Arweave TX
Ah, Web3—the promised land of decentralization, financial inclusion, and power to the people. A future where anyone, regardless of background, can participate in the great blockchain revolution. That is, of course, if you can afford a $500 ticket to an exclusive high-end event, speak fluent Solidity, and don’t mind networking over $15 lattes. Do you see mama mboga partaking in any of that?
Picture this: A conference titled “Building an Inclusive Web3 Future” hosted in a five-star hotel where the cheapest meal costs more than your week’s grocery budget. The room is filled with people discussing financial accessibility while sipping artisanal coffee flown in from a blockchain-powered farm in Guatemala. It is not even our very own Project Mocha Cafe, Yawa.
Panelists throw around words like "ZK-rollups," "MEV," and "cross-chain interoperability," while the average attendee—who just wanted to learn how to use a wallet—slowly nods, wondering if they accidentally wandered into an advanced mathematics lecture. The Q&A session begins, and the first question is: "How do we onboard the unbanked?" A great question! But the answer? Another 15 minutes of technical jargon, ensuring the unbanked remain blissfully unaware of what’s happening.
The irony of Web3 is that it claims to be about decentralization but feels increasingly centralized controlled by a select few who understand the code, control the networks, and can afford to attend events. Have you tried attending a major Web3 summit? Between travel, tickets, and accommodation, you might need to sell an NFT of your soul just to afford it. NF ang'owa? exactly
Meanwhile, the communities who could actually benefit from blockchain—small farmers, artists, and gig workers—are left watching from the sidelines, wondering why they need a PhD in cryptography just to send a transaction.
Mass adoption without the masses is just adoption by the chosen few. And that seems to be the focus right now—a handful of people getting wealthy at the expense of others. It’s a familiar story, especially in Kenya, where tech revolutions often start with promise but end with a few gatekeepers holding all the keys.
And then there are airdrops—the Web3 version of Oprah shouting, "You get free tokens!" But wait… first, you need to have interacted with the protocol. And wait, you need to have a certain NFT. Oh, and wait, you need to be in the Discord community. And hold on—have you set up a Farcaster account? Far-whaaa? By the time you’ve met all the requirements, you realize you’ve spent more on transaction fees and subscriptions than the airdrop was even worth. No wonder the average person thinks it's just one big scam.
Web3 was meant to be for builders, the tinkerers, the developers creating the next wave of decentralized technology. But now, developers are crying foul as non-devs swoop in, turning it into a game of influence and capital rather than innovation. You either control it, or someone else will. And right now, it looks like the balance is shifting away from those writing the code to those writing the checks.
If Web3 is truly for everyone, maybe it’s time for a reset. More events in publicly accessible spaces. More discussions in simple language. Less obsession with expensive venues and more focus on actual community building. Maybe, just maybe, a blockchain conference could take place in a school auditorium rather than a place where the chandeliers cost more than the average Web3 enthusiast’s entire net worth.
If we don’t fix this soon, we risk turning Web3 into the very thing it sought to replace: an exclusive club where the rich get richer, and the rest are left outside, wondering if they can afford the gas fees to even participate. if they even know what gas fees are.
So, to all the Web3 event organizers out there: Next time you plan an ‘inclusive’ event, ask yourself—can an ordinary person actually afford to be part of it? And if not, maybe decentralization still has a long way to go.
Fabian Owuor