Ujanja Nation: Why Shortcut Culture is Killing Trust in Kenya

 

Part 1: The Butcher’s Trick 

The story is simple. A man changes his butcher. The old butcher closes shop, and a new one takes his place. But this new butcher plays games with the weighing scale, charging more for less meat, slipping in bones instead of beef, and passing it off as clever business. The customer leaves. He switches to buying meat from the supermarket, where prices are fixed and scales are regulated. Life becomes peaceful again.

This small, everyday act captures something far deeper about the Kenyan condition. In this country, we’ve glorified ujanja—a culture of cleverness, trickery, and shortcuts. It is not brilliance in the true sense. It is not innovation or genius. It is simply dishonesty, packaged as street-smartness.

When Kenyans describe someone as mjuaji or mjanja, they don’t usually mean he is wise or disciplined. They mean he knows how to bend the rules, how to cut corners, how to win by outwitting others—even if that “win” leaves others poorer, resentful, or mistrustful.

The tragedy is that this way of life seeps into every layer of society. From the butcher’s scale to the politician’s ballot box, from the salon’s diluted shampoo bottle to the inflated government tender, ujanja is everywhere. It is admired, even envied. But in truth, it is the poison corroding the very possibility of trust in Kenya.

And here lies the irony: in glorifying cleverness, we are making ourselves collectively stupid. Because a society built on distrust is not just unfair; it is exhausting. And in the long run, everybody loses.

Part 2: The Myth of Cleverness 

At the heart of ujanja is the myth that trickery is intelligence. That by cheating the scale, the butcher is a step ahead. That by giving fewer grams in a packet, the shopkeeper is sharp. That by overcharging or shortchanging, one proves mastery of the game.

But if we pause and ask: who really wins here? The butcher who loses a loyal customer? The salon that damages hair by pouring cheap products into premium bottles, only to drive women away forever? The matatu crew that hikes fares in the rain but loses reputation in the sunshine?

Carlo Cipolla, an Italian historian, once described the five basic laws of human stupidity. His most famous point was this: the truly stupid person is the one who causes losses to others while also causing losses to himself. And that is exactly what ujanja is. It masquerades as cleverness but is, in fact, stupidity dressed in local flavor.

The short-term victory of cheating someone is immediately undone by the long-term loss of trust. The butcher gains a few extra shillings today but loses years of repeat purchases. The salon makes a quick profit on counterfeit products but destroys its customer base. The boda rider who scams tourists earns a note today but ensures they never return.

True cleverness is not in cheating—it is in building. It is in the Japanese craftsman who earns loyalty through excellence, in the German engineer who makes products that last generations, in the farmer who grows trust alongside crops. That is intelligence that multiplies, not diminishes.

But in Kenya, we’ve been socialized to mistake dishonesty for wisdom. We clap for the conman MP who steals millions because “at least he was smart enough to get away with it.” We joke about tenderpreneurs as if they are national heroes. We encourage the student who smuggles notes into an exam hall, calling him clever instead of cowardly.

This cultural admiration of dishonor keeps us poor, restless, and fragmented. Because in a land where ujanja is king, trust is dead—and without trust, no society can thrive.

Part 3: Everyone is a Potential Thief 

Kenya is a low-trust society. This means that in almost every interaction—business, family, church, politics—people assume they will be cheated. And because they assume others will cheat, they preemptively cheat first.

Take the woman who brings her own hair products to the salon. Not because she wants to, but because she cannot trust that the stylist won’t dilute expensive shampoos with cheap substitutes. Her trust has been stolen.

Take the land buyer who brings not only a lawyer but also relatives and clan elders to a transaction, terrified of being sold fake plots or seeing the same piece of land sold twice. His trust has been stolen.

Take the boda or matatu passenger who refuses to pay before reaching the destination, afraid the driver will vanish mid-journey. Her trust has been stolen.

In countries with high trust—like Denmark, Switzerland, or even Botswana—people leave bicycles unlocked, businesses thrive on verbal agreements, and contracts are short because they assume goodwill. In Kenya, every handshake is followed by suspicion. Every deal comes with a lawyer. Every transaction is double-checked because everyone assumes the other party is a thief.

And here is the devastating truth: low-trust societies are poor societies. Not because they lack talent or resources, but because distrust raises the cost of everything. Deals take longer. Contracts are thicker. Lawyers get richer. Energy is wasted on monitoring instead of building.

Trust, in this sense, is social currency. It is invisible, but it oils the wheels of progress. Where trust is high, cooperation is natural. Where trust is low, everything is a war. And right now, Kenya is a battlefield where every deal is a duel.

Part 4: Education and the Winner-Loser Mentality

How did we get here? Part of the answer lies in our schooling system. From the first day in class, Kenyan children are told: life is competition. Someone must be number one, someone must be last. Exams are not designed to measure curiosity or collaboration; they are designed to rank, to humiliate, to segregate.

The message is drilled in: “for you to succeed, someone else must fail.” It is no wonder, then, that adulthood in Kenya mirrors this same script. Business is not about partnership but about fleecing. Marriage is not about cooperation but dominance. Politics is not about governance but conquest.

Contrast this with societies where cooperative learning is emphasized. In Scandinavian countries, group projects, teamwork, and mutual responsibility are central to education. Students learn that success is not a zero-sum game but something that expands when shared. They grow up believing that your neighbor’s success is not your loss—it is part of your community’s strength.

But in Kenya, the zero-sum mindset dominates. If my classmate passes, I feel diminished. If my colleague earns more, I feel cheated. If my brother prospers, I grow envious. And in this worldview, ujanja is not just acceptable—it is necessary.

We do not simply lack trust; we are trained to compete at all costs. Education becomes indoctrination into suspicion. And as these children grow into adults, they bring this winner-loser mentality into the marketplace, into marriages, into politics.

The result is a country where even unity feels like a scam, where every call for cooperation is heard as a trick. And so, from school exams to national elections, we recycle the same tragic script: only one can win, everyone else must lose.

Part 5: The Psychology of Dishonor

Why, then, do Kenyans persist in dishonesty even when it harms them? The answer lies partly in fear, partly in admiration, and partly in insecurity.

Fear, because everyone assumes that if you don’t cheat first, you will be cheated. It is survival in the jungle. “If I don’t fleece them, they will fleece me.”

Admiration, because we have glamorized tricksters as national heroes. The corrupt politician is envied, the conman is celebrated, the “sharp” businessman who sells fake goods is seen as smarter than the honest one who struggles.

And insecurity, because at the root of it, ujanja is born from scarcity. In a land where opportunities feel few and resources unequal, cheating becomes a way to gain an edge. But this edge is temporary. It does not build wealth; it only builds suspicion.

The psychology of dishonor tells us this: dishonesty is not a clever adaptation; it is a self-inflicted wound. And the more a society wounds itself, the harder it becomes to heal.

Part 6: Everyday Exhaustion

Life in a low-trust society is exhausting. Every interaction is a negotiation, every handshake a gamble, every deal a potential scam.

You can’t buy land without fear. You can’t start a business without doubting your partner. You can’t even go to church without worrying that the pastor’s hand will reach deeper into your pocket than into your soul.

The toll of this constant suspicion is not only financial but emotional. People grow cynical, always bracing for betrayal. They withdraw, become guarded, live half-lives of paranoia. Community fractures, because no one dares to be vulnerable.

And what is lost in this atmosphere is not just trust—it is joy. For joy requires relaxation, and relaxation requires trust. Without trust, even the simplest acts—eating at a kibanda, getting a haircut, taking a bus—become arenas of anxiety.

This is not cleverness. This is national exhaustion.

A Path Forward

So where do we go from here? The antidote to ujanja is integrity. And integrity begins small. It begins with the butcher who weighs meat honestly, the salonist who uses real products, the teacher who values curiosity over competition.

But it also requires a cultural shift—one where we stop glorifying thieves and start admiring builders. Where we stop clapping for tricksters and start celebrating those who keep promises.

We must teach our children that life is not always a zero-sum game. That cooperation often builds more than competition. That true wisdom is not in fleecing your neighbor but in strengthening them, because strong neighbors make strong nations.

In the end, a nation that worships ujanja will remain forever poor—not just in money, but in spirit. A nation that rewards integrity will flourish, not because of clever tricks, but because of steady trust.

And so the challenge is simple, though not easy: choose to build, not to fleece. Choose to honor, not to cheat. Choose to be trusted, not to be feared.

Because a society without trust is not a society at all—it is merely a marketplace of predators, circling each other endlessly, all convinced they are clever, until they realize they have only eaten themselves.