Three years ago, I first recognized a significant cultural shift at a matatu stage while waiting for a ride home. I overheard a conductor arguing about fare when two classmates from my fourth-year university class engaged in a passionate discussion about whether *Demon Slayer* had “fallen off.” Their conversation revolved around anime, not politics, football, or the rising price of unga.
To clarify, anime encompasses animated films and television series originating from Japan, while manga refers to Japanese comic books or graphic novels, often serving as the source material for anime adaptations. Both represent vast storytelling industries, appealing to audiences of all ages. At that moment, however, I dismissed it all, rolling my eyes and thinking this was merely a fleeting trend, akin to skinny jeans or ringtone rap.
For a long time, I held onto that mindset. Growing up in Kenya, I viewed ‘serious’ storytelling through the lens of novels studied for KCSE, Nigerian films aired after news segments, and gritty Western television shows that everyone pretended to understand. Manga and anime struck me as childish, exaggerated, and, frankly, superfluous. Why indulge in comics when one could delve into the works of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o? Why watch animated characters weep dramatically when real life was already rife with drama? To me, manga and anime felt like an escape hatch rather than a reflection of reality.
Unbeknownst to me, a vibrant community of Gen Z enthusiasts was constructing an entire culture through that very hatch.
My initial dismissal stemmed from a lack of understanding regarding the intricacies of anime and manga. Manga, for instance, is not just “any comic book.” It possesses a unique style: predominantly black and white, rich in detail and intricate line work, and — disorientingly for newcomers — written from back to front and read from right to left. Tom Jalio, a 38-year-old journalist with a youthful spirit, recently recounted his struggles while attempting to purchase manga as a gift for his Gen Z friend. He meticulously checked for alternatives, convinced something was amiss, only to discover through a quick Google search that the format was indeed correct. “My confusion was humbling,” he admitted. I chuckled, recognizing my own initial bewilderment in the world of anime and manga.
My skepticism faded quickly once I began to pay closer attention. The first crack in my certainty appeared during a family dinner when Alex — my 16-year-old cousin, perpetually clad in a hoodie — fervently discussed *Attack on Titan* between bites of pilau. He didn’t merely recount fight scenes; he delved into themes of government propaganda, cycles of violence, and inherited guilt.
At one point, he asserted, “It’s not about giants. It’s about how fear makes people cruel.” I set my fork down, realizing that his media analysis surpassed much of what I encountered in college seminars.
What proves even more intriguing is the shared language among Gen Z fans of anime and manga. During a heated discussion in a morning meeting while I participated in a volunteer program, my 23-year-old colleague Zara Hassan likened our office politics to Naruto clan rivalries — a comparison that turned out to be annoyingly accurate. Eventually, I succumbed to curiosity and watched *Death Note* one weekend, primarily to avoid nodding politely during conversations about it. Instead, I found myself binge-watching and vocally debating morality and power with the TV as if it were a formidable opponent.
It became clear to me: Gen Z’s commitment to manga and anime transcends mere escapism. It embodies a quest for emotional honesty in an increasingly artificial world.
Manga and anime do not shy away from raw emotions. Feelings resonate loudly, tears cascade like rain, and characters openly confront their fears and flaws without irony. This directness resonates with a generation accustomed to curated social media feeds and brand-safe emotions. In a world where everything feels filtered, anime delivers an unfiltered experience.
As Julius Opiyo, a 28-year-old anime enthusiast, shared with me over coffee, “In anime, no one pretends they’re chill when they’re falling apart.” That insight lingered with me.
Moreover, despite external criticism, these narratives take young people seriously. In manga, teenagers emerge as revolutionaries, warriors, leaders, and moral decision-makers rather than mere side characters awaiting adulthood.
In stark contrast, society often dismisses young individuals as lazy, fragile, or overly engaged online. Manga empowers them when the world denies them agency.
However, critics often argue that anime is excessively violent, overly sexualized, and unrealistic. While these critiques hold merit, I have experienced cringe-worthy scenes that felt gratuitous or exhausting. Some Gen Z individuals share this discomfort. Lucy Mwende, a 21-year-old student, remarked, “I love anime, but sometimes it’s a mess. You’ve got to wade through nonsense to find the good stuff.” This observation is valid; the medium is not without flaws. Yet, prestige television often escapes similar scrutiny, perhaps because it employs darker lighting and Western accents.
What ultimately transformed my perspective was recognizing the global nature of manga and anime. Many Gen Z individuals have grown up online, inherently borderless. Manga from Japan does not strike them as foreign; it feels entirely normal. Anime conventions resemble the United Nations, albeit with more stylish attire.
This universality holds significant importance. In an era marked by rising nationalism and cultural anxiety, young people cultivate emotional literacy across cultures without fanfare.
I did not undergo an overnight transformation. I still roll my eyes at certain tropes. Yet, I cannot ignore what I have witnessed: manga and anime engage in cultural work that many Western institutions have failed to accomplish for Gen Z. They provide stories that are emotionally transparent, morally complex, and unapologetically intense.
Now, when I encounter debates about anime and manga, I refrain from dismissing them. I recognize them as part of a broader cultural shift. Gen Z has discovered in anime a language for emotions and questions that Kenyan society often struggles to address. Once I stopped laughing at this realization, I understood that the joke may have been on me all along.
To clarify, anime encompasses animated films and television series originating from Japan, while manga refers to Japanese comic books or graphic novels, often serving as the source material for anime adaptations. Both represent vast storytelling industries, appealing to audiences of all ages. At that moment, however, I dismissed it all, rolling my eyes and thinking this was merely a fleeting trend, akin to skinny jeans or ringtone rap.
For a long time, I held onto that mindset. Growing up in Kenya, I viewed ‘serious’ storytelling through the lens of novels studied for KCSE, Nigerian films aired after news segments, and gritty Western television shows that everyone pretended to understand. Manga and anime struck me as childish, exaggerated, and, frankly, superfluous. Why indulge in comics when one could delve into the works of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o? Why watch animated characters weep dramatically when real life was already rife with drama? To me, manga and anime felt like an escape hatch rather than a reflection of reality.
Unbeknownst to me, a vibrant community of Gen Z enthusiasts was constructing an entire culture through that very hatch.
My initial dismissal stemmed from a lack of understanding regarding the intricacies of anime and manga. Manga, for instance, is not just “any comic book.” It possesses a unique style: predominantly black and white, rich in detail and intricate line work, and — disorientingly for newcomers — written from back to front and read from right to left. Tom Jalio, a 38-year-old journalist with a youthful spirit, recently recounted his struggles while attempting to purchase manga as a gift for his Gen Z friend. He meticulously checked for alternatives, convinced something was amiss, only to discover through a quick Google search that the format was indeed correct. “My confusion was humbling,” he admitted. I chuckled, recognizing my own initial bewilderment in the world of anime and manga.
My skepticism faded quickly once I began to pay closer attention. The first crack in my certainty appeared during a family dinner when Alex — my 16-year-old cousin, perpetually clad in a hoodie — fervently discussed *Attack on Titan* between bites of pilau. He didn’t merely recount fight scenes; he delved into themes of government propaganda, cycles of violence, and inherited guilt.
At one point, he asserted, “It’s not about giants. It’s about how fear makes people cruel.” I set my fork down, realizing that his media analysis surpassed much of what I encountered in college seminars.
What proves even more intriguing is the shared language among Gen Z fans of anime and manga. During a heated discussion in a morning meeting while I participated in a volunteer program, my 23-year-old colleague Zara Hassan likened our office politics to Naruto clan rivalries — a comparison that turned out to be annoyingly accurate. Eventually, I succumbed to curiosity and watched *Death Note* one weekend, primarily to avoid nodding politely during conversations about it. Instead, I found myself binge-watching and vocally debating morality and power with the TV as if it were a formidable opponent.
It became clear to me: Gen Z’s commitment to manga and anime transcends mere escapism. It embodies a quest for emotional honesty in an increasingly artificial world.
Manga and anime do not shy away from raw emotions. Feelings resonate loudly, tears cascade like rain, and characters openly confront their fears and flaws without irony. This directness resonates with a generation accustomed to curated social media feeds and brand-safe emotions. In a world where everything feels filtered, anime delivers an unfiltered experience.
As Julius Opiyo, a 28-year-old anime enthusiast, shared with me over coffee, “In anime, no one pretends they’re chill when they’re falling apart.” That insight lingered with me.
Moreover, despite external criticism, these narratives take young people seriously. In manga, teenagers emerge as revolutionaries, warriors, leaders, and moral decision-makers rather than mere side characters awaiting adulthood.
In stark contrast, society often dismisses young individuals as lazy, fragile, or overly engaged online. Manga empowers them when the world denies them agency.
However, critics often argue that anime is excessively violent, overly sexualized, and unrealistic. While these critiques hold merit, I have experienced cringe-worthy scenes that felt gratuitous or exhausting. Some Gen Z individuals share this discomfort. Lucy Mwende, a 21-year-old student, remarked, “I love anime, but sometimes it’s a mess. You’ve got to wade through nonsense to find the good stuff.” This observation is valid; the medium is not without flaws. Yet, prestige television often escapes similar scrutiny, perhaps because it employs darker lighting and Western accents.
What ultimately transformed my perspective was recognizing the global nature of manga and anime. Many Gen Z individuals have grown up online, inherently borderless. Manga from Japan does not strike them as foreign; it feels entirely normal. Anime conventions resemble the United Nations, albeit with more stylish attire.
This universality holds significant importance. In an era marked by rising nationalism and cultural anxiety, young people cultivate emotional literacy across cultures without fanfare.
I did not undergo an overnight transformation. I still roll my eyes at certain tropes. Yet, I cannot ignore what I have witnessed: manga and anime engage in cultural work that many Western institutions have failed to accomplish for Gen Z. They provide stories that are emotionally transparent, morally complex, and unapologetically intense.
Now, when I encounter debates about anime and manga, I refrain from dismissing them. I recognize them as part of a broader cultural shift. Gen Z has discovered in anime a language for emotions and questions that Kenyan society often struggles to address. Once I stopped laughing at this realization, I understood that the joke may have been on me all along.
