I have been dealing with a problem in my foot for almost two weeks. This might not sound particularly dramatic. It isn't cancer. It isn't an emergency. It isn't even the kind of pain that stops me from going about my day. Which is perhaps why I found myself hesitating. You see, I am a walker. Not the kind of person who takes a stroll every now and then. I walk for two to three hours most days. Walking is how I think, how I clear my head, and how I make sense of the world. If there is one part of my body I should be willing to invest in, it is probably my feet. Yet when I started calling podiatrists in Nairobi, I found myself doing mental gymnastics. The cheapest consultation fee I found was KES 5,000. Consultation. Not treatment. Not scans. Not medication. Just the privilege of finding out what might be wrong. By the time everything was done, the bill could easily reach KES 15,000 or KES 20,000. And suddenly I found myself wondering whether I really needed a podiatrist. May...
This isn’t just a story about fake job offers in Qatar or Thailand. Or about that woman who just got arrested after conning people with promises of work abroad. It’s bigger. This is about us. The Kenyan public. The crowd that claps when a scammer makes it. The society that praises the hustle—no matter how dirty it is—because we all want to believe that wealth is within reach, if only we try hard enough. Or cheat cleverly enough. You’ve seen the headlines: “Suspected fraudster flaunted luxury lifestyle on TikTok” “Victims paid up to KES 500,000 each in fake visa fees” “Exposed: Scam kingpin now turned motivational speaker” And what’s wild? People still follow them. People still clap. Because we love a redemption story. Even if the “redemption” is just rebranding the scam. What It Takes to Be a Scammer in Kenya To scam in Kenya, you need three things: A deep understanding of desperation. A smooth tongue. And a society that rewards shortcuts. Scammers don’t create ho...