A Nakuru businessman, Zechariah Githuku Kiairie, has opened up about his devastating struggle with sports betting addiction, which saw him lose over KSh 12 million and nearly cost him his life, family, and livelihood.
In a candid interview with Itugi TV, Kiairie recounted how what started as casual betting spiraled into a destructive addiction.
At the peak of his financial success, Kiairie owned a thriving radiator business and several rental properties.
His business was largely supported by trust friends and family lent him substantial amounts of money, sometimes up to KSh 540,000, without formal agreements.
‘When the devil called me’
His descent into gambling began innocently.
In what he describes as a devil’s call, the businessman narrates how a friend lured him into joining popular betting site SportPesa persuading him of lucrative returns not knowing he was walking himself into total destruction.
It started with a small win of KSh 8,000 from a KSh 200 bet, followed by a KSh 64,000 payout, gave him a false sense of financial invincibility.
When he won KSh 95,000, he believed betting was a legitimate path to wealth.
“It felt like easy money. I thought I had found a new way to succeed,” he said. Soon, he was placing bets as large as KSh 100,000.
The addiction took a toll. His daughter once returned to school with fee arrears, and instead of settling the bill, he borrowed money from a shylock and lost it all to gambling.
In a desperate bid to recover his losses, Kiairie sold a piece of land hosting his rental units for KSh 3.5 million. The entire amount was also lost to betting.
Overwhelmed by debt and shame, he fled Nakuru for Mombasa, intending to end his life by drowning in the ocean. “I couldn’t take it anymore. I had ruined everything,” he recalled.
Fate, however, had other plans.
He found work at a construction site, which reconnected him with the value of hard work and rekindled memories of his family.
Still pursued by creditors, his recovery began when his aunt intervened and cleared his debts. His wife stepped in to manage the remnants of their business, giving him a chance to rebuild.
It wasn’t until he requested his M-Pesa statements from the nine years he had been gambling that the full scale of his losses became clear: over KSh 12 million gone.
In Nairobi’s bustling informal settlements, a sinister crisis is unfolding behind mobile phone screens.
The deceptively simple game called Aviator—where players bet money on a virtual plane that climbs higher with increasing multipliers until it suddenly crashes—has evolved from casual entertainment into what health officials now describe as a “silent epidemic” devastating Kenyan families.
“I was supposed to be on a flight to Qatar for a real job opportunity,” says Dennis from Kiambu Ngegu. Instead, he lost Ksh 220,000 after placing a Ksh 1,000 bet that crashed at 1.00x odds. “I sold my woofer, my TV—everything went.”
This isn’t just about money lost. It’s about lives shattered.
The Perfect Storm
Aviator’s mechanics are deceptively simple: place a bet, watch a plane ascend, and cash out before it crashes.
The longer you wait, the higher your potential reward—but wait too long, and you lose everything.
What makes it so addictive? The game triggers the same neurological responses as other forms of addiction.
Ken Peter Munywa, a psychologist interviewed for this investigation, explains: “Many turn to gambling as a perceived solution to financial struggles. The hope is that through gambling, they can turn their lives around. But just like any addiction, things quickly get out of hand.”
A whistleblower from inside one of Kenya’s top betting companies revealed disturbing truths about how the game actually works:
“Most of the so-called winners you see with those big usernames staking large amounts and cashing out at perfect moments aren’t even real people. They’re bots designed to make the game look alive,” the source explained, speaking on condition of anonymity.
Even more concerning: “The whole thing is programmed to react to user behavior. The bigger your stake, the lower your chances of walking away with anything meaningful, because the system recalibrates based on your amount.”
Code Reveals Manipulation
Brian Osoro, a software developer who analyzed leaked code allegedly used in Aviator games, published findings that support these claims.
His April 2025 code review revealed that:
– The multiplier value determining players’ potential winnings is predetermined, not random
– This value appears inflated when few players are active to entice betting
– When many players are active, the multiplier is reduced to minimize payouts
– The game’s end point is controlled by administrators, not by chance
“The house decides when the game should stop as opposed to it being a random event,” Osoro concluded.
Lives Destroyed
The human cost is devastating.
A primary school teacher in Nakuru who began playing in 2023 lost her marriage, life savings, and mental health to escalating addiction.
After draining her salary and taking a Ksh 350,000 high-interest loan to chase losses, she even squandered Ksh 57,000 meant for the family’s planting season, lying to her husband that the money was “swapped.”
Her spouse eventually divorced her. She now lives alone in Nakuru, battling depression and withdrawal from society.
In another case, a young professional working at a village bank took Ksh 1.3 million from the safe, losing it all in just one week.
He was later discovered, taken to court, and his parents were forced to sell land to cover the debt.
The most tragic outcomes include suicide. One family shared screenshots of their brother’s final bets—Ksh 101,000 twice, then Ksh 68,000, and more in a single night, totaling nearly Ksh 900,000 before taking his own life.
“We buried him in our rural home in Baringo,” a family member said. “He was a graduate from Maasai Mara University with first-class honors.”
Media Complicity
As the crisis deepens, media organizations face growing accusations of complicity.
A whistleblower from a leading vernacular media station alleged that broadcasters earn 20% commission on losses incurred by their audiences after promoting gambling platforms.
SK Macharia.
Popular blogger Cyprian Nyakundi has specifically criticized media executives like SK Macharia of Royal Media Services: “Citizen TV broadcasts prime time advertisements for betting platforms and features alleged winners claiming fifty thousand shillings. It appears staged. SK Macharia, how much is enough? Young Kenyans are dying by suicide after losing everything to Aviator.”
The silence from media leaders and politicians suggests wider complicity in a crisis “affecting an entire generation,” Nyakundi asserted.
Public Health Crisis
The State Department for Public Health has begun addressing the issue.
Principal Secretary Mary Muthoni described online gambling as a significant threat to mental health and financial stability, particularly among youth betting with borrowed funds.
“We are deeply concerned about the escalating cases of gambling-related distress—from debt and depression to suicide,” Muthoni stated.
Proposed interventions include stricter regulations, awareness campaigns, and collaboration with media and telecommunications companies to limit promotion.
Meanwhile, the Association of Gaming Operators Kenya has called for responsible gaming, outlining age verification and self-exclusion tools while supporting the Gambling Control Bill to ensure safety.
More Than a Game
“Aviator and other gambling systems are not just games, they are digital diseases,” said one anti-gambling advocate.
“They spread far beyond the person holding the phone, and the real damage isn’t even visible on the betting screen. It’s hiding in kitchens where meals are skipped, in classrooms where school fees go unpaid, and in funeral WhatsApp groups.”
For those who have escaped the cycle, the lessons are clear.
“At least Mpesa can now retain funds,” said one former player who deactivated his betting accounts. “I don’t want quick money anymore.”
But for many Kenyans, these lessons have come at an unbearable cost.
As one relative of a victim put it: “This Aviator thing is a menace—a real menace!”
A storm is brewing online and in real life, as Kenyans begin to realize they’ve been played.
Betting companies like Mozzart and platforms like Shabiki are partnering with powerful media houses such as Royal Media Services to sell poor Kenyans a dangerous lie—that gambling will make them millionaires.
From flashy jingles on radio to viral winners on social media, the promise is always the same: bet and you’ll change your life.
But behind the shiny prizes and loud celebrations lies a grim reality—broken families, wasted savings, and a growing mental health crisis.
How Betting Firms and Media Giants Use Fake Gambling Winners to Prey on Poverty
In a country where unemployment and poverty are rampant, betting has become the illusion of hope. Media outlets, once seen as watchdogs of the people, have now turned into full-time hype machines for betting companies.
On Citizen TV, Radio Citizen, Inooro FM, and many others under Royal Media Services, every hour comes with a dose of betting talk—“Play now and win big!” or “Your life can change in an instant!”
But these promises are lies. The winners shown on screen and paraded on social media are nothing more than marketing tools.
Hope Diana Ligami is a perfect example. On March 18, 2025, Shabiki announced her as the winner of Kshs 250,000 from their “Jiomoshe na Jet X” campaign.
Just weeks earlier, she had also “won” a car through Mozzart Sports. Two big wins in less than a month? That’s not luck. That’s manipulation.
These fake wins are carefully crafted stories, repeated again and again to hook desperate youth and struggling Kenyans into a system built to make them lose.
Hope’s ‘success’ story, celebrated as proof that “#BaddiesInBetting” can win, is simply a polished PR stunt used to exploit the poor.
A whistleblower has accused Hope Ligami and her husband, Dan Ododo, of orchestrating a fraudulent scheme tied to Kenya’s gambling industry.
According to the source, the couple, who previously worked together at Faulu Microfinance Bank’s Eldoret branch, are key players in a con involving fake betting winners.
Ligami reportedly left the bank, while Ododo is believed to still be employed there, allegedly acting as a shadowy intermediary between gambling companies and individuals paid as little as 3,000 KSh to pose as winners on TV and other media.
The source claims Ododo uses proxies to mask his involvement, while Ligami has been winning under multiple aliases across various firms.
Amid rising concerns over gambling scams in Kenya, the whistleblower insists these “crooks” have exploited Kenyans for too long and must be stopped.
Fake Gambling Winners Fuel the Lie of Success
The average Kenyan doesn’t stand a chance. With games like Aviator gaining traction, the betting scene has turned from chance to psychological warfare.
Aviator, the online game where players bet on a virtual plane as it “takes off,” seems simple. But it’s built for addiction.
The multiplier rises, and so does the thrill. Just before it crashes, players must cash out. The catch? Most wait too long.
The game is designed to manipulate brain chemistry, feeding players dopamine while draining their wallets.
Hope Ligami’s story is not unique. Every week, betting companies announce new “winners” with unrealistic rewards.
These are people with vague identities, no clear history, and no proof of how they played and won. Most Kenyans have never met a real betting winner. But they’ve met hundreds who’ve lost school fees, rent, and food money chasing wins that never come.
Even worse, the faces used to celebrate these “wins” are mostly young, vibrant women or entrepreneurs, crafted to appeal to the struggling youth.
The message? You too can make it—just place a bet. In reality, it’s a trap. One that’s swallowing thousands every day.
[Photo: Courtesy]
Fake Winners Are a Smokescreen for Ruin
Radio shows, especially on vernacular stations, are ground zero for the betting epidemic. Show hosts, who command trust in local communities, act as brand ambassadors.
They hype daily jackpots, announce “winners,” and share emotional stories of people who turned a single bet into a fortune. But none of these stories can be verified.
These stations are paid heavily by betting companies to flood the airwaves with hope. Not with truth.
While a listener in Kisii is promised a path to riches through Jet X or Aviator, the reality is they’re being robbed in broad daylight.
No one talks about the father in Kisumu who sold his boda boda to keep betting. Or the university student in Nairobi who ended her life after losing a borrowed Kshs 50,000 in one night on Aviator.
The media does not report those stories. It hides them. The Ministry of Interior and ICT have so far failed to rein in these exploitative practices. Regulatory bodies turn a blind eye.
Instead of banning or regulating games like Aviator, authorities allow them to operate openly, even as social media fills with desperate messages from young people begging for help.
What we are witnessing is a coordinated system of exploitation—where poverty is the resource, and false hope is the product. And it’s working.
A Nation Addicted, a Generation Lost
Kenya is in crisis. Betting addiction has quietly become a public health disaster. The youth are hooked. Families are collapsing. Mental health cases are surging. All while betting companies post record profits and media houses cash out big advertising cheques.
But the truth is spreading. On X (formerly Twitter), TikTok, and WhatsApp groups, people are beginning to speak out. Survivors of gambling addiction are warning others.
Parents are pleading for awareness. Teachers are noticing more dropouts. Even some journalists are beginning to ask the hard questions.
Still, without bold action, nothing will change. These companies are too rich. The media is too compromised. And the people are too desperate.
It’s time to say the quiet part out loud: betting firms are not creating millionaires. They’re creating misery. And every fake winner promoted by media houses like Royal Media Services is another nail in the coffin of Kenya’s youth.
