They arrive with dreams folded in passport sleeves — young, hopeful, and naive. Their eyes still carry the glow of home, their laughter still tastes of mangoes and rain from distant hills. Fresh from campuses, hostels, or dusty lanes of Njoro, they step into a foreign land where everything smells new — the air, the money, the men. And that’s where the game begins.
In university, they used to call it “kwachua fresha.” A season of hunting disguised as love. Every new intake meant new faces, new hearts, and new victims. Young men, veterans of the game, sharpened their charm like hunters preparing for sport. They knew the cycle: today’s fresh catch becomes tomorrow’s discard. What began as youthful adventure has evolved into a global habit — a tragic replay of broken hearts and temporary thrills.
Now, the same drama unfolds abroad. The same men who once roamed campus corridors now prowl foreign cities, eyes scanning for the next “fresh import.” They speak softly, buy lattes, promise stability, and whisper “you’re different.” But beneath those smooth tones lies a pattern older than love itself — the illusion of affection, the transaction of attention.
Faridah’s story mirrors many. She came full of hope, armed with ambition and innocence. But the veterans of pick and drop found her. They adored her freshness, paraded her beauty, and whispered dreams into her ears. For a moment, she believed love had found her across oceans. But when she spoke of building a family, of children and commitment, the tone shifted. “I don’t want kids,” he said. “I just want to live my life.”
And just like that, the sparkle dimmed. She became another chapter in a recycled script — the story of many who learn that in this new world, freshness expires fast.
There’s something tragic about how society has turned affection into appetite. A girl’s arrival becomes a countdown; her worth measured not by her mind or dreams but by her novelty. And men — some driven by loneliness, others by conquest — become consumers in a marketplace of fleeting affection. What’s left behind are girls like Faridah, who trade innocence for experience too soon, learning that beauty and purity are not armor in a world addicted to the new.
But let’s not just blame the men. The culture that glamorizes “catching a fresha” feeds on insecurity and brokenness. It teaches both men and women that people are disposable, that connection is temporary, that love is a race against the next arrival. It’s a cycle that leaves everyone emptier than before.
So maybe the lesson here isn’t just about Faridah or the men who used her. It’s about us — a generation confusing validation for value, adventure for affection, desire for destiny.
Freshness fades, but character matures. Attraction draws eyes, but integrity holds hearts. The sooner we learn that, the fewer hearts we’ll have to bury under the rubble of temporary thrill.
Because love - real love - is not in catching the new. It's in keeping what is true!
In university, they used to call it “kwachua fresha.” A season of hunting disguised as love. Every new intake meant new faces, new hearts, and new victims. Young men, veterans of the game, sharpened their charm like hunters preparing for sport. They knew the cycle: today’s fresh catch becomes tomorrow’s discard. What began as youthful adventure has evolved into a global habit — a tragic replay of broken hearts and temporary thrills.
Now, the same drama unfolds abroad. The same men who once roamed campus corridors now prowl foreign cities, eyes scanning for the next “fresh import.” They speak softly, buy lattes, promise stability, and whisper “you’re different.” But beneath those smooth tones lies a pattern older than love itself — the illusion of affection, the transaction of attention.
Faridah’s story mirrors many. She came full of hope, armed with ambition and innocence. But the veterans of pick and drop found her. They adored her freshness, paraded her beauty, and whispered dreams into her ears. For a moment, she believed love had found her across oceans. But when she spoke of building a family, of children and commitment, the tone shifted. “I don’t want kids,” he said. “I just want to live my life.”
And just like that, the sparkle dimmed. She became another chapter in a recycled script — the story of many who learn that in this new world, freshness expires fast.
There’s something tragic about how society has turned affection into appetite. A girl’s arrival becomes a countdown; her worth measured not by her mind or dreams but by her novelty. And men — some driven by loneliness, others by conquest — become consumers in a marketplace of fleeting affection. What’s left behind are girls like Faridah, who trade innocence for experience too soon, learning that beauty and purity are not armor in a world addicted to the new.
But let’s not just blame the men. The culture that glamorizes “catching a fresha” feeds on insecurity and brokenness. It teaches both men and women that people are disposable, that connection is temporary, that love is a race against the next arrival. It’s a cycle that leaves everyone emptier than before.
So maybe the lesson here isn’t just about Faridah or the men who used her. It’s about us — a generation confusing validation for value, adventure for affection, desire for destiny.
Freshness fades, but character matures. Attraction draws eyes, but integrity holds hearts. The sooner we learn that, the fewer hearts we’ll have to bury under the rubble of temporary thrill.
Because love - real love - is not in catching the new. It's in keeping what is true!
