Patrick, a journalist, swears he has witnessed forces that defy newsroom logic, editorial policy, and possibly gravity itself – the mysterious, career-altering phenomenon he calls “the power of big nyash”.
“There were three of us in line,” he begins, settling into the story like a man about to confess a minor crime.
“Head office wanted someone promoted to Nairobi. A big break. A clean escape from regional reporting and bad tea.”
On paper, Patrick admits, he was never in contention.
“Our boss was a certified admirer of women, and I, well, I wrote like a broken typewriter. My fate was sealed before the meeting even began.”
When merit took a back seat
But what followed, he says, was less a promotion process and more a theatrical performance of human weakness.
“Our supervisor meets my colleagues,” Patrick recalls, laughing.
“Looks at one of them; curves announcing herself before she even spoke; and says, ‘This one… she can write very good stories.’”
The irony? The woman in question could barely construct a headline without emotional support.
Meanwhile, the actual literary assassin in the room, a lean, sharp, quietly brilliant writer, was overlooked like yesterday’s news.
“The decision caused unrest,” Patrick says.
“The kind that doesn’t make noise but lingers in tea breaks and WhatsApp groups.”
The overlooked writer eventually folded her notebooks and walked away from journalism altogether, trading bylines for blackboards.
“She became a teacher,” Patrick says, a touch of guilt sneaking into his grin.
“Meanwhile, in the newsroom, we coined a phrase. Whenever a certain… presence walked in, we’d whisper, ‘Ah, she can write very good stories.’”
From invisible to irresistible
Elsewhere, Amina tells a story of her own, less amused and more exasperated.
“It started at a team-building event,” she says.
“I don’t know what changed that day, but suddenly it was like my backside had been formally introduced before I had.”
From then on, her professional identity seemed to evaporate, replaced by a running commentary she never asked for.
“Before that, I was invisible. Peacefully invisible,” she says.
“Now? I can’t walk across the office without someone turning into a part-time poet with terrible material.”
There were perks, she admits with a reluctant shrug. Doors opened. Favours appeared. Work became… negotiable.
“They spoil me,” she says, “but not for the right reasons.”
Then came the grand offer, delivered, she says, with alarming sincerity.
“One of my bosses promised to buy me a house in Nyali,” she recounts, pausing just long enough for the absurdity to settle in.
“All I had to do was agree to be his second wife.”
She laughs, but it’s the kind that carries weight.
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In these offices, where ambition, ego, and human frailty share cramped desks, talent sometimes takes the stairs while something else takes the lift.
And as Patrick would tell it, not all promotions are written in ink; some are… well, strongly implied.
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