It began like many viral moments do these days, raw, emotional, and impossible to ignore.
On a crisp morning in a Kitengela informal settlement, a shaky phone video started making the rounds on TikTok, Instagram, and WhatsApp groups. In it, a woman, sobbing, trembling and clutching a child to her chest, stood helplessly as a man flung her belongings out of a house. He shouted; she wept. Neighbours watched in silence.
By midday, the nation was gripped. Here was a young mother with two young children, seemingly thrown into the cold by a heartless husband. Homeless. Hopeless. Carrying only her children and her tears.
Kenyans were outraged, and then, as they often do, they acted. Donations began to pour in. M-Pesa buzzed with empathy. And at the forefront was comedian-turned-philanthropist Eric Omondi. Through his “Sisi kwa Sisi” initiative, he rallied the nation and raised more than Sh1 million to help the woman identified as Joyce Nyabuto rebuild her shattered life.
It was a story that pierced the soul of a nation.
Cruel betrayal
Until it cracked. Just days later, the truth unravelled like a bad script. Police investigations exposed the video as a well-orchestrated scam. The supposed “husband”? A boda boda rider paid Sh200 for the role. One of the children? Not even hers.
The eviction. The tears. The scene that stirred a nation’s sympathy? Entirely staged.
Eric Omondi, blindsided and livid, confronted Joyce. By then, nearly half a million shillings had already vanished from the M-Pesa account under her name. Another Sh247,000 sat untouched in a digital wallet.
With police intervention, the phone and accounts were frozen, funds recovered, and Joyce — along with her accomplices — arrested.
And yet, in a twist that shocked many, Eric chose forgiveness. “I don’t want her child to suffer,” he said. “But this must never happen again. We can’t allow our goodwill to be exploited.”
The incident hit a national nerve — but it wasn’t unfamiliar. Kenyans had seen this film before.
Back in 2016, the country was shaken by haunting images of Gladys Kamande — frail and hunched over, dragging oxygen tanks in handcarts, breathing through tubes that seemed to keep her alive. She claimed her lungs had collapsed and begged for help to seek treatment abroad.
The images ignited a tidal wave of compassion. People cried. Fundraisers were held. Churches, corporates, and individual Kenyans united in a massive show of solidarity. Over Sh10 million was reportedly raised.
But years later, Kamande resurfaced — healthy, glowing, and smiling on social media. There were whispers, then outrage: Had she lied? Had the country been duped? “To see her now, after all the money and tears… it feels like betrayal,” one user on X posted.
Others were more forgiving: “She may have deceived us, but she’s still human. Let her live.”
Still, for many, the memory stings. Kamande’s story became a cautionary tale, a reminder that not every tear is honest, and not every cry for help is true.
The Kenyan giving spirit
To understand why these scams sting so deeply, you must first understand the Kenyan spirit of giving.
From harambees fundraisers to WhatsApp groups pooling money for school fees, funerals, and hospital bills, Kenya has long thrived on a culture of community support.
With a national health system often stretched thin, crowd-funding has become a lifeline. M-Pesa, with its instant mobile transfers, has turned compassion into a click.
When tragedy strikes, be it cancer treatment, accident victims, or fire survivors, Kenyans do not wait for the government. They act. They give. They rally.
That is why cases, such as Kamande and Joyce’s cut so deep. They exploit not just wallets, but values. The damage left behind is not just about stolen money, it’s about broken trust.
Today, many Kenyans scroll past fundraising appeals with suspicion. “Is this another scam?” they ask themselves. Genuine patients in need of surgery abroad, mothers stuck with unbearable medical bills, or families facing sudden tragedy now face an uphill battle convincing the public that their stories are real.
On TikTok and Facebook, the scepticism is palpable. “Next time, I won’t send even 10 bob,” one user wrote after Joyce’s scam broke. “People are dying because of fraudsters like this,” another lamented.
The consequence is chilling: those who need help most risk being left to suffer in silence. But not everyone is giving up on compassion. Eric Omondi, despite being duped, has doubled down on his philanthropic work.
Through Sisi kwa Sisi, he has helped cover hospital bills, provide school fees, and resettle struggling families. His swift action in recovering the money from Joyce reassured many that accountability is possible.
Civil society groups have also begun calling for tighter regulation of digital fundraising. Suggestions include verification systems for high-profile appeals and the need for platforms to work with police to flag suspicious accounts.
There is also the urge for greater transparency from those soliciting funds — publishing receipts, medical reports, or third-party endorsements.
Even local communities are innovating. Some churches and welfare groups now demand that appeals go through committees for verification before money is raised.
Still, questions remain: should scammers, such as Joyce and Gladys be condemned outright, or should they be given a chance to rebuild?
Eric Omondi leaned toward mercy, noting that Joyce has a child and needs to turn her life around. But many Kenyans remain unforgiving. To them, sympathy scams are not “mistakes” but deliberate betrayals.
“It’s not just theft,” says Nairobi-based sociologist Dr Miriam Wanjiru. “It’s a violation of social trust. In African societies, where communal giving is sacred, these acts are a kind of cultural vandalism.”
So daring have fraudsters become that they do not spare the dead either. Online impersonation and fraud within social messaging apps is a growing threat, especially in emotionally charged spaces, such as mourning groups. Cases of funeral contributions disappearing into thin air have become a frequent occurrence.
The recent case which gained prominence was that of the late Albert Ojwang, where funds mysteriously disappeared from his father Meshack Opiyo’s M-Pesa account.
In a video shared by YouTuber Clinton Chirangah Shim, Albert’s uncle, Polycarp Odhiambo, opened up about the harrowing situation that compounded their grief.
“A few days ago, my brother went to withdraw the money, but encountered a problem — he didn’t have an ID. When he visited Safaricom for assistance, he discovered that even his own Sh17,000 was missing. Upon checking the statement, they saw the names of those who withdrew the funds. Over Sh500,000 was gone, along with his personal amount,” Odhiambo claimed.
A man, believed to be part of a WhatsApp group created to coordinate funeral contributions for the late Tahidi High actress Alicia Nimmo, allegedly conned mourners out of Sh6,000 by posing as an administrator of the group.
A systemic threat
While Kenyans debated whether to forgive or condemn the fraudsters, experts warned that the issue runs far deeper than individual acts of deception.
Gilbert Mwalili, a Nairobi-based security and financial risk consultant, says sympathy scams are no longer just desperate acts by individuals, but part of a growing ecosystem of digital fraud. “These cons are designed to exploit what Kenyans value most — trust and speed,” he explains. “Mobile money allows cash to move instantly, but verification does not move at the same pace. That gap is exactly where fraudsters thrive.”
Mwalili believes the ripple effects are more dangerous than the immediate financial loss. “Every successful scam erodes public trust. The next genuine patient, the next struggling mother, now has to climb a wall of suspicion just to be heard. Over time, this can destroy the harambee culture that has sustained Kenyans for generations,” he notes.
From a financial risk perspective, he argues that digital giving must now be treated with the same seriousness as digital banking. Among his proposals are multi-step verification of fundraising appeals, where organisers are required to provide valid identification, medical or police documents, and endorsements from credible institutions.
He also suggests an escrow-style system in which donations are held temporarily by a neutral body until the appeal is confirmed as genuine.
The legal grey zone
“Crowd-funding and public appeals, often known as harambees, are a lifeline for many Kenyans, but they operate in a legal grey area,” lawyer Essendi Kenneth explains.
He points out that the Kenyan law doesn’t have specific statutes for donation-based fraud, forcing prosecutors to rely on existing legislation, such as the Penal Code and the Computer Misuse and Cybercrimes Act.
“When a fundraiser misuses money, they could be charged with crimes, such as obtaining money by false pretenses or conspiracy to defraud,” he says.
The legal system also offers civil remedies. “Donors can sue to recover funds by arguing that the fundraiser acted as a trustee of their donations,” Kenneth notes.
To avoid legal trouble, he advises fundraisers to be transparent. “Obtain a permit, use a dedicated bank account, and keep meticulous records,” he recommends.
For donors, he says, vigilance is key. He suggests that it’s always safer to donate directly to a hospital or a legitimate organisation’s paybill, rather than a personal M-Pesa account, adding that preserving evidence, such as screenshots and receipts is crucial if things go wrong. “While a new bill is on the horizon, for now, both fundraisers and donors must navigate this landscape with caution and a healthy dose of transparency,” Kenneth shares.
Kenya is not alone in facing sympathy scams. Across the world, fraudsters have faked cancer, fabricated accidents, or invented orphans to milk compassion. But in Kenya, the problem strikes at the heart of a culture where giving is not optional — it is survival.
In villages and cities alike, harambees remain the thread that holds families together. Every fake appeal that succeeds doesn’t just steal money, it chips away at that thread. And when it finally snaps, genuine victims will find themselves with nowhere to turn.
As Eric Omondi put it: “We cannot stop helping people because of a few bad apples. If we stop giving, then the fraudsters have won twice, first by stealing our money, and then by killing our spirit.”
In the end, Kenyans will have to decide whether to let these cons harden their hearts or strengthen their resolve.