Author Archives: The Art of Proddy

by Mutwiri Njeru-Baranya.

I watch him wear a brave disguise, 
A smile that masks the truth in his eyes. 
It shines enough to hide the pain, 
That cracks beneath the quiet strain. 

His laugh is light, but echoes deep, 
A sound that barely lets him weep. 
His silence, louder than the crowd, 
A whisper buried in a shroud. 

He speaks of dreams that slipped away, 
Of glory lost along the way. 
The world just shrugs, with no reply: 
“Be a man, for real men don’t cry.”

So he folds his sorrow, neat and tight, 
And hides it far away from sight. 
He walks ahead, no sign, no clue, 
A storm beneath a sky of blue. 

How many more walk just like him, 
With broken hearts that hide behind a grin? 
And still we repeat, not knowing why, 
The words that teach our men to die.

By George M. Njeru | Life & Hustle in Kanairo

If you’ve lived in Nairobi long enough, you know one thing: this city is a character all by itself. There’s no ‘one’ Nairobi Character. It never sleeps, never slows, and never runs out of stories. From the blue collar mansions of Runda to the mabati corners of Kayole, the Nairobi guy is hustling, surviving, and somehow thriving.

Let’s take a quick ride through four very different lives that all share one heartbeat: the Kanairo grind.

1. Mr. P. C. Otieno – The Runda Don.

Mr. Otieno doesn’t wake up, he rises. Birds sing, curtains open themselves, and Alexa greets him with, “Good morning, sir.” His green tea is imported, his cat Tofu eats better than most comrades. His biggest stress is whether his driver remembered to fuel the car with V-Power, of course.

He’s the kind of guy who complains about inflation, not because he’s broke, but because it might affect the price of imported cat food. His meetings happen in glass towers that smell of sanitizer and soft life. His lunch is sushi in Westlands, where the bill could pay rent for an entire block in Kayole.

Evenings find him by the pool with whiskey in hand, tweeting about leadership and posting #TBTs with captions like “grind different.” But deep down, he’s still the guy from Jericho who got lucky. He knows how to say “Wooza bossie” when the vibe calls for it.

2. Mr. Juma – The Civil Servant.

Then there’s Juma from Embakasi Village, Mtu wa system. The man knows JKIA better than his own kitchen. He’s up by 5:30 a.m., ironed uniform sharp enough to cut bread. His thermos of tea? Legendary. You don’t joke with it. That tea is so powerful, it can power a flight to Kisumu.

He reaches the airport at sunrise, signs the rosters, gets the daily briefs and starts his day with his usual phrase, “Hapa hatuna mchezo na security.” Even colleagues know not to argue with Juma. He once made a Minister remove shoes because “rules are rules.”

His phone is always buzzing. WhatsApp groups, family messages, KRA reminders. During lunch, he scrolls through TikTok, laughing at videos of funny pranks and saying, “these boys are mad.”

His evenings are characterized by traffic on Mombasa Road, a quick round of pool at the local pool house. That’s when his patience is tested. But he just leans back, shoots his pool and goes home. He cranks up some rhumba, and whispers, “One day, I’ll retire in the village and keep goats.”

Still, tomorrow morning, he’ll be back at it; guarding the skies, one bag-search at a time.

3. Davi – The Matatu Donda!

Davi,  the energy plug of the streets. The man doesn’t walk; he bounces. He wakes up in Dagoretti, freshens up in record time, and is at the stage yelling “Tao! Tao! Wawili Tao!” before the sun is even fully awake.

His matatu, “One Term”, is more lit than clubs in Roysambu. Strobe lights, gengetone beats, and unmatched attitude. Davi runs his Matatu like a pro. Collecting fares, cracking jokes, shouting “Shukisha!” with the authority of a President. Besides, in Dagoretti they call him Ghetto president.

He’s got punchlines for days:

“Madam hakuna stage inaitwa hapa.”

“Bro, umepanda 2025 edition, fare ya 2022 ime-expire!”

Between dodging kanjos and negotiating with cops, Davi still dreams big. Someday, he wants to own his own fleet of matatus with Wi-Fi, tinted windows, and maybe his face painted on the side. Because in Nairobi, even chaos has ambition.

4. Msyoks – The Garbage King of Umoja.

Finally, meet Msyoks, the man who keeps Nairobi breathing. He wakes up at 5 a.m. in Kayole, walks hastly towards Umoja, his five year old mkokoteni in tow. One wheel leans, the other one squeaks, but it still rolls strong through this road every morning.

In Umoja, Msyoks is a neighborhood celebrity. Everyone knows him. Kids wave, mama mbogas call out, dogs don’t bark at him when he whistles down the street. His “mkoko” has graffiti that proudly reads:

“Nairobi, Shamba la Mawe!.”

Msyoks doesn’t just collect trash; he collects stories. He knows who broke up, who moved out, who still hasn’t paid rent. But he minds his business, mostly.

When the sun sets, you’ll find him at Mama Njeri’s kibanda, watching the news enjoying githeri and a cup of tea. He laughs loud, jokes even louder, and dreams of upgrading to a mkokoteni with “bearing za majuu.”

He may not wear a tie, but his work is noble. He’ll tell you proudly, “Mimi ni environmental consultant, bro!” and honestly, he’s not wrong.

These guys; different vibes, same struggle. Otieno pops champagne, Juma pops thermos lids, Davi pops matatu doors, and Msyoks pops jokes on demand. They live in different worlds but share one thing, the never-ending dance with Kanairo. The place where you can lose your wallet, your mind, and your Fuliza limit all in one afternoon. But somehow you still wake up the next day ready to try again.

That’s Nairobi. She humbles everyone equally. Whether you’re in Runda or Kayole, one thing’s for sure, you’re part of the same wild story. And if you’re lucky, maybe, just maybe, you’ll get to live to tell it.

Trade unions often get painted as loud, disruptive, or old-fashioned. But in truth, they remain one of the strongest defenders of workers’ rights and social justice in Kenya today.

In a world where privatization, outsourcing, and job insecurity are common, a single employee has little power to challenge a giant employer or even the government. A union gives workers that collective strength. It becomes their voice at the negotiating table and their shield against unfair treatment.

A good example is the Kenya Aviation Workers Union (KAWU) strike against the proposed ADANI takeover of Jomo Kenyatta International Airport.
Back in 2023, the deal was presented as a “strategic investment.” But for workers, it signaled uncertainty, possible job cuts, and the risk of surrendering a vital national asset to private control. KAWU saw the bigger picture. They mobilized, downed tools, and stood their ground under the banner #RejectADANI.

The strike disrupted flights, yes. But it also forced the government to rethink. In the end, the takeover collapsed. JKIA remained under public management, jobs were safeguarded, and Kenyans kept control of their most important airport.

That strike proved that unions are not just about higher pay. They are about justice, fairness, and protecting the public interest. A lone aviation worker could never have stopped the deal but united, through their union, workers influenced national policy. And the benefits extended to every Kenyan traveler.

For young workers especially, the GenZs, the lesson is clear: don’t stand on the sidelines. Join your union, understand your rights, and take part in shaping the future of work in Kenya. For the wider public, support unions when they stand up for fairness and accountability. Because when unions win, society wins too.

If love was measured by a star,
I’d gather each one, near and far.
But even the skies are not enough,
To hold the depth of what I love.

One infinity could never contain,
The way you heal, the way you remain.
So I promise you, with every breath,
A love that outlives even death.

Not once, but twice, beyond all time,
Two infinities, yours and mine.
Endless circles that intertwine,
Your soul forever tied to mine.

So let the universe fade away,
And still my heart will always stay.
For even eternity bends to see,
That my love for you is infinity,times two.

Oh, Nairobi. A dazzling city with a heartbeat louder than a Nganya’s stereo and a vibe smoother than your favourite TikTok influencer. To the normal eye, it’s a city of dreams where business deals meet brunch, and everyone’s social media profile is suspiciously glowing. But step beyond the billboards and the filters, and you’ll discover a plot twist worthy of a soap opera: love, lust, and a sprinkling of power games mixing together like an overly enthusiastic blender.

Now, in Nairobi’s love jungle, nothing is ever quite what it seems. People here have mastered the craft of saying “You’re the one” while simultaneously texting five other “ones.” It’s Shakespeare meets shenanigans, stories of commitment with footnotes of “but don’t ask questions.” You’ll hear vows so poetic you’d swear they were ghostwritten by Ngugi Wa Thiong’o, only to find out they were edited from last week’s situationship.😂

Cheating? It’s so common, Nairobians might start putting “part-time lover” on their CVs. Double lives are more popular than Netflix accounts, and you’ll meet people who can juggle romantic partners the way hawkers juggle phone covers in traffic. Some chase the thrill of the hunt, others chase wallets, and a few just got bored between football matches.

And then there’s the apology crew, those who offer heartfelt “sorry baby, I’ll change” speeches like it’s their side hustle. You’ll hear tearful confessions and promises of transformation, only for the script to repeat faster than a TikTok trend. They don’t really change, and they are just sorry they were caught. They just get better at acting surprised when you catch them again.

Lurking underneath all this rom-com chaos is the real puppet master: power. Whether it’s money, status, or simply having more social media followers, it pulls strings like a silent DJ at a really awkward “Disco Matanga”. Relationships tiptoe the edge of transactions, and sometimes, it feels like falling in love requires a tax clearance certificate, a certificate of good conduct and a lifestyle audit.

But hey, we still love our Nairobi albeit with one eye open and receipts saved. If you navigate it with charm, caution, and a pinch of streetwise grace, you might just sidestep the landmines. Or you’ll at least have good stories to tell at your next nyama choma hangout. Either way, welcome to the “Big bedroom”… I mean, city.

There was a time when we were inseparable—siblings who played, fought, dreamed, and grew up together. We knew each other’s secrets, protected one another from bullies, and whispered about our plans for the future late into the night. Back then, family was everything. We were each other’s first friends. But somewhere along the way, the laughter faded, replaced by silence, bitterness, and distance.

What happened?

In many families, the erosion of sibling bonds begins quietly. Sometimes it starts with favoritism—an unspoken but deeply felt tilt by one or both parents. One child is praised more, given more leeway, or protected more fiercely. Another is compared, criticized, or quietly overlooked. The wounds of favoritism run deep. Even if it wasn’t intended maliciously, the child who felt sidelined grows up believing they are less loved, and the child favored often grows blind to their own privilege within the family.

These cracks grow wider in times of crisis. Divorce or separation of parents shifts the family’s emotional center. Loyalties get tested. Some children take sides. Others feel abandoned altogether. What was once a united front becomes divided homes and scattered affections. The children who once huddled together against the world are now navigating fractured households—and fractured relationships with each other.

Then comes adulthood, and with it, success and struggle. Some siblings rise quickly—financially stable, well-connected, respected. Others stumble, facing unemployment, failed ventures, or personal hardships. In many families, the successful begin to look down on those still finding their footing. Conversations become judgmental. Visits grow rare. Humility is replaced with condescension. And suddenly, siblinghood begins to resemble a competition rather than a bond.

All this happens while time, quietly but cruelly, does its work. Aging parents begin to need their children more than ever—not just financially, but emotionally. Yet more often than not, it is the struggling sibling who remains close, not because they have less to do, but because they remember what it means to need someone. The successful ones, consumed by the busyness of their own lives, stay away—calls are missed, visits postponed, responsibilities deflected.

In some homes, mothers live with one child, usually the most dependable, while the father is left alone—aging in the village, neglected, as if love and duty now have a location limit. The parent who once gave their all is now seen as an afterthought. And the child who bears the weight of care is silently resentful, carrying both emotional and physical burdens.

So, what do we do when the family we once knew begins to feel like strangers?

1. Acknowledge the pain. It’s okay to grieve what was lost. It’s okay to admit that favoritism hurt, that divorce was disorienting, that being looked down upon by a sibling cuts deep.

2. Have the hard conversations. They won’t be easy, but healing begins with honesty. Sit down. Talk. Ask. Listen. Not to argue or defend, but to understand.

3. Rebuild with intention. Relationships don’t heal by accident. Start small. A call. A message. A visit. Let time work with you instead of against you.

4. Care for aging parents—together. It’s not about who they live with, but how they’re loved. Spread the responsibility fairly. No one should grow old feeling abandoned.

5. Stay humble. Success is never a license to disrespect. Your sibling’s struggle doesn’t make them less. If anything, it’s a reason to lean in, not pull away.

Families aren’t perfect. They’re made of flawed people trying their best. But it is in family that we often find our deepest sense of belonging—or our deepest wounds. The good news is, it’s never too late to choose love again. To repair what was broken. To remind each other that before life got complicated, we were just kids who loved each other fiercely.

Let’s find our way back!!

Here is a poem about mental health.

The struggles of the victims; The onlooker’s perspective.
by Mutwiri Njeru – Baranya .

He was kind and forgiving,
He was loyal and understanding.
He was humble and honest,
He was Generous and Patient.
Empathetic and Compassionate.

No one saw it coming!
And the way he was charming?
And the way he used to laugh?
His jokes were the heart of the party.
He took care of everyone.

No one knew of his fears,
No one saw the tears.
No one felt his pain.
No one knew of the sleepless nights.
No one knew of the financial strain.

I wish he could have reached out.
I wish he could have come to me.
I wish I knew what he was going through.
Was it  money?Was it Love?
“I can’t lose hope.”, they’ll say.
“Life is so beautiful to abandon.”
But in the end we are all alone.
And No one is coming to save us.

🚨Please, if you or anyone you know is struggling with mental health or suicidal thoughts. Visit Befrienders Kenya on Facebook or at http://www.befrienders.org or call them on 0722178177 and you will be connected with a Counselor.

Let’s take care of each other.