What graduations take from Kenyan students before giving anything back

For many Kenyan students, graduation is framed as a triumphant ending, caps in the air, proud parents, polished photos and hopeful speeches.

But behind the smiles lies an uncomfortable truth few universities openly discuss: graduation is not just emotional closure; it is financial closure, and for many, a painful one.

Long before the certificate is collected, students are often forced to confront a final bill that feels less like celebration and more like punishment for surviving campus.

Graduation fees: The last invoice nobody warned you about

Graduation does not come free, even after years of tuition payments.

Most universities require students to clear graduation fees weeks before the ceremony. These charges often include administrative processing, certificate printing, transcripts, and sometimes mandatory alumni registration.

For students already stretched thin, especially those from modest backgrounds, this final cost becomes a gatekeeper. Miss the deadline, and you wait another year, or indefinitely.

The irony is hard to miss: you can complete your degree academically and still fail to “graduate” financially.

Graduation attire is another quiet expense. Gown hire, mortarboards, and sometimes colour-coded academic hoods come at a cost students rarely budget for.

Then comes the unspoken pressure: photoshoots, outfits beneath the gown, makeup, transport, and family logistics. What should be symbolic turns performative.

Graduation, increasingly, is not just about finishing, it is about appearing to have made it.

And for students already in debt, that appearance often comes on borrowed money.

Before graduation, students must clear with multiple departments, library, hostels, finance offices, faculties, and sometimes offices they barely interacted with.

Lost library books, minor fines, delayed projects, or unresolved balances can stall clearance entirely.

Each signature becomes another potential cost, another delay, another reminder that education in Kenya is not just academic, it is bureaucratic.

For many graduates, HELB repayments loom quietly in the background, dampening the joy of graduation.

While repayment does not start immediately, the psychological weight is already present. Graduates walk into an uncertain job market knowing they owe hundreds of thousands of shillings, before they earn their first proper salary.

Graduation, then, becomes less of a finish line and more of a financial starting gun.

The hardest truth is this: many graduates leave campus not empowered, but exhausted.

They are proud, yes, but also anxious, indebted, and under pressure to justify the sacrifices made for their education.

Society celebrates the certificate, but rarely acknowledges the cost of obtaining it.

Graduation should symbolise opportunity, not obligation. Yet for many Kenyan students, it marks the point where education shifts from hope to repayment.

Perhaps the bigger question is not whether graduates should be grateful, but whether the system should be more honest about the true cost of success.

Because when graduation feels like settling accounts rather than opening doors, something is deeply broken.