This Is Laikipia

This Is Laikipia I'm a social observer with a keen interest in social issues, humanity and the everyday stories that shape our society.

Thingithu Estate is waking up to difficult news. Humphrey, a young boda boda operator known to many in the area, has all...
15/05/2026

Thingithu Estate is waking up to difficult news. Humphrey, a young boda boda operator known to many in the area, has allegedly taken his own life.

The reason being whispered from one compound to the next: his wife left him for another man.

Humphrey was a hardworking man. The kind you'd flag down at the stage and he'd greet you with a nod, not a complaint. He knew the shortcuts. He knew the regulars. He spent his days carrying other people to their destinations; business meetings, hospital visits, market runs, school pickups.

But last night, the man who helped everyone else move forward decided he could no longer move himself.

RIP Humphrey

Disclaimer: This post is a call to conversation about the silent crisis of men's mental health. If you or someone you know is struggling, please reach out. There is help. There is hope.

1. Befrienders Kenya: +254 722 178 177
2. Nanyuki Cottage Hospital Mental Health Services – available for walk-in support.
3. Oasis Africa: +254 725 753 893

Most Kenyan residents see those Tropic Air helicopters hovering over the rally stages, capturing those iconic aerial sho...
15/05/2026

Most Kenyan residents see those Tropic Air helicopters hovering over the rally stages, capturing those iconic aerial shots that go global, and think, "Hawa watu wanajua tu kufanya kazi ya watalii na sports."

Not exactly.

When the emergency call comes from high up on Mt. Kenya (from a climber gasping for oxygen, a porter with a broken limb, a tourist whose body has surrendered to the altitude) Tropic Air doesn't hesitate. They don't ask if the camera crew is available. They ask for coordinates.

In partnership with Rescue Connect, they run casualty evacuations from Mt. Kenya. Casevac. The kind of operation where time is not measured in hours but in heartbeats. The kind where a helicopter becomes an ambulance, a pilot becomes a lifeline, and a few minutes can mean the difference between a story told in a hospital bed and one told at a funeral.

Here's how it works: The call comes in. From a tour operator, a distressed climber, or directly from Rescue Connect. Tropic Air's response is immediate—because at 4,000 meters above sea level, the body doesn't negotiate. It shuts down. Swiftly. Coldly.

They extract the patient, navigate the treacherous mountain weather, and head straight for Nanyuki Cottage Hospital. Not Nairobi. Not some fancy facility abroad. Nanyuki Cottage. Because this hospital has quietly become one of the most experienced facilities in handling high altitude medical emergencies. The doctors there know what a brain starved of oxygen looks like. They've seen the frostbite. They've treated the pulmonary edemas. They are the unsung specialists of the mountain's cruel aftermath.

The mountain giveth, the mountain taketh( see previous posts of people we wrote about dying on the mountain)... and sometimes, Tropic Air retrieveth

Think about what that means for a moment. The same helicopters that film the Safari Rally (the dust, the speed, the adrenaline) are the same ones that fly into the silence of the peaks to pick up a broken body.

The contrast couldn't be starker. One day, the rotors are spinning for a global audience; the next, they're spinning for a single life, alone in the cold, praying the sound gets closer.

And it's not just tourists. It's porters, guides and locals who know the mountain better than anyone but who are just as vulnerable to its sudden moods.

The mountain doesn't discriminate between a paying client and a local legend. When it strikes, Tropic Air answers.

This town is not just a stopover for rally fans or a base for hikers. We are the last point of civilization before the wild begins. And the fact that we have a helicopter service that can pluck a dying climber off a slope and have them in a competent ER within minutes? That's not just a convenience. That's a shield. That's the reason some families get to welcome their loved one home instead of receiving a flagged coffin.

It also quietly raises the bar for our local healthcare. Every time Nanyuki Cottage Hospital stabilizes a severe altitude case that was flown in by Tropic Air, they are not just saving a life; they are proving that high-stakes medicine doesn't only happen in Nairobi. It happens here. In our backyard.

If you've been in this town long enough, you don't need directions to Nyakio Restaurant and Bar. You just know it. One o...
14/05/2026

If you've been in this town long enough, you don't need directions to Nyakio Restaurant and Bar. You just know it. One of the oldest joints still standing. A place that has seen more money pass over its counter than some banks.

Back in the day, this was where the Doldol bomb survivors came to spend. Men who had walked through fire and lived to tell the tale. They'd roll into Nyakio with their compensation money, their Njeri and Wairimu waiting, and an appetite for life that only survivors understand.

Then came the herdsmen. The ones who sold cattle and woke up with Ksh 3 million, Ksh 10 million in their pockets and absolutely no financial literacy to tame it. They'd book the entire bar. The whole thing. Take a room at the back. And swim as fast as they could in the Strait of Hormuz; a metaphor that needs no translation for anyone who knows what happened in those back rooms when a Maasai herdsman decided today was the day to burn every shilling before the sun set.

Nyakio saw it all. The money. The madness. The mornings after. And through every season, every wave of spenders, every shift in Nanyuki's nightlife, there was one constant: Madam Purity.

The supervisor. The woman who kept the chaos in order. The one who knew which customer needed a drink and which one needed a talking-to. She wasn't just staff. She was the soul of that establishment. The face you expected to see when you walked in. The voice that made sure the till balanced and the madness stayed manageable.

Now she's gone.

Nyakio will remain. The drinks will still pour. The rooms at the back will still hold their secrets. But the place will never quite feel the same. Because a joint like that isn't just walls and a liquor license. It's the people who hold it together. And Madam Purity held it together for longer than most of us can remember.

Rest in peace, Madam Purity.

We received a message from a follower. Her name is Brenda Okumu. She is pregnant. Almost putting to bed. And she is carr...
14/05/2026

We received a message from a follower. Her name is Brenda Okumu. She is pregnant. Almost putting to bed. And she is carrying a weight no expectant mother should carry.

Her husband, Stephen Otieno Odack, is lying in Huruma Hospital. Ward 2, Bed 3. He was taken there on April 24th. A vein on the right side of his head had failed. The left side of his body stopped working completely. The doctors said it was a stroke.

The journey to get him help was already a nightmare. Huruma requested a head scan.

They directed them to Nanyuki Hospital. Brenda and the family rushed him there at 4 AM. They arrived. No doctors. No nurses. Just a gate man. In the cold, in the dark, with a man whose brain was bleeding time.

They took him back to Huruma. And there, he has been fighting ever since. Slowly improving. Slowly reclaiming what the stroke stole. Last Wednesday, the doctors said he was stable. Discharge was given. But there's a condition: he needs physiotherapy after discharge. And there's a bill. A bill that keeps accumulating while the family scrambles.

The family has only managed to raise Ksh 4,000. The rest? Still hanging over a wife who is about to give birth to a child whose father is fighting to walk again.

This is not a scam. This is not a sob story dressed for likes. This is a Nanyuki family that has run out of options and is now hoping that the community sees them.

How You Can Help

If you can contribute (any amount, no matter how small) reach out directly to Brenda:

0799549200 (Brenda Okumu, wife)
0702383181 (Stephen Otieno Odack, patient line)

If you cannot send money, send a word of encouragement. Send a prayer. Send a share. Someone in your network might be the angel this family has been praying for.

To the doctors and staff at Huruma Hospital: thank you for the care so far. But please, walk with this family. They are not deadbeats. They are not running from the bill. They are just drowning.

A Laikipia Leader, president Museveni's swearing in, a miniskirt and a thousand unanswered questions.The images are out....
14/05/2026

A Laikipia Leader, president Museveni's swearing in, a miniskirt and a thousand unanswered questions.

The images are out. A prominent female leader from Laikipia County attended the high-profile swearing-in of President Yoweri Museveni in Kampala.

The event was heavy with protocol. Heads of state. Diplomats. Military honours. The kind of occasion where every gesture carries weight.

And then, there she was. In a miniskirt so short it left her thighs fully exposed to the public glare of a presidential ceremony.

Now, the internet is doing what the internet does.

Some are laughing.

Some are outraged.

Some are typing "her body, her choice" with the fury of a thousand keyboards.

But beneath the noise is a question that deserves a sober, uncomfortable conversation.

What does a leader's dressing say about their understanding of the room? Etiquette and general self awareness.

This is not about policing women's bodies. It's about situational intelligence.

There is a dress code for every occasion; written or unwritten.

You don't wear jeans to a state banquet.

You don't wear a swimsuit to a funeral.

And when you are representing not just yourself but an entire country and county ( This Is Laikipia ) at a presidential swearing-in, you are expected to understand the gravity of the moment.

A miniskirt at a club? Fine. At a birthday party? Whatever.

At an event where heads of state sit in military regalia and the national anthem plays? That's not fashion. That's a message. And the question is: what message was she sending?

Some will argue that she is a grown woman, free to wear what she wants. They will call this post outdated, patriarchal, and invasive.

They will say that a woman's thighs are not a scandal.

But others (many others especially the women guild at PCEA where she is a member also) will look at those images and feel a quiet discomfort they can't fully articulate.

Not because they hate women. Because they understand that leadership carries a symbolic weight.

Because they know that in a world of cameras and diplomatic optics, every inch of exposed skin is a statement, whether intended or not.

The age and dignity factor: This is not a young university student experimenting with style.

This is a leader of a certain age. A mother. A representative of a people known for their modesty and cultural pride.

There is something deeply jarring about seeing a woman of her stature, at her stage in life, dressed like she was heading to a rooftop day party in Nairobi, not a solemn state function in Kampala.

It raises uncomfortable questions about self-awareness, about the company she keeps, about whether she read the room or simply didn't care.

Some will call this "age-shaming." Others will call it "holding leaders to a standard."

The line between the two is thin. But the conversation cannot be avoided simply because it's uncomfortable.

The double standard trap: Now, let's anticipate the defenders. They will say: "But men attend events in tight suits and nobody complains."

True. Men's clothing, by its nature, is less revealing. A well-tailored suit doesn't expose flesh. It covers. It conceals. It communicates power through structure, not skin.

A miniskirt at a presidential event doesn't communicate power.

It communicates something else entirely.

And if you're a female leader who has fought hard to be taken seriously in a male dominated political space, why would you hand your critics a weapon and say, "Here, use this"?

This is not about shrinking women into boxes.

It's about understanding that optics matter. And in leadership, optics are half the battle.

Nitawaacha na swali moja: Is this a case of a woman exercising her bodily autonomy, and we should all mind our own business?

Or is it a case of a leader who fundamentally misread the gravity of a diplomatic occasion?

And the deeper question: do we, as a society, have any right to expect our leaders (male or female) to dress in a manner that reflects the dignity of the offices they hold and the events they attend?

Disclaimer: This post is a commentary on leadership and public optics, not an attack on any individual's character. We believe in the dignity of women and the importance of situational awareness in public service. The conversation is about standards, not shaming.

Silva Plaza just raised the bar. Literally.A few weeks ago, we called out Nanyuki's landlords. We asked why, in a growin...
14/05/2026

Silva Plaza just raised the bar. Literally.

A few weeks ago, we called out Nanyuki's landlords. We asked why, in a growing town with multi-storey buildings sprouting like weeds, almost no one thought to include a lift.

We spoke about the elderly woman with bad knees who has to choose between her health and her housing. The mother with a stroller who treats every floor like a mountain. The person in a wheelchair who has been made to feel invisible by every staircase in this town.

We listed the buildings that got it right. Bemwaki Towers. Kishan Towers. Soyama. A painfully short list.

Today, that list grows by one. And it's a big one.

Silva Plaza is Getting a Lift.

This is not just any building. Silva Plaza is one of the busiest hubs in Nanyuki. It houses NSSF. Aga Khan Hospital. Hallmark Institute. Mwangi Advocates. Heritage Insurance. Kenya Institute of Management studies.

High-traffic, high-profile tenants serving hundreds of people every single day.

And until now, anyone who couldn't climb stairs was simply excluded from accessing those services. Imagine needing to see a doctor at Aga Khan and being told, "Pole, the stairs are the only way." Imagine a pensioner needing NSSF services and standing at the ground floor, staring up at a staircase like it's a locked door.

Silva Plaza looked at that reality and said: "Not on our watch."

They've started the project. A lift. In a building that was probably designed years ago without one, they're going back, retrofitting, spending real money to make sure that no one (regardless of physical ability) is locked out of the services housed under that roof.

This is not just about convenience. This is about dignity.

This is about the recognition that people with physical challenges are not an afterthought.

They are citizens. They are clients. They are patients. They are students. They deserve to access the same services as everyone else without feeling like a burden.

When a private developer makes this choice without being forced by law, it sends a message: "I see you. I built this for you too."

That message is rare in Nanyuki. It should be common.

It's a challenge to other landlords in this town with multiple floors and zero lifts: Silva Plaza just embarrassed you.

They didn't wait for a lawsuit. They didn't wait for the county to force their hand. They just did it. In a busy, existing building, disrupting their own operations to make accessibility a priority.

What's your excuse? You collect rent from businesses that serve the public. The public includes people who cannot climb stairs. If your building locks them out, you are not just a landlord. You are a gatekeeper of exclusion. And the town is watching.

Silva Plaza Pongezi. This is leadership. Not the kind that requires a press conference. The kind that requires a crane, construction dust, and a commitment to doing what's right even when it costs more.

The list is growing. Bemwaki. Kishan. Soyama. Now Silva Plaza. May it grow faster.

He finally woke up, but Nanyuki, look at what it's costing you.A few days ago, we put up that garbage post. The one that...
13/05/2026

He finally woke up, but Nanyuki, look at what it's costing you.

A few days ago, we put up that garbage post. The one that showed our town drowning in its own filth. Piles in the estates. Sanitary pads on the roadside. A dumpster truck that had allegedly run out of fuel. And a municipality that seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Something shifted.

This week, the municipality manager resurfaced. And with him, a hired truck. A low-loader tractor. Moving through town. Gathering the uncollected waste. Even venturing into the estates that had been forgotten.

Good. The garbage is being collected. The stench is receding. The public health disaster we warned about is, for now, being averted.

But let's not clap too quickly. Let's ask the uncomfortable question that the grateful resident might forget but the taxpayer must never forget. Those business owners and residents paying taxes daily to the municipality.

Why are we hiring when we already own?

The Nanyuki Municipality has three garbage trucks. Three. Not one. Not borrowed. Fully owned, presumably fully maintained, and fully fuelled by the same budget that pays the salaries of the employees hired specifically to collect waste.

So why, after weeks of silence and a single viral post, is the solution not to fuel those trucks and deploy those employees… but to hire a private contractor?

The low-loader tractor you see crawling through the estates charges not less than Ksh 5,000 per hour. Five thousand shillings. Every hour. For work that should be done by our own trucks, driven by our own drivers, using fuel that should already be budgeted for.

How many hours has that tractor been running?

How many days will it run? And how much of that money (public money, your money) is flowing into private hands because the municipality couldn't do what it was created to do?

The tenderpreneur's smile

Somewhere in this town, a private contractor is smiling.

Not because he's providing an emergency service.

Because an emergency was allowed to happen.

Because the trucks that should be on the road were parked.

Because the employees who should be collecting waste were idle.

And because the crisis grew so large that the municipality had no choice but to call him in.

This is the script. Create a crisis. Defund the public solution. Wait for the public to scream. Then bring in the private player at a premium rate and call it "decisive action."

We're not saying this is what happened. We're asking you to look at the sequence and draw your own conclusions.

The Questions the Manager should answer

We are glad the garbage is moving. We are glad the estates are breathing again. But gratitude is not accountability. And the manager owes this town answers:

1. Why were the three municipal trucks not deployed first? Were they broken, or just without fuel?

2. How much is this private hire costing the municipality per day? Per week? And from which budget line is the money being drawn?

3. Why were municipal employees; already on the payroll; not mobilized to do this work before the crisis peaked?

4. Is this a one-time emergency measure, or are we quietly transitioning to a model where private contractors do what public servants were hired to do, at three times the cost?

A Cautious Thank You

Nanyuki, we need your eyes.Her name is Beyonce Apiyo. She's a student at Inooro Girls; one of our own, right here in tow...
13/05/2026

Nanyuki, we need your eyes.

Her name is Beyonce Apiyo. She's a student at Inooro Girls; one of our own, right here in town. On Monday, May 2nd, at around 6:30 PM, she left her father's home in Bluegum. She hasn't been seen since.

Sixteen years old. The age where you should be worrying about exams and friendships, not missing.

We don't know the full circumstances. We don't need to.

What we need is for every person reading this to stop scrolling and look at her face. Really look. Then look around you. At the matatu stage. At the market. At the church. At the neighbour's compound where a new girl has been staying quietly.

Someone in this town knows where Beyonce is. Someone saw something. Someone heard a conversation they dismissed as nothing. That "nothing" might be the clue that brings a daughter back to her family.

If you have any information (any at all) call:

· 0795705950
· 0722662698

No tip is too small. No lead is insignificant. The family is waiting. The school is waiting. This town is waiting.

Beyonce, if you're reading this:

Wherever you are, whatever happened, whatever made you leave;you are not in trouble. Your family wants you home. Not explanations first. Just you. Safe. Walking back through the gate. Come back, girl. The space at the table is still yours.

Share this post. Let it travel from Bluegum to Likii, from Majengo to Thingithu, from Nanyuki to every town where someone might have seen her face. A missing child is not just a family's crisis. It's a community's test.

Let's pass this one.

If you've seen Beyonce or have any information, please don't stay silent. Pick up the phone. Make the call. Bring her home.

13/05/2026

A Kenyan motorist confronts a police officer for blocking traffic on a busy street in Nairobi CBD.

Nanyuki town's current situation
13/05/2026

Nanyuki town's current situation

Let me tell you what happens when a marriage dies in the public eye. The lawyers get paid. The assets get divided. And s...
13/05/2026

Let me tell you what happens when a marriage dies in the public eye. The lawyers get paid. The assets get divided. And sometimes (just sometimes) a luxury German sedan ends up on the side of a Ruiru road with cabbages where the passengers used to be.

The Mercedes E250 that once belonged to Celestine Ndinda aka Wakavinye, the ex-wife of comedian Njugush; is no longer a symbol of status. It has been repurposed. Stripped of its leather-seated dignity. Fitted with wooden shelves. Parked permanently by the roadside, selling cabbages and sukuma wiki to anyone with twenty shillings and an appetite.

Locals now treat it like a public market stall.

Bargaining for vegetables as if they're negotiating matatu fare. The same vehicle that once carried a woman who lived the soft life, who posted the vacations and the matching outfits and the "blessed" captions, is now a makeshift grocery store.

The irony is so thick you could harvest it, bundle it, and sell it right next to the spinach.

Here is the part that should make you pause and think.

That Mercedes did not downgrade itself. It was a gift.

A grand romantic gesture. Njugush drove it into their Ruiru home, wrapped in a red ribbon, as a surprise for his wife. A white, sleek, German-engineered declaration of love. That moment was filmed. It was posted. It was shared as proof that this couple had made it.

Fast forward. The marriage collapsed. Cheating allegations surfaced. Courtrooms. Custody battles. DNA tests.

Properties hidden in mothers' names. And the Mercedes? It became just another asset in the pile of things to be divided.

And now it sits by a roadside in Ruiru, not because someone wanted to start a vegetable business, but because the life it represented no longer exists.

When a marriage dies, the symbols of that marriage lose their meaning. The car doesn't remember the red ribbon. It doesn't remember the smile when she saw it for the first time. It only knows that the title was transferred, the interior was gutted, and now a stranger is asking if the sukuma wiki is fresh.

There is a lesson here for both men and women, but especially for men who think that buying a woman a luxury car locks her loyalty in place.

It does not.

You can gift a Mercedes, a Range Rover, a house in Ruiru, a business, a brand, your name, your future.

And when the relationship ends (whether through infidelity, boredom, or just the slow death of affection) those things become either leverage in a courtroom or props in a roadside drama that the public will laugh at.

Njugush provided. Njugush built. Njugush gifted. And yet, here we are. The Mercedes of the woman who was once his wife is now a vegetable stall. You can interpret that however you want. Some will say it's petty revenge.

Others will say it's just business. But everyone should agree on one thing: nothing that can be repossessed, repurposed, or fought over in court is a true investment.

But let's flip it for a second, because this is also a story about resilience disguised as absurdity.

A luxury car that once cost millions of shillings is now generating daily income. Not from Uber. Not from a chauffeur service. From vegetables.

The same way Njugush built his comedy career from the ground up, this Mercedes has been sent back to the ground floor. No more red carpets. Just red onions.

There is a certain poetry in that. In a country where status symbols are worshipped like small gods, watching a Mercedes E250 become a kiosk is a reminder that utility outlasts vanity. The car still has value. Just not the kind it was built for.

And perhaps that's the real lesson for everyone reading this: build things that cannot be stripped down and turned into a vegetable stall. Build character. Build peace. Build a relationship with your children. Build skills. Build a reputation that doesn't depend on what's parked in your driveway.

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