Miriam Wangari* had no reason to doubt John’s love for her. He was the best provider any mother could ask for. He paid the bills on time and took the family on that occasional holiday. And since she quit her job at a leading Nairobi law firm to concentrate on raising their children, John had no problem providing her with some pocket money every month.
Then the document surfaced. A folded paper tucked inside John’s jacket pocket screamed of a contract to a piece of land John was buying near Isinya, Kajiado. Wangari never knew about it and John had no intention of telling her. She responded to what she felt was betrayal by giving John the silent treatment.
John had committed what is now termed ‘financial infidelity’, withholding money-related matters from one’s mate who has a right to know. For Wangari, that betrayal was not just about the land but the secrecy in the decision made alone in the partnership. It left her questioning his partner’s faithfulness and trustworthiness, the foundations on which their marriage stood.
“I felt like a sharp knife had sliced through my heart,” Wangari says. “We met because we had seen each other’s qualities, including being so open with one another during our dating. We are still working to restore lost trust.”
In many households, similar scenarios of financial secrecy abound. These involve more than a casual spending with friends after work that does not warrant any scrutiny: A wife finds out the husband has taken a loan, perhaps by stumbling upon a demand note; a wife receives dividends from a listed company’s shares her husband never knew existed; lying about one’s income; a partner makes a large purchase with family funds but explains it as an end year gift from the workplace. And the list continues.
Partners who come to learn of such financial secrets describe the feeling as a betrayal similar to marital infidelity that erodes trust and ruins the future of the family. Three years ago, the BBC reported that 76 per cent of couples that were involved in financial infidelity were negatively affected by the vice, with 10 per cent getting divorced.
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Joan Weru, a Nairobi-based hair stylist, was shocked when we asked her how she would react if she learnt that her partner was withholding such vital information. “Weh! The emotional strain when the secret habit is discovered would be too much,” she says, hoping that our question is more hypothetical. “Of course, this may lead to anger, resentment and anxiety from me.”
According to Anne Mumbua, a mobile money agent in the city, it is not about the money but being left out of such important decisions that can affect the family’s future.
“I call it unspoken betrayal,” she says. “It is the quiet manner of handling such important matters. It is like I don’t exist. It leaves one wondering as to what else isn’t being said. Could another family be benefiting from our money?”
Mumbua says a lot of people die leaving assets that were never disclosed to their mates or next of kin, leading to financial suffering within the family. Such money gets tied up in bank and mobile money accounts, eventually being taken over by the Unclaimed Financial Assets Authority.
Currently, UFAA, formed by an Act of Parliament in 2011, holds Sh115 billion in unclaimed assets but has only paid out Sh2.84 billion to 39,000 claimants to date. These are assets “that have been presumed abandoned and have become unclaimed assets” including dormant bank accounts, unclaimed dividends and interests earned from stocks and shares or unclaimed bail or bond money deposited in courts of law.
“It is difficult to claim what you don’t know existed, especially if you were never named as a beneficiary,” Mumbua says. “But transparency is a double-edged sword. Sadly, even women are encouraged by some rights groups to hide something for a ‘rainy day’ should the relationship go south.”
Mumbua introduces an interesting perspective by saying that women, too, have become “experts” in the vice of secretly stashing assets only they know of. Some have defended such actions by stating that should the man, who is the primary provider, die, then the family will not be left destitute.
But Daniel Kioko, media practitioner, begs to differ, saying it is akin to “mourning before death”. “When she says in her heart that it’s ‘in case you die’, it hits like a physical blow,” says Kioko. “It feels like she has already planned for his funeral and buried him in her mind while he’s still sitting at the dinner table, laughing. It’s a cold, pragmatic calculation that is devoid of love.”
He sums it up: “The man is out here working, planning a future with her, while she’s quietly rehearsing a life when he’s gone. It’s a lonely feeling to realise your partner has a mental ‘Exit Sign’ illuminated at all times.”