In a bizarre 2023 case in India, a man pretending to be a long-lost son scammed a family out of 11,000 rupees. The conman, claiming to be Pinku who vanished at age 11, convinced Bhanumati Singh and her husband, Ratipal, that he was their son. Emotional and desperate, the family sold their land for Rs 11.2 lakh to help him “leave the monastery.” Later, police identified the man as Nafees, a fraudster from Gonda village.
While the story unfolded thousands of miles away, it echoes a painful truth closer to home. Many Kenyans working abroad suffer similar betrayals—losing millions of shillings to trusted family members tasked with investing on their behalf.
Take Eunice Wangui, for example. In 2019, she left Kiambu for Saudi Arabia to work as a house help, hoping to escape poverty and finally own a home. After three years, she wired Sh600,000 to her brother for a plot along the Nairobi–Nakuru highway. He bought the land and transferred it to her name, earning her trust. Encouraged, she sent another Sh800,000 for a three-bedroom house.
However, when Eunice returned in 2022, she found only an empty shell. To make matters worse, she had flown home to bury her son, who had died months earlier. Denied emergency leave, she had opted for deportation just to attend his funeral.
Besides the emotional toll, Eunice faced the harsh realities of the kafala system. This system, prevalent in Gulf countries, binds migrant workers to local sponsors who control their legal status. It leaves workers powerless to report abuse or take leave without risking deportation. Eunice, now jobless and grieving, regrets trusting her brother. “If I had been home, I might have seen my son’s depression and saved him,” she says.
Her story mirrors that of Catherine Murigi, who moved to Saudi Arabia in 2014. She saved Sh710,000 and gave it to her sister for safekeeping. When she returned in 2019, her sister had spent it all. Fortunately, Catherine had some backup savings. She used them to start Leo Delicacies, a bakery in Umoja, Nairobi. Although she rebuilt her life, she gave up hope of recovering the stolen funds.
Mary Waithira, another victim, moved to the U.S. in 2015 and never regularised her immigration status. In 2020, a Kenyan YouTuber marketed a housing project in Kiambu. Mary sent Sh4.5 million through her sister to buy a home. But the developer went insolvent, and her sister had only paid Sh1.4 million—pocketing the rest. “I trusted her because she was on the ground,” Mary laments.
So, where can these returnees turn for help?
Sophia Amina, who worked in multiple Gulf countries from 2012 to 2021, understands their pain. She co-founded the Domestic Workers Returnees of Kenya, an NGO that supports victims of such fraud. Incubated by the Centre for Domestic Training and Development, the group offers financial literacy and legal aid.
“I can’t say all Arab employers are bad. Some treat workers fairly. But many force people into modern slavery,” Sophia explains. She believes empowering returnees with financial knowledge is key to avoiding these scams.
Despite generous claims from some officials, Kenyan returnees remain vulnerable. The government has yet to offer comprehensive support systems for those who lose everything. In the meantime, returnees must rely on NGOs and personal resilience to rebuild their lives.
