In Nairobi’s Jamuhuri Estate, Eritrean and Ethiopian residents face a mix of tragedy, depression, and subtle discrimination that underscores the precariousness of migrant life in urban Kenya. Recent incidents — including the suicide of a young Eritrean man and reports of intimidation by local boda-boda riders — reveal the vulnerability of these communities and the limited support available to them. The account documents lived experiences that highlight broader questions of coexistence, empathy, and the pressures migrants endure in shared city spaces.
This morning, Friday, 21st, 2025, I woke up to the terrible news of the passing away of a young male adult, an Eritrean national in Harmony Court, which is very close to the court where I reside in Jamuhuri Estate.
The poor boy died by suicide.
While the cause of his suicide is yet to be established, a few speculations are already being heard within the estate. Could it be depression? Was life too difficult for him? Was he being treated fairly where he stayed? Were his associates making him suffer? And so on and so forth…
While the cloud of sadness hovers in the estate, like a dark, cloudy, rainy day, I couldn’t help but think of all the incidents I have actually witnessed involving that community.
If you know Jamuhuri Estate well, then you will know the population of Kenyans living here is almost equal to that of foreign nationals, especially from the Eritrean and Ethiopian community.
In one incident, on a Saturday night, I had gone to a shop at the Jamuhuri Shopping Centre at about 11:00 PM. It was rather a very deserted night for a weekend, but not unusual. People in the estate prefer being indoors early enough.
As I was minding my business at that shop, two Eritrean nationals passed by. They were smoking regular cigarettes and chatting in their local language, Tigrinya, when three boda-boda riders approached them by the stage at the shopping center.
They stopped them and confronted them for “smoking in public,” saying we don’t do that in Kenya. They were right—smoking in public is not exactly legal here—so I thought to myself, finally, there’s someone responsible in the streets. But what happened next left me shocked, mouth wide open.
The boda-boda riders grabbed the two cigarettes out of their hands, threw them down, then the one who seemed like the leader in the pack proceeded to speak in his rather struggling grammar: “If you want to smoke, smoke serious things, not this nonsense.”
A second rider pulled out two rolls of what very clearly looked like marijuana, which the strong smell later confirmed to be accurate. They lit them up, smoked a few puffs among the three riders, then forcefully gave them to the two poor boys, who all this while stood there confused and shocked.
As I walked away from the shop, I could see the two boys’ eyes staring deep into my soul, with more anxiety and fear than cries for help. They were coughing uncontrollably, with thin lines of tears streaming down their eyes. They looked sad, afraid, and unsure if they would get out of this alive.
The three boda-boda riders on the other side were dying with laughter and mockery, hurling insults at the poor boys to “smoke properly.” Did I want to help? Yes. Was I afraid for my life? Also, yes.
In another incident, Kelvin, my driver from work, and I were cruising through Jamuhuri Show Grounds route, very close to the ongoing construction site of Talanta Stadium, at about 3:00 AM. He had just dropped some of my colleagues on Kibera Drive and was heading to drop me in Jamuhuri Estate after the night shift roles that I undertake at Teleperformance, KE.
As we passed that road, from a far distance, I witnessed about three men. One was seated on a motorbike—dressed in a reflector jacket and helmet, typical of a boda-boda rider—and beside him, two men who looked like they were in some sort of struggle.
As Kelvin drove closer, it was clear by the headlights of the vehicle that one man—a clear Ethiopian/Eritrean national, distinct by his looks—was actively struggling with another man, while the boda-boda rider sat still on his motorbike.
At first, by impulse, it didn’t occur to us that it was an ongoing robbery. In fact, it looked like we were about to receive another of those numerous incidents and attacks that we always fell into while driving the Kibera team back to their designated homes at 3:00 AM, which is a story for another day.
As usual, the driver, Kelvin, knew exactly how we handled similar situations. Speed!
Thank God this was a well-made road, so the way Kelvin stepped on that accelerator, he almost ensured the speedometer was malfunctioning. By this time, the man who was carrying out what we later learned was a robbery had let go of the Ethiopian/Eritrean national, since they saw the headlights of our vehicle approaching at high speed.
The poor foreigner jumped in front of the road, blocking and waving, but Kelvin was not about to hit the brakes. When it was now just a few meters, the foreign national waving his hands and shouting desperately stepped aside quickly, narrowly surviving a head-on collision.
By this time, my heart was down in my ankles, as I tried to make sense of what had just happened in seconds. We didn’t injure the boy, but the side mirror did turn a little, which Kelvin fixed back in its rightful position and moved on like nothing had happened.
We would later learn that the boy was being robbed and needed our help, which unfortunately, based on past experiences, we had misinterpreted as an attack towards us.
When I got home that night, I couldn’t sleep. I sent a message to my friend, Levron, whom we had just dropped off prior to that incident. It was sad, but did I wish I could help? Yes. Was I able to at that time and in that situation? No.
In other numerous incidents, there is discrimination. Let’s face it, though it may not be very common or active, I have heard a few undertone remarks by some of our very own Kenyan nationals talking about how “those Ethiopian/Eritreans” have made the rental price for housing in Jamuhuri Estate triple within the last five years. I have also heard undertones of how “they” are opening new businesses every day and “competing” with Kenyan business people even in pricing. I have also heard remarks of how “they don’t talk to us,” and so on and so forth.
Do we live in a free country? Yes. Are we sometimes insensitive to others and pretend everything is okay? Also, yes.
Basically, there are several challenges that meet different people out there every day, whether locals or foreigners. While these challenges may not necessarily be targeted at a particular community, these particular incidents in Jamuhuri Estate make me question that reality.
I have approached several of them just to have casual, friendly conversations, and have in fact succeeded in making friendships with some, but it’s not that easy. They prefer to keep amongst their circles for sure, largely because of the language barrier. I mean, they barely speak English, and Kiswahili? Well, I doubt they even know it exists.
There are also other reasons I believe they love to stay within their community circles, which is okay. I at least know for sure they are absolutely peaceful, respectful, and have been friendly, at least to me, despite the language barrier. I buy from their stores often and support their hustles.
After the news this morning, I now wish some of them could honestly open up a little more, but most importantly, I wish the Kenyans, who have been welcoming, would equally show a bit more love, kindness, attention, and support.
Before you get it twisted, I am not saying that there is discrimination or targeted attack of the community in the estate, but I have studied the butterfly effect and the escalations therein. We can surely do better.
Finally, as a society, I believe we are best positioned for prosperity when we grow together peacefully, as opposed to the very clear lines of separation—even with those we share apartment buildings with.
