiet. I didn’t want to explain my financial situation, and I hated that I felt judged for not sending anything.

No one reached out to me directly, but I felt like I had betrayed a system I had once depended on.

It made me question the current basis of friendships. Are we really friends, or just convenient financial donors for each other’s milestones?

I still don’t know the answer.