Across the world, and increasingly here in Kenya, women are chasing a dream that is both ancient and painfully modern: the desire to age backwards.
It is no longer enough to live long. The real hunger is to look young, to keep the skin tight, the hair lush, the body toned. Social media has turned youth into something more than a passing stage of life; it is now a currency.
Scroll through any feed and you will find beauty influencers dabbing creams across flawless skin, before-and-after photos of wrinkle-free faces, and endless recommendations for powders and pills that promise to hold back time.
Angela, a thirty-four-year-old accountant from Nairobi, knows the feeling all too well. Every month, she sets aside nearly a quarter of her salary for serums and supplements.
"My friends joke that I could have bought a car by now," she says with a nervous laugh. "But when I look at photos of myself from five years ago, I panic. I don't want to lose that glow." Her confession carries a truth many women whisper but rarely admit aloud.
In a world where ageing is treated less like a natural journey and more like a personal failure, the pressure to preserve youth has become relentless.
Jane, who manages human resources at a company in Thika, dyes her hair religiously. She has learned that the moment her grey roots show, the office changes.
"The younger women are seen as vibrant, energetic. For me, the comments begin, aunty this, madam that. It's subtle, but it stings."
The labels are meant politely, but they underline how quickly women are marked and measured by age. A man in her position might be praised as seasoned and distinguished; a woman, as past her prime.
Psychologist Carolyne Karanja believes this obsession is less about vanity and more about survival. "We live in a society that attaches value to women who appear young and desirable," she says. "That shapes how women see themselves, how they are treated at work, even how they are treated at home. The message is clear: to stay relevant, stay young."
The road to this obsession is global. Korean beauty culture, known as K-beauty, has seeped into Nairobi through Instagram feeds and online shops. The famous ten-step routines, the promise of 'glass skin,' and the snail mucin serums all have become staples among the city's beauty enthusiasts.
Sharon, a twenty-seven-year-old content creator, began with one face mask she saw on TikTok. "Now I have an entire shelf, essence, toner and night cream. My boyfriend calls it my 'science lab.' But when I walk into a meeting looking fresh, it feels worth it."
Beauty shops have quickly caught on. In Westlands, Faith runs a small stall filled with imported products. "I bring them directly from Seoul," she says. "Women want what they see online, pore-less, glowing, ageless. Some spend more on skincare than on food. It's a priority now."
And then there are the clinics. Botox, fillers and laser resurfacing, once whispered about, are now openly offered in boutique practices and private hospitals. Dermatologist Dr. Ruth Mwangi recalls how different it was a decade ago. "Women would come in shy, not wanting anyone to know. Now, they walk in with screenshots of celebrities and say, 'This is what I want.' The shame has faded, especially among professionals."
What may surprise some is that this race against time is not reserved for women. Men, too, are looking in the mirror differently. They may not post about it, but they are showing up in clinics for hair restoration, wrinkle treatments and body contouring. "They frame it as health or performance," Dr. Mwangi explains, "but it's the same pressure: looking young equals competitiveness."
Jane laughs when she describes her own husband. "He pretends he doesn't care, but he spends more time choosing beard oils than I do with my serums. He won't call it beauty, but it's the same thing, wanting to hold onto youth."
As with most things, privilege shapes who can participate. For the wealthy, age-hacking has become routine, with imported supplements, personal trainers and luxury wellness retreats. For the middle class, it is more complicated. Angela cannot afford Botox, but she saves for retinol creams. "It feels like if I don't do something, I'll look older than my peers, and people notice," she says.
Meanwhile, in smaller towns, women buy over-the-counter creams from kiosks, some containing harsh chemicals that thin the skin. The dream of youth is the same, but the risks are higher.
Perhaps the most unsettling part of this global obsession is the quiet cultural clash it has brought into our homes. In African traditions, ageing was tied to dignity. Wrinkles were stories and grey hair a crown. Elders carried authority and respect.
Today, those same markers are treated as flaws to be erased. Sharon remembers how her mother, on her sixtieth birthday, decided to wear her hair natural and grey. "People kept telling her, 'Dye it, you'll look younger.' She finally did. She looks lovely, but I keep wondering, why did she feel she had to?"
This tension runs deep. On one hand, women are told to embrace themselves, to celebrate authenticity. On the other hand, every advertisement insists that beauty equals youth. It is a double bind that leaves many feeling they can never win.
The obsession with ageing backwards, then, is not just about skin and serums. It is about our relationship with time itself. Beneath the rituals lies a quieter fear: that age will strip not only our beauty, but also our relevance and our place in the world. For some, the routines feel empowering. "When I do my skincare, I feel like I'm in control," Angela says. For others, it is exhausting, like running a race with no finish line. Every new trend shifts the goalposts further away.
There may be no single answer. Perhaps the task of this generation is to redefine what ageing means. To allow space for both, to care for our bodies, and also to accept the lines and softness that come with time. Carolyne puts it simply: "There is beauty in youth. But there is also beauty in age. When we deny one, we lose the other."