Jeremy Nyamu's Incredible 'almost-lynched' Story

This is the story of one Jeremy Nyamu, a mob justice survivor. One year ago, he came so close to death over false allegations. He has now found the courage to tell the world what happened on that fateful Sunday. This should be a caution to our mob justice mentality because some of those people we end up lynching may actually be innocent.

Our culture has come to accept vigilante justice largely because when we imagine it, all we can see is an angry crowd barbecuing a 32 year a-hole who rapped his 9-year-old daughter. In the actual world one can never be sure of anybody’s innocence and violent criminals is what we call bastards who commit ghastly violence acts while hiding under the veil of ‘serving justice’. Okay, I’ll tone down the explicit rhetoric a little, but as you can see, am deeply emotionally invested in this story.

The clock hits 8, it’s the 21st day of June 2015, a fine Sunday actually, a semi-clear night, the kind where the moon hasn’t made up its mind whether to bless us with its beautiful light or to damn us into darkness. The day schedule had been disturbingly habitual; wake up at 8, pretend to be upset that I had slept through half of the morning service and thus there was no point going to church, go and buy breakfast ‘to go’, visit some friends who too weren’t very motivated to go to church and then go back to my house and sit behind a computer either doing freelance academic writing for lazy, stupid, spoilt western brats or simply just watching unhealthy amounts of American sitcoms or even better, English spy thrillers. As I said, the clock hits 8, and the ground opens beneath me. Buts lets no jump the gun, let’s put some order to the sequence of events. Or to borrow from my favorite artist ‘‘it’s about time we got some airplay of our version of events” Emali Sande.

As many other broke college students, I was living in a decrepit flophouse in Gwa-Kairu, Ruiru Kenya. This humble living condition is a vital note to remember, because when people have so little to their names, it can either bring out their inner mother Teresa or their inner Adolf, both of which I experienced firsthand on this beautiful Sunday night. My single room was part of a 19 room block that we shared with a very diversified clientele ranging from casual laborers to mechanics. Among the tenants was my friend/distant cousin Eliud who is a truck driver. We had exchanged keys so we could help each other with basic utilities; utensils, laundry basins among other things because that what friends do. Who would know that this convenient setup spawn evil on the aforesaid night.

After buying some groceries, I arrived at my house at around 7:45 pm. My cousin, thanks to his line of work, was inconveniently out of his house. Since at the moment I didn’t own a cooking gas cylinder, I went ahead to use my spare key to borrow Eliud’s propane cooking stove with very clean intentions of returning the cylinder soon after I was done. That’s when one of my prejudiced neighbors saw me and concluded that I was stealing the propane stove. A minor fuss ensued and a small crowd assembled around my room with very huge vengeance hard-ons. I think it is important to mention that I had only lived in the block for less than 2 months.

They asked me for Eliud’s number to verify if I had permission to use the cylinder, but since they didn’t use my phone, plus Eliud was in his God knows what beer, he said it was a wrong number. I think it is accurate to say that things started going south from here, and pretty fast I might add. A couple of laptops I was repairing for some friends were interpreted as other stolen merchandise I was hiding in my room. The illiterate a-holes couldn’t also contemplate how I could spend most of my time staring at a computer and still pay my bills. The explanations of academic writing were lost on the crowd. I was so f***ed. Okay, I agreed to check my language and I will try.

I knew that hell had struck the moment the self-appointed bigoted jury decided that they couldn’t fully substantiate my culpability but they’ll fuck me up anyway. It is impressive how jaundiced judgement, relevant to matters of life and death, quickly snowballs. One women said “we should torch the bastard.” Some in the crowd who were initially pro-diplomacy thought to themselves, ‘that would be fun’, and so they joined the chorus. A guy who the others kept referring to as ‘pastor’, suggested that they call the police but the crowd voted down that idea. They argued that the justice sandwich would taste just a little bit sweeter if they served it to me themselves. And just like that my fate was sealed, or was it?

The first blow struck, it was from a security guard who had brought his club home from work. He went straight for my head, precisely the back of my head, so I didn’t see it coming, the impact was as you would imagine, the concussion was earth-shattering (maybe a little beguiling). I almost fainted (almost being the operative word), my world turned upside down and then the second blow landed. It was a fist from a construction worker who was also a tenant at the block. It was right up my right eye, and then the third blow struck and then the fourth, then the fifth, and then I figured it was time to stop counting the blows and cover my vitals.

Well I think it’s important to clarify that the aforementioned ‘justice sandwich’ involved bricks, metal bars, and fists placed between two perfectly sliced pieces of insults and rubber covered metal clubs. My immediate crybaby of neighbor had taken my two phones (an intel yolo and a Nokia (mulika mwizi), ironic, isn’t it?) and in between beating the crap out me, they’d stop momentarily and call random people from my phone book. ‘what’s your opinion on the character of the owner of this number?’ they’d ask to random people off my phonebook.

Two phone calls that stood out were one to a good friend and another one to my father. The first call was important because the aforementioned friend was very close to me and they were arguing that she might be a co-conspirator. So they stopped the mob injustice momentarily to visit her house and see if they could find any evidence for my alleged cooking stove stealing syndicate. They didn’t find anything but that didn’t necessarily change a thing. We went back to my house to continue with, well, let’s call it what it was, the execution.

Now some in the crowd had started to see that this guy (me), might have been innocent all along. But their mild calls for sanity were lost with the wind. They were interpreted as if they had suddenly grown a conscience, oh, like some kind of pussies. Fists, bricks and bars poured. Some women would even pour water and spit on me while at the same time pumping up their husbands to kill me faster. And then they called my dad, they informed him that if he wasn’t there within the hour, and if he didn’t bring with him Ksh 20,000 in cash, he can as well go ahead a buy an urn, because the only way I was coming out of that there was in powder form. I think it is important to note that my dad lives in Kirinyaga, more than an hour drive to Ruiru on light traffic. It also important to note that a single cooking propane stove goes for Ksh 5500. So anybody who can add 2 and 2 together can deduce that these two demands are extremely punitive not to mention that there wasn’t enough evidence to prove my guilt. Eliud (the owner of the propane cylinder) called my phone, I guess it was that instinct that tells you that your cousin is about to be barbecued and your drinking problem has a little something to do with it. As mentioned earlier, my phone had been taken from me, so I wasn’t the one who picked the call.

The guy who picked the call explained to him the whole situation and he was told that it was a big, a really big misunderstanding and that I had permission to use his stove. He tried to explain to the angry crowd what he had been told, but he too, was turned down. He too was categorized under the list of moggies who were turning their consciences on and off like car signals.

Things were moving frenetically fast, deservedly, my father panicked. My mum, who has blood pressure issues, heard my dad’s call, the pressure spiked. The dominos were falling everywhere. In her own words, my mum said “the call turned my life upside down. Some people were threating to burn my dear son and they sounded serious enough to carry out the threat.” They woke my brother up and him being the resourceful bloke that he is, was quick enough to call the police. But since he didn’t have the phone number for Ruiru police station, he decided to go for the big guns. The previous month the big names in the police service had released their private numbers in attempt to show the public how devoted they were to fighting crime.

My brother decided to test this commitment by calling one of them. By the grace of God, it worked, the bigshot who was called by my brother, called Ruiru OCS and informed him of the execution in progress. Police, being a disciplined force, thus being good followers of orders, swung into action. The fact that the orders had come from ‘above’ did well to reduce the laxity usually associated with the force.

This all was happening surprising fast and while it happened I was still being beaten breathless. The crowd had huge butchery hard-ons and there was no way they were going home with blue balls. And talking of huge, the crowd had now gotten bigger than when we started. After tens of minutes of mindless violence, some in the crowd decided that the beating wasn’t killing me as fast as they would’ve wanted. A quick focus group decided to add fire to the equation, you know, ignite the flame to hasten the process. The mob decided to take me outside to burn me (well, you can’t start fire indoors, somebody might get hurt). They also wanted a place where nobody would bother them with any misplaced pleas for sanity. But before they took me outside, they decided to loot the shit out of my room (don’t you just love irony?…), any decent electronic or cash were the top priority. The petty bastards destroyed other things they didn’t like.

Some thoughts did close my mind about running to save myself, but if I know anything about the Kenyan mob system, that would only be adding fuel to the fire; pun intended. It was also already too late because the crowd had already formed a very solid circle around me; a very efficient mob justice carnage matrix. At that moment I made a misguided decision that if this was the day I die, I would die with some dignity, or at least as much dignity as one can gather from starring in a morosely-dark reboot of Seinfeld. I would go down defending my innocence.

The crowd decided to contribute some money to buy some gasoline and to send one of the tenant who owned a motorbike to the gas station. You’d be surprised how many contributed to the cause. I was immobilized, but not physically; not held down nor tied down, but by the psychosomatic petrification, the apprehension of my acute level of defenselessness, my futile search for dignity in my last times and the inner feeling of powerlessness that whispers to you that you are past saving. I found myself repenting all that I had sinned; both to my heavenly father and to the sinful mortal creatures. I even tried to play the martyr card; ‘forgive them Father, for they know not what they are doing’. I’ve never been so happy to hear the police sirens. More than two thirds of the crowd run after hearing the shrieking sounds (pussies). The rest were left to explain why they almost torched a guy whom they weren’t even sure was guilty. The police took me with them for my own good and I spent a night at the station.

The following morning, from as early as 6 am, Eliud was in the station trying to explain to the police that the cylinder in question was his and that I had been permitted to use it. By 7:40 am, my dad and my brother were both there, but I wasn’t let out until 11 am when nobody came forward to record a statement. By 2pm I was on my way back to Kerugoya, home sweet home. At the matatu I couldn’t help but wonder whether the previous night incident would have been my staircase to heaven or my highway to hell. The final damage included a grave traumatic iritis, recursive acute migraines, fluid filled swollen patches in the head, aching joints, wounds, and a faulty back that dented deep into my sex life. I had to do a lot of exercise to undo the damage. Oh, and also a massive psychological trauma the kind that gives you hibbie gibbies every time I pass near Ruiru. I opted not to pursue any legal action in favor of letting God do what he does best; everything actually.

By Jeremy Nyamu.


hapa utaitishwa summary au synopsis…


Hiyo ni noma he was lucky they dint torch him

That’s what I was discussing with a colleague today. It’s all wrong to kill someone juu ati ni mwizi. Some people could be out there to settle old grudges.


By not taking legal action , you are giving them a chance to do that to others, bad mistake mista.

Most of the people who participate in mob justice are the most stupid cunts ever,its like they get an orgasm kicking a person who’s already down.

Kuna ingine nliona wakipiga mwanamke,walimtoa nguo zote and ended up sticking a stick inside her pussy.
Coldhearted cunts:mad::mad:



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A lot of people are ignorant about freelancing.

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Waaaah!!! Truly sad, i can only imagine how many time this kind of bullishit has happened.

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now NV najua haujaketishwa pale but quoting your own post Really???

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sieezi soma hii kitu yote

Sijasoma hiyo story yote, mrefu sana. But mob injustice happen everywhere, even in social media. The other day, here at Ktalk, we tried, found guilty and condemned the three cops who allegedly killed a lawyer. Some old geezer here, called Waru, was even suggesting they should be hanged without trial.


waaah uyo jamaa aliponea

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Or mask their own illegalities and guilt.

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Ever heard of PTSD?

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I thought I was the only one who saw his post…can you imagine the irrationality level on this guys mind

:eek::eek::eek::eek:where was this?

Nope please expound Dr.