There are stories Kenyans tell about people living abroad that, if you listen carefully, you might conclude that these people have relocated to another planet where the laws of time, human behaviour, and common sense are completely different. Ask someone what their relative abroad is doing, and you will hear fascinating accounts.
Apparently, people abroad are always busy. They are so busy that they cannot make a phone call, receive a phone call, or even respond to a simple WhatsApp message. Some have become so professionally occupied that picking up a phone seems to require approval from their employers, immigration officers, and perhaps the president of the country where they reside.
Whenever I hear these stories, I simply say, "Karimu!" Honestly, where did this narration originate? Who sat down and convinced Kenyans that everybody abroad is permanently engaged in some industrial activity? Who invented the idea that people abroad wake up, brush their teeth, rush to work, return home, sleep, and repeat the process without ever finding time to communicate with human beings back in Kenya? I suspect somebody somewhere started this story as an excuse for not answering phone calls, and the rest of the country accepted it as an established international fact.
Let me tell you something. People abroad have time. Plenty of it! The problem is not the availability of time; it is the availability of interest. If you are among their darling friends, you will discover that these people can talk until you begin wondering whether they have abandoned their employment. They will call you, receive your calls, exchange jokes, discuss family matters, and even participate in conversations that have absolutely no contribution to the development of humanity. But if you are not in their preferred category, you will be treated to the famous international explanation: "I was working."
You can call on Monday, and the person is working. You call on Tuesday, and the person is still working. On Wednesday, the person is working overtime. By Thursday, you begin wondering whether the company has employed your relative as a machine. You might even start praying for their employer to introduce annual leave so that your relative can remember that they have people back home.
Yet, if you accidentally appear in their preferred WhatsApp group, you will discover that the same person has the energy to participate in a three-hour discussion about a village disagreement that happened twenty years ago. Suddenly, the working schedule becomes flexible. Break time becomes unlimited. The person who cannot find two minutes to answer your call can spend an entire evening laughing at somebody's TikTok video. The truth is that some people abroad are not necessarily busy working. They are busy doing other things, and some of those things are quite entertaining.
Take Kenyan TikTok, for instance. There are people who spend a considerable part of their day consuming what I can only describe as Kenyan TikTok trash. They know the latest scandals, quarrels, accusations, relationships, breakups, and online confrontations. They can tell you which TikToker insulted another, who responded, who went live, and who threatened to expose somebody's secrets. They follow these developments with the seriousness of people monitoring a national security crisis.
Others are loyal viewers of Citizen TV. They follow Kenyan politics so closely that you might think they are preparing to contest in the next general election. They know who said what, who was interrupted, who walked out of an interview, and who is fighting with whom. Some even participate in political discussions as though their opinions are required before Parliament can proceed with its business.
Then there are those whose entertainment revolves around Ngoni and Gathaiya, Mansaimo and Katta, Wakirumba, and other familiar personalities who keep Kikuyu audiences entertained. These people have mastered the entertainment industry back home. They know the programmes, the personalities, the jokes, and the ongoing discussions. You can wake them up in the middle of the night and ask about a trending issue in Kikuyu entertainment, and they will give you a detailed analysis. But ask them to return your phone call, and suddenly they are working in a highly classified department where employees are prohibited from communicating with outsiders.
The biggest surprise, however, is that some people abroad have discovered a way of working in Kenya without physically being in Kenya. They are remote managers, agricultural inspectors, construction supervisors, security officers, and neighbourhood intelligence directors. Their offices are thousands of kilometres away, but their eyes are permanently stationed in Kenyan compounds.
Thanks to CCTV cameras, some homeowners abroad have transformed their houses into surveillance centres. They can monitor activities in their compounds from the comfort of their living rooms abroad. They know when the gate opens, when the watchman leaves his post, when the gardener arrives, and when somebody enters the compound.
Some have become so attached to their CCTV cameras that you would think they are watching a live television series titled Life in My Compound. Every movement is an episode. Every visitor is a new character. Every unusual activity deserves an investigation.
If you live among many people abroad, you will discover that some of them are extraordinarily particular about the smallest things. You will hear complaints about cows that have not been given enough grass, chickens that have not been fed on time, compounds that have not been swept properly, and vegetables that have been harvested before they reached the expected size.
Imagine somebody sitting in a warm house abroad, enjoying a cup of coffee, and suddenly noticing through a CCTV camera that the person looking after their cows has passed near the cowshed without carrying grass. The next thing is a phone call to Kenya. "Mbona hujapeleka nyasi kwa ng'ombe?"
The poor caretaker might be wondering how the employer knows what he has been doing. He has not received any report from anybody. Nobody has called to complain. He has simply walked past the cowshed, but somebody thousands of kilometres away has already detected the offence.
You can even imagine the employer zooming in on the camera to establish whether the caretaker was carrying a panga, a rope, or perhaps an empty sack. At this rate, the cows might soon be required to sign an attendance register before receiving their grass.
I once lived with someone who took this remote supervision business to another level. The gentleman was constructing his house back in Kenya, and he could spend the entire day watching the mafundi through CCTV cameras. Yaani, jamaa amekaa kwa camera whole day watching mafundi!
I am not exaggerating. He could sit there following construction activities as though he were physically at the site. One fundi picks up a block, he watches. Another mixes cement, he watches. Somebody walks away, he notices. If a worker pauses to wipe sweat from his forehead, I suspect the employer would have liked to know whether that was an authorised break.
I sometimes wondered what the fundis thought about those cameras. Perhaps they had developed the habit of looking directly into them before taking their lunch. Maybe they even greeted the owner every morning, knowing that he was watching from abroad. "Habari ya asubuhi, boss!" After all, you never know when the boss might be looking.
The funniest thing is that these same people can spend hours supervising construction workers but cannot spend five minutes checking on their relatives. They can monitor the movement of cement, sand, and building stones, but they cannot monitor the emotional well-being of their own family members. They know when a fundi arrives at the site, but they might not know when their own mother last went to hospital.
Perhaps we should introduce a new category of employment for such people: International CCTV Managers. Their job description would include monitoring cows, supervising mafundi, inspecting compounds, and ensuring that nobody in Kenya behaves contrary to their expectations.
And if you think CCTV surveillance ends with construction and farming, you have not yet entered the interesting world of residential neighbourhoods. Let me tell you, renting a house in a neighbourhood populated by people living abroad can sometimes feel like enrolling in a reality television programme without your consent. You might pay your rent, furnish your house, settle down, and assume that you are entitled to a little privacy. Unfortunately, some neighbours have other plans.
There are people who seem to have appointed themselves as the neighbourhood intelligence department. They know who visits which house, who leaves early in the morning, who returns late at night, and who receives visitors when the spouse is away.
Somewhere abroad, somebody is receiving reports about activities in your compound. You might be enjoying your evening, completely unaware that your social life is being discussed in a WhatsApp conversation thousands of kilometres away.
The neighbourhood investigators know the girls who visit particular men. They know those who arrive during the day and those who prefer midnight visits. They know the regular visitors, the occasional visitors, and the mysterious visitors whose identities remain subjects of endless speculation.
If a married man receives a female visitor while his wife is away, the neighbourhood intelligence department might become particularly active. "Ule dem anakuja kwa nyumba ya fulani ni nani?" "Si unajua wife wake ako majuu?" "Na amekuwa akikuja saa ngapi?"
Before long, a simple visit has become an international investigation. The report is forwarded abroad, where it may be discussed with people who have absolutely no business knowing what happens inside somebody else's house.
Some people abroad know the alleged sidechicks of their tenants better than they know the tenants themselves. They know which girl comes on Friday, which one appears on Sunday, and which one seems to have a permanent arrangement with the household gate.
A man can be living quietly, paying rent on time, keeping his compound clean, and minding his own business, but somebody somewhere has already prepared a social biography of his visitors.
Imagine being a tenant and discovering that your landlord abroad knows the names of the ladies who visit you. You might begin wondering whether you should start registering visitors at the gate or seeking permission before inviting somebody for tea.
At this point, even the sidechicks deserve some sympathy. They might not know that their movements have become part of an international intelligence operation. They think they are visiting somebody, yet they are unknowingly appearing in a weekly neighbourhood surveillance report.
And the interesting thing is that some of these reports are discussed with people who have no connection whatsoever to the matter. Somebody abroad calls a friend in Kenya and begins with the innocent question, "How are things there?" Within five minutes, the conversation has moved from the weather to the activities of three households, two tenants, a watchman, and a woman who was seen entering a compound at 11:45 p.m. The person abroad may not know whether their own relative has eaten lunch, but they know that their neighbour's tenant received a female visitor on Tuesday. This is what I call misplaced priorities with an international address.
Of course, not everybody living abroad behaves this way. There are hardworking people who genuinely have demanding schedules. Some work long shifts, attend to children, manage families, and struggle with the pressures of living in foreign countries. Life abroad is not a permanent holiday, and nobody should pretend that earning a living in another country is always easy.
But let us also stop pretending that everybody abroad is too busy to communicate. Some people have simply perfected the art of selective availability. They have time for the people they want to talk to, the programmes they want to watch, and the activities they want to monitor. The rest of us are left to believe that they are working in underground factories where mobile phones are forbidden.
Perhaps the next time somebody tells you that their relative abroad cannot answer calls because they are always working, you should ask a few questions. Have you checked whether they are watching Citizen TV? Have you checked whether they are following Kenyan TikTok? Have you checked whether they are supervising their mafundi? Have you checked whether they are investigating the activities of their tenants? You might discover that the person is not as busy as you have been made to believe.
And to those living abroad, I have one small request. Please, remember that Kenya is not a television programme that you must monitor from morning to evening. Your cows can eat without receiving instructions from America. Your fundi can build a house without you supervising every block from Europe. Your tenants can receive visitors without their social lives becoming international news.
Install CCTV cameras for security, not to become the chief investigator of your neighbourhood. If you have time to monitor the movements of everybody in Kenya, surely you can find five minutes to call someone who misses you. After all, what is the point of crossing oceans to look for a better life if you spend your free time monitoring somebody else's life back home?
And please, the next time somebody tells me that people abroad are always busy, I will ask them one question: "Busy doing what? Building their houses, feeding their cows, watching TikTok, or investigating sidechicks?" Because from what I have observed, some people abroad are not short of time. They are simply short of interest in the people calling them!
Karimu gaka!
Whenever I hear these stories, I simply say, "Karimu!" Honestly, where did this narration originate? Who sat down and convinced Kenyans that everybody abroad is permanently engaged in some industrial activity? Who invented the idea that people abroad wake up, brush their teeth, rush to work, return home, sleep, and repeat the process without ever finding time to communicate with human beings back in Kenya? I suspect somebody somewhere started this story as an excuse for not answering phone calls, and the rest of the country accepted it as an established international fact.
Let me tell you something. People abroad have time. Plenty of it! The problem is not the availability of time; it is the availability of interest. If you are among their darling friends, you will discover that these people can talk until you begin wondering whether they have abandoned their employment. They will call you, receive your calls, exchange jokes, discuss family matters, and even participate in conversations that have absolutely no contribution to the development of humanity. But if you are not in their preferred category, you will be treated to the famous international explanation: "I was working."
You can call on Monday, and the person is working. You call on Tuesday, and the person is still working. On Wednesday, the person is working overtime. By Thursday, you begin wondering whether the company has employed your relative as a machine. You might even start praying for their employer to introduce annual leave so that your relative can remember that they have people back home.
Yet, if you accidentally appear in their preferred WhatsApp group, you will discover that the same person has the energy to participate in a three-hour discussion about a village disagreement that happened twenty years ago. Suddenly, the working schedule becomes flexible. Break time becomes unlimited. The person who cannot find two minutes to answer your call can spend an entire evening laughing at somebody's TikTok video. The truth is that some people abroad are not necessarily busy working. They are busy doing other things, and some of those things are quite entertaining.
Take Kenyan TikTok, for instance. There are people who spend a considerable part of their day consuming what I can only describe as Kenyan TikTok trash. They know the latest scandals, quarrels, accusations, relationships, breakups, and online confrontations. They can tell you which TikToker insulted another, who responded, who went live, and who threatened to expose somebody's secrets. They follow these developments with the seriousness of people monitoring a national security crisis.
Others are loyal viewers of Citizen TV. They follow Kenyan politics so closely that you might think they are preparing to contest in the next general election. They know who said what, who was interrupted, who walked out of an interview, and who is fighting with whom. Some even participate in political discussions as though their opinions are required before Parliament can proceed with its business.
Then there are those whose entertainment revolves around Ngoni and Gathaiya, Mansaimo and Katta, Wakirumba, and other familiar personalities who keep Kikuyu audiences entertained. These people have mastered the entertainment industry back home. They know the programmes, the personalities, the jokes, and the ongoing discussions. You can wake them up in the middle of the night and ask about a trending issue in Kikuyu entertainment, and they will give you a detailed analysis. But ask them to return your phone call, and suddenly they are working in a highly classified department where employees are prohibited from communicating with outsiders.
The biggest surprise, however, is that some people abroad have discovered a way of working in Kenya without physically being in Kenya. They are remote managers, agricultural inspectors, construction supervisors, security officers, and neighbourhood intelligence directors. Their offices are thousands of kilometres away, but their eyes are permanently stationed in Kenyan compounds.
Thanks to CCTV cameras, some homeowners abroad have transformed their houses into surveillance centres. They can monitor activities in their compounds from the comfort of their living rooms abroad. They know when the gate opens, when the watchman leaves his post, when the gardener arrives, and when somebody enters the compound.
Some have become so attached to their CCTV cameras that you would think they are watching a live television series titled Life in My Compound. Every movement is an episode. Every visitor is a new character. Every unusual activity deserves an investigation.
If you live among many people abroad, you will discover that some of them are extraordinarily particular about the smallest things. You will hear complaints about cows that have not been given enough grass, chickens that have not been fed on time, compounds that have not been swept properly, and vegetables that have been harvested before they reached the expected size.
Imagine somebody sitting in a warm house abroad, enjoying a cup of coffee, and suddenly noticing through a CCTV camera that the person looking after their cows has passed near the cowshed without carrying grass. The next thing is a phone call to Kenya. "Mbona hujapeleka nyasi kwa ng'ombe?"
The poor caretaker might be wondering how the employer knows what he has been doing. He has not received any report from anybody. Nobody has called to complain. He has simply walked past the cowshed, but somebody thousands of kilometres away has already detected the offence.
You can even imagine the employer zooming in on the camera to establish whether the caretaker was carrying a panga, a rope, or perhaps an empty sack. At this rate, the cows might soon be required to sign an attendance register before receiving their grass.
I once lived with someone who took this remote supervision business to another level. The gentleman was constructing his house back in Kenya, and he could spend the entire day watching the mafundi through CCTV cameras. Yaani, jamaa amekaa kwa camera whole day watching mafundi!
I am not exaggerating. He could sit there following construction activities as though he were physically at the site. One fundi picks up a block, he watches. Another mixes cement, he watches. Somebody walks away, he notices. If a worker pauses to wipe sweat from his forehead, I suspect the employer would have liked to know whether that was an authorised break.
I sometimes wondered what the fundis thought about those cameras. Perhaps they had developed the habit of looking directly into them before taking their lunch. Maybe they even greeted the owner every morning, knowing that he was watching from abroad. "Habari ya asubuhi, boss!" After all, you never know when the boss might be looking.
The funniest thing is that these same people can spend hours supervising construction workers but cannot spend five minutes checking on their relatives. They can monitor the movement of cement, sand, and building stones, but they cannot monitor the emotional well-being of their own family members. They know when a fundi arrives at the site, but they might not know when their own mother last went to hospital.
Perhaps we should introduce a new category of employment for such people: International CCTV Managers. Their job description would include monitoring cows, supervising mafundi, inspecting compounds, and ensuring that nobody in Kenya behaves contrary to their expectations.
And if you think CCTV surveillance ends with construction and farming, you have not yet entered the interesting world of residential neighbourhoods. Let me tell you, renting a house in a neighbourhood populated by people living abroad can sometimes feel like enrolling in a reality television programme without your consent. You might pay your rent, furnish your house, settle down, and assume that you are entitled to a little privacy. Unfortunately, some neighbours have other plans.
There are people who seem to have appointed themselves as the neighbourhood intelligence department. They know who visits which house, who leaves early in the morning, who returns late at night, and who receives visitors when the spouse is away.
Somewhere abroad, somebody is receiving reports about activities in your compound. You might be enjoying your evening, completely unaware that your social life is being discussed in a WhatsApp conversation thousands of kilometres away.
The neighbourhood investigators know the girls who visit particular men. They know those who arrive during the day and those who prefer midnight visits. They know the regular visitors, the occasional visitors, and the mysterious visitors whose identities remain subjects of endless speculation.
If a married man receives a female visitor while his wife is away, the neighbourhood intelligence department might become particularly active. "Ule dem anakuja kwa nyumba ya fulani ni nani?" "Si unajua wife wake ako majuu?" "Na amekuwa akikuja saa ngapi?"
Before long, a simple visit has become an international investigation. The report is forwarded abroad, where it may be discussed with people who have absolutely no business knowing what happens inside somebody else's house.
Some people abroad know the alleged sidechicks of their tenants better than they know the tenants themselves. They know which girl comes on Friday, which one appears on Sunday, and which one seems to have a permanent arrangement with the household gate.
A man can be living quietly, paying rent on time, keeping his compound clean, and minding his own business, but somebody somewhere has already prepared a social biography of his visitors.
Imagine being a tenant and discovering that your landlord abroad knows the names of the ladies who visit you. You might begin wondering whether you should start registering visitors at the gate or seeking permission before inviting somebody for tea.
At this point, even the sidechicks deserve some sympathy. They might not know that their movements have become part of an international intelligence operation. They think they are visiting somebody, yet they are unknowingly appearing in a weekly neighbourhood surveillance report.
And the interesting thing is that some of these reports are discussed with people who have no connection whatsoever to the matter. Somebody abroad calls a friend in Kenya and begins with the innocent question, "How are things there?" Within five minutes, the conversation has moved from the weather to the activities of three households, two tenants, a watchman, and a woman who was seen entering a compound at 11:45 p.m. The person abroad may not know whether their own relative has eaten lunch, but they know that their neighbour's tenant received a female visitor on Tuesday. This is what I call misplaced priorities with an international address.
Of course, not everybody living abroad behaves this way. There are hardworking people who genuinely have demanding schedules. Some work long shifts, attend to children, manage families, and struggle with the pressures of living in foreign countries. Life abroad is not a permanent holiday, and nobody should pretend that earning a living in another country is always easy.
But let us also stop pretending that everybody abroad is too busy to communicate. Some people have simply perfected the art of selective availability. They have time for the people they want to talk to, the programmes they want to watch, and the activities they want to monitor. The rest of us are left to believe that they are working in underground factories where mobile phones are forbidden.
Perhaps the next time somebody tells you that their relative abroad cannot answer calls because they are always working, you should ask a few questions. Have you checked whether they are watching Citizen TV? Have you checked whether they are following Kenyan TikTok? Have you checked whether they are supervising their mafundi? Have you checked whether they are investigating the activities of their tenants? You might discover that the person is not as busy as you have been made to believe.
And to those living abroad, I have one small request. Please, remember that Kenya is not a television programme that you must monitor from morning to evening. Your cows can eat without receiving instructions from America. Your fundi can build a house without you supervising every block from Europe. Your tenants can receive visitors without their social lives becoming international news.
Install CCTV cameras for security, not to become the chief investigator of your neighbourhood. If you have time to monitor the movements of everybody in Kenya, surely you can find five minutes to call someone who misses you. After all, what is the point of crossing oceans to look for a better life if you spend your free time monitoring somebody else's life back home?
And please, the next time somebody tells me that people abroad are always busy, I will ask them one question: "Busy doing what? Building their houses, feeding their cows, watching TikTok, or investigating sidechicks?" Because from what I have observed, some people abroad are not short of time. They are simply short of interest in the people calling them!
Karimu gaka!
