Every month when my paycheck hits my bank account, I have to make several calculations on how to pay my bills. A few months ago––when the experience was still quite new––it didn't bother me. However, I'm beginning to realise the high toll I pay for remitting bills via mobile money.
Don't get me wrong: mobile money is definitely a godsend. I still remember the days of yesteryear when electricity bills had to be paid at their offices and queues could stretch on for miles costing bill payers countless hours simply to pay a bill. Now? Even pre-paid electricity meters are the defacto standard of energy bills.
But the hidden cost of convenience is the fact that each transaction costs between 1% and 5% of the transaction and the mobile money providers have both sides of their toast buttered by often billing both the payer and payee.
In addition to this, there are no free bank accounts in Kenya. So I pay to have an account and for any remittance I make. The only way I can avoid paying fees is when I pay by direct debit, for which the payee pays. However, in this mode of payment the payee receives the funds directly into their bank account, so win-win.
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Financial inclusion has become a comforting narrative. We hear it in donor meetings, fintech summits, and social impact reports—often accompanied by colorful visuals of mobile phones and rural market vendors. But beneath the surface of this well-rehearsed story lies a more troubling reality. Many so-called inclusion efforts are not only superficial—they are structurally regressive. If we are honest about both access and quality, developing countries are playing a much lower game than they deserve. And the poor are paying the highest price.
To understand the gap, look no further than countries like the United Kingdom. In the UK, personal banking is treated as public infrastructure. A standard current account typically includes:
Millions of people use these services daily without paying a penny in transaction fees. This is what financial inclusion should look like: reliable, affordable, fully integrated, and accessible to all.
Now contrast that with the situation in much of the Global South. Mobile money platforms, like M-Pesa in Kenya, have significantly increased access to digital payment tools. But access alone is not inclusion. Most users face fees at nearly every step—sending KES 1,000 (~$10) can cost KES 20 (~2%), and withdrawing it might cost an additional KES 30 (~3%). Wallet balances earn no interest. Transferring money to a formal bank account often incurs further delays and fees. It’s a fragmented, costly, and incomplete financial experience.
The paradox is clear: in the Global South, the less money you have, the more you pay to move and manage it. Meanwhile, in developed economies, even the poorest citizens can move funds instantly and freely. What is celebrated as financial inclusion is, in fact, a regressive tax system disguised as progress.
Perhaps most importantly, mobile money is not banking—it is remittance infrastructure masquerading as financial inclusion. Funds stored in mobile wallets are generally not mobilized in the way bank deposits are. They are not pooled into capital that can be used for lending, investment, or credit creation. They sit inert, disconnected from the engines of economic productivity.
This has massive implications: while banks can lend against deposits to stimulate commerce and job creation, mobile platforms act only as custodians and pass-through systems. The funds stay locked in a transactional limbo, benefitting telcos and platform owners, not the real economy. This is not financial intermediation—it’s digital cash in a silo.
Consider this: in Kenya, moving $10 can cost 2–5% in total fees. In the UK, moving £10,000 via Faster Payments costs nothing and are available 24/7/365. Constrast this to Kenya––one of the most progressive sub-saharan countries––where bank payments can only occur during working days and between certain hours. This disparity is not just inconvenient; it is unjust. It means that the very infrastructure meant to lift people out of poverty is quietly eroding their financial agency.
For businesses, these costs multiply: paying suppliers, moving money into bank accounts, or cashing out involves repeated fees and delays. For individuals, mobile wallets offer basic tools but no path toward creditworthiness, savings growth, or economic advancement.
Despite these realities, donors and fintechs continue to highlight superficial metrics like:
These figures paint a picture of progress—but they hide fundamental problems. They ignore high transaction costs, the lack of meaningful financial services, and the burden of depending on agent networks for basic access. We praise pilots and apps while systemic reform is nowhere in sight. This is not transformation—it’s misdirection.
If we are serious about inclusion, we must demand far more:
Inclusion should not stop at access. It must extend to economic empowerment.
The success of mobile money cannot be denied. It has radically transformed how millions of people in the Global South access and move money, particularly in areas where traditional banking was inaccessible or mistrusted. For that, it deserves credit. Mobile money has been a powerful stepping stone—an innovation that filled a critical gap at a critical time.
But we must now recognize that it is just that: a stepping stone. A milestone, not the destination.
Mobile money was never designed to be a full replacement for banking. It was built for remittances, not for economic transformation. As we look to the future of financial inclusion, we must stop treating mobile money as the end goal and start investing in systems that offer true financial agency—credit, savings, insurance, wealth-building tools, and seamless integration with the formal economy.
There will always be a role for mobile money to play, especially in quick payments, person-to-person transfers, and merchant micro-transactions. But its centrality must fade if we are to move beyond transactional convenience and into transformative financial empowerment.
It is inevitable that for financial inclusion to mature, the dominance of mobile money must diminish. Not because it has failed, but because its original success now limits how far we can go. The next frontier demands systems that are not only accessible, but affordable, integrated, and mobilized for long-term financial growth.
If we applauded shared standpipes as proof of universal water access or candlelit shacks as proof of electrification, we would be rightly ridiculed. Yet when it comes to financial access, we lower the bar dramatically. We settle for mobile wallets and call it inclusion—ignoring the heavy fees, the broken integrations, and the economic dead-ends they often represent.
It’s time to stop congratulating ourselves for providing the poor with costly, limited tools. Let’s raise our expectations—and theirs. Financial inclusion must be more than access. It must be agency, mobility, and growth.
Until then, we are not financially including the poor. We are financially containing them.
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