With caregiving costs soaring, multigenerational homes are booming. For Naomi Kimani, sharing space with her ageing mother, husband, and two young daughters means endless love, brutal logistics, and bone-deep exhaustion—proof that living together can be both a burden and a blessing.

When people say it takes a village to raise a family, they rarely warn you the village might move in permanently.

For Naomi Kimani, 38, that village now occupies every inch of her three-bedroom house in the Nairobi suburbs: her 72-year-old mother Mama Wangari, husband Kamau, and daughters Wanjiku, 4, and Nyambura, 18 months. Three generations, one roof, one kitchen, zero margin for error.

The numbers tell part of the story. A 2024 Kenya National Bureau of Statistics report shows 42% of urban households now have at least one elderly parent living in, up from 28% a decade ago. Skyrocketing rent in Nairobi, childcare fees that rival university tuition, and private hospital bills that can wipe out a year’s savings have forced families like Naomi’s to consolidate. But statistics can’t capture the daily grind of love stretched thin.

Mornings: The Daily Triathlon

5:30 a.m. Naomi’s alarm vibrates. She tiptoes downstairs, warms Nyambura’s bottle, sets up Mama Wangari’s blood-pressure cuff on the dining table, and starts preparing uji before the kettle whistles. By 6:15 she’s packed Wanjiku’s kindergarten snacks—mango slices and chapati—answered three client emails, and reminded Mama to take her hypertension pills. Wanjiku races in demanding “the yellow cup with elephants,” and the delicate choreography begins again.

“It’s not glamorous,” Naomi laughs. “It’s logistics held together by chai and prayer.”

The Emotional Sandwich

The real weight isn’t the schedule—it’s the heart. Naomi is the hinge between two generations pulling in opposite directions. With Mama Wangari, she mourns the fierce market trader who once carried 50 kgs of sukuma wiki on her back and now struggles to tie her kitenge headscarf. With the girls, she fights guilt every time a toddler meltdown steals time from helping Mama count her rosary beads.

“I’m terrified I’m failing both of them,” she whispers one night on the veranda, scrolling through old photos while matatus roar past on the main road. “My mum sacrificed everything for me. Am I giving my babies even half?”

The Hidden Price Tag

Money is the silent third child in the house. Monthly shopping at Carrefour runs Ksh 85,000. Electricity jumped 35% after Mama moved in. Kindergarten, NHIF top-ups, Pampers, and Mama’s new walking stick compete for every shilling. A 2024 AARP-style survey by HelpAge Kenya found 62% of multigenerational caregivers spend over KSh 30,000 monthly out-of-pocket. Naomi designs logos at midnight for extra cash; Kamau drives Uber on Saturdays. Retirement savings? On hold until Jesus comes.

“We don’t budget anymore,” she says. “We triage.”

Laughter in the Cracks

Still, joy sneaks in. Wanjiku drags Mama’s slippers across the tiled floor each morning like a tiny house-help. Mama Wangari hums old Mukorino hymns while rocking Nyambura, who claps off-beat. On good evenings the sitting room echoes with three distinct laughs—high-pitched, medium, and the deep belly rumble only Gogo perfects.

Those moments remind Naomi why they do this. “We’re closing the circle,” she says. “My mum sang me those same hymns. Now my baby hears them from the same arms.”

The Vanishing Self

Caregiving’s first casualty is the caregiver. Naomi’s Pilates classes at the estate gym are a distant memory. Date nights at Java House? Cancelled since 2022. Saturdays that once meant nyama choma with friends now mean three loads of laundry and pureed pumpkin for Nyambura. Some weeks she can’t remember what she likes to watch on Showmax when nobody else is hungry.

Yet something stronger is growing in the hollowed-out spaces. Patience she never knew she had. The ability to soothe a crying baby while booking Mama’s appointment at Gertrude’s bone-deep understanding that love isn’t a feeling—it’s a thousand small acts repeated until they become identity.

Redefining Grace

Naomi has stopped chasing balance. Some days are survival; others are magic. She’s learned two revolutionary skills: asking the neighbour’s house-help for an extra hour and forgiving herself when supper is ugali and managu for the third night running.

Family therapist Dr. Elaine Moore calls it “grace in the gray.” “Sandwich-generation mothers don’t win by being perfect,” she says. “They win by showing up again tomorrow.”

Invisible Strength

From the gate, the Kimani home looks ordinary—hibiscus hedge, laundry dancing on the line. Inside, it’s a living breathing organism of compromise and noise and love. The world rarely sees, the 2 a.m. dashes to Aga Khan Hospital or the tears in the shower when the water heats. It doesn’t hand out medals for keeping four hearts beating under one roof.

But Naomi knows the truth. “We’re not just saving rent,” she says, watching Mama Wangari teach Wanjiku how to peel potatoes while Nyambura naps on Kamau’s chest. “We’re saving each other.”

The Bigger Picture

Across estates from Ruaka to Kitengela, families like theirs are rewriting home. Necessity may open the door, but shared history and stubborn love keep it from closing. They are exhausted, overstretched, and—on the best days—exactly where they’re meant to be.

Because some things can’t be outsourced or paid for with M-PESA: the weight of a grandmother’s wrinkled hand on a fevered forehead, the sound of a Kikuyu lullaby traveling three generations in one breath, the quiet triumph of making it to another sunrise together.

That’s the real village. And it’s worth every sleepless night.