By Diaspora Times Investigative Desk.

Arch. Dr. D.K. Gitau– The Diaspora Times Editor/founder.

“Let this be the beginning. Let the diaspora lead where the government has failed. Let us rescue our own, with dignity, vision, and without the toxic fingerprints of state manipulation. “
The names in the story have been changed to protect the individual’s identity, but it is based on a real story I first published at the Diaspora Messenger news outlet a few years ago.

In the shadows of America’s gleaming skyscrapers and well-lit streets, beneath the concrete overpasses and hidden in the back alleys of cities like Austin, Texas, lies a truth many Kenyans are unwilling to confront: the American dream has turned into a nightmare for some.

Kamangara (not his real name), now in his early fifties, once embodied hope and a promising life in America. Like thousands of young Kenyans before him, he left home to chase the American promise—a land of opportunity, education, and financial liberation. His journey began in Austin, the capital of Texas, a city known for its vibrant music, liberal values, and the legendary 6th Street nightlife. But today, Kamangara wakes up under a bridge, his home reduced to a makeshift bedding of cardboard and scavenged cloth. His companions are no longer classmates or professionals—they are fellow homeless men, many of them Kenyan too.

From Promise to Precipice

When Kamangara first arrived, he was received warmly by a well-established Kenyan real estate developer who housed, fed, and supported him as he found his footing. In time, Kamangara secured a job, bought a modest car, and enrolled in a local college to study computer science. With his brilliant academic record—straight A’s from Alliance High School—he seemed destined for success.

But what began as a promising chapter quickly turned tragic.

Introduced to a circle of Kenyan peers juggling survival jobs and spending weekends in heavy drinking, Kamangara gradually drifted into a lifestyle foreign to the values he had carried from home. Initially a lover of milk and water, he soon adopted the alcohol-fueled routine of those around him. The change was subtle—but the outcome was catastrophic.

A Descent into the Margins

No one knows precisely when Kamangara began to spiral. But one incident stands out—a drunken night on 6th Street when he slapped a police horse during a patrol altercation. What followed was a chaotic chase reminiscent of a John Wayne or Clint Eastwood Western movie. He was tasered, slammed to the ground, arrested, and jailed.

Friends who witnessed the episode were unmoved. One even laughed it off, calling jail his “second home.” In the diaspora, empathy can be as scarce as opportunity.

After serving time—how long remains unclear—Kamangara returned to a world that had forgotten him. His friends had moved on. The people who once hosted him had shut their doors. He had no job, no home, and no possessions. Worse, he had no mental stability. He had become a ghost in the land of dreams.

Living Beneath the Dream

Today, Kamangara lives under a bridge near downtown Austin. His days revolve around cleaning windshields at intersections, hoping for a dollar or two from sympathetic drivers. (At times, even from Kenyans who knew him before drifting to a life of misery) Sometimes he’s lucky enough to receive a fast-food meal. But most times, he’s met with hostility—cursed at, chased away, or arrested.

His earnings, meager as they are, often go toward feeding a drug addiction he developed along the way. And yet, Kamangara is not alone. He is one of an unknown number—possibly over 1,200—of Kenyans across the U.S. (assuming that in every central City in America, there are at least 20 homeless Kenyans-the number could even be double) who have fallen through the cracks. In every U.S. state, Kenyan community groups often boast of success stories, but very few acknowledge the growing underclass within the diaspora—the struggling, the undocumented, the mentally unwell, and the utterly forgotten.

He is not alone. Though his story is isolated in name, it is tragically common in reality. Across major U.S. cities—Atlanta, Minneapolis, Dallas, Seattle, Boston, Phoenix—there are countless Kamangaras. Men who once had promise, now reduced to begging, scavenging, and surviving on the fringes.

And then there are the women.

In cities like Newark, Houston, and Las Vegas, Kenyan women—Nduta, Wambui, Naliaka (also pseudonyms)—live in similar desperation. Their survival tools differ. Many have turned to sex work, not out of choice, but as a last resort—to afford food, diapers for children, or substances to numb the trauma. The term “prostitute” may carry stigma, but in this context, it reveals a deeper humanitarian failure: these are Kenyan daughters enduring exploitation, disease, and shame to survive.

Silence and Abandonment

What binds these lives together is not just geography or nationality—but silence.

Silence from families who believe their loved ones are thriving abroad. Silence from Kenyan missions. Silence from the so-called Diaspora Ministry in Nairobi—a bureaucratic mirage offering press conferences, but no programs; political symbolism, but no social substance.

When these sons and daughters die—as many already have—they are buried unclaimed. Nameless. Stateless. Forgotten.

What Must Be Done

We must ask: What is our responsibility as a diaspora?

Can we mobilize our own community structures—churches, associations, and welfare networks—to support rehabilitation or facilitate safe repatriation? Can we intervene before the obituary?

Every year, the Kenyan diaspora remits billions back home, yet we remain unequipped to care for our own vulnerable. There is no central fund for emergencies, no diaspora mental health support, no national effort to identify or rescue the lost.

And when tragedy strikes, families back home only reconnect when a community group is called upon to ship a casket home. By then, it is too late.

One Ticket, One Chance

If you know someone like Kamangara, act. Share a meal. Offer a ride. Reconnect them with home. Even a one-way ticket to Kenya can be the start of a new chapter.(hard one at times as I tried to raise money for one, and he slipped away and changed phones)

Rehabilitation is possible. Dignity can be restored. But it starts with recognition—and with us.

The American Dream Must Be Reimagined

Yes, the American dream is real. But so is the American despair. And the line separating the two is razor thin.

Let us stop glorifying only the triumphant. Let us reckon with the fallen. Because when we save even one Kamangara, we light a path for others—not just back to Kenya, but back to themselves.

Let us start with one. Then another. And maybe—just maybe—we can redeem the dream for those who’ve been lost along the way.

Disclaimer: The name “Kamangara” and all others mentioned are pseudonyms used to protect individual identities. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental.