MAFUDHI

The Untold Story of the Nairobians and Their Bushes

A public service announcement nobody asked for, but everyone needed.

So we need to talk. Not about the economy. Not about the price of unga. Not about that WhatsApp group your mother added you to where she sends “Good Morning” pictures of roses every day at 5am. No. We need to talk about something closer to home. Something... lower. Something equatorial region in placement.

We need to talk about mafudhi.

For the innocent souls who just arrived in Nairobi from the village last Tuesday with a bag of ngwaci and high hopes, let me educate you. Mafudhi, my dear friends, is the garden of Eden you carry between your legs. The lawn. The shrubbery. The undergrowth. The pubic hair. There, I said it.

Now every Nairobian has a relationship with their mafudhi. It is complicated, dramatic, full of betrayal and reconciliation. It is basically the situationship of body parts.

The Five Tribes of Mafudhi Management

The Gillette Warriors

These are the brave ones. The soldiers. The people who look at a Gillette razor and say, “Today I go to Vallhalla.” They will squat in the shower like a sumo wrestler, one leg up on the bathroom wall like they are auditioning for Gymnastics like Simone Biles, and they will shave.

But nobody tells you about the aftermath. Two days later, the itching begins. You are in a matatu, sitting next to a mama with a kiondo, and your nether regions are on fire. You want to scratch but you are in public. So you shift. You wiggle. You cross and uncross your legs like you are solving a rubik’s cube with your thighs. The mama looks at you like you have been cursed by a mganga kutoka ukambani. You just smile and say, “Niko sawa tu.” Meanwhile, down below, World War III is happening.

And the bumps? The bumps that come after? You look like you have been attacked by a colony of angry safari ants. Nobody warned you. The Gillette advert showed a smooth man smiling at the mirror. That man lied to you.NTSA should give you a tender to supply bumps.

The Veet Believers

Then there is the Veet crowd. The ones who said, “Shaving is too barbaric. I am civilised. I use chemistry.”

So you go to the supermarket, trying to look casual as you slide that pink Veet box into your basket between the Supa loaf bread and the Rina cooking oil. The cashier scans it and looks at you.

You get home, you read the instructions like you are studying for KCSE. “Apply evenly. Wait 5 to 8 minutes. Do not exceed 10 minutes.” Simple, right?

Wrong.

Five minutes in, nothing is happening. You think, “Maybe my mafudhi is different. Maybe mine is African. I will wait 15 minutes.” Bad decision. Very bad decision. By minute 12, your crotch is sending you messages in morse code. Burning. Stinging. The kind of heat that makes you question every life decision you have ever made, including that time you told your ex you loved them after two Tuskers.

You rinse it off, screaming in the shower like Embarambamba in a gospel concert, and when you look down, the mafudhi is still there. Half of it. Patchy. Like a football pitch in Dandora after the rains. Some parts smooth, some parts still bushy. You look like a before and after photo, but both sides are the “before.”

The Waxing Adventurers

These ones have money and pain tolerance. They walk into those salons in Westlands and Kilimani with the fancy names, “Smooth Operators” or “Bare Essentials” or whatever, and they pay someone, a complete stranger, to pour hot wax on their private parts and rip the hair out with cloth.

Let me say that again. They PAY someone to do this.

The first time you go, you are confident. You have watched YouTube videos. You have read blogs. You are prepared.

You are not prepared.

The lady tells you to lie down. She heats the wax. She applies it. It feels warm. Nice, even. You think, “This is not so bad.” Then she presses the strip down, looks you dead in the eye, and RIPS.

Your ancestors feel it. Your great grandmother in Murang’a sits up in her grave and says, “Nani ameumiza my grand daughter ?” Your soul leaves your body, does a lap around Uhuru Park, and comes back. You are sweating. You are gripping the bed like you are giving birth to twins. The lady says, “Just a few more strips.” A few more? THERE IS MORE?(In Sheldon’s Voice).

But you know what? When it is done, it is done. Smooth like a boiled egg Dj Cue (Smooth criminal by Michael Jackson).

Clean like a new iPhone screen. You walk out of that salon feeling like a new human being. The breeze hits different. Your confidence is different. You get into a Bolt and you are sitting there like royalty. The driver does not know why you are smiling. You do not explain.

Now, the waxing world has levels. You think it is just one service? Oh no, my friend. There is a whole menu. Like going to Java House but for your privates.

First, there is the Bikini Wax. This one is for beginners. The entry level. You just clean up the sides, the parts that might peek out of your swimming costume at that Diani trip you have been planning since 2019. It is the “let me just tidy up the compound” of waxing. Manageable. Survivable. You might even smile through it.

Then there is the Brazilian. This one? This one is personal. This is the full harvest. Everything must go. Front, back, sides, underneath, everywhere. The Brazilian does not negotiate. The Brazilian does not leave survivors. You lie there on that table and the waxing lady works on you like she is clearing a plot in Kamulu for development. When she is done, you are smoother than a politician’s lies during campaign season. There is nothing left. You are born again. Literally.

And just when you thought it could not get more dramatic, someone invented the Vajacial. Yes. A facial. For your vajay or yoni or whatever creative name you have. A FACIAL. For the area that has never seen sunlight or a dermatologist. Apparently, it involves exfoliating, masks, serums, and soothing creams for your bikini area after waxing.

But here is the part that truly, genuinely amazed me. The part where I had to sit down, drink water, and reconsider everything I thought I knew about human beings.

They also wax the butthole.

THE BUTTHOLE. Let that marinate.

Someone wakes up in the morning, takes a shower, has breakfast, maybe some mandazi and chai, and then drives to a salon in Kilimani to have hot wax applied to their butthole and ripped off. By choice. With money they worked for. Money that could have bought two kilos of nyama choma at Kenyatta Market.

And the position? You have to lie there and hold your own cheeks apart like you are opening a birthday present for the waxing lady. You are lying there, staring at the Pillow, questioning your entire existence while a stranger is waxing your most private of private areas. The area that even your doctor approaches with caution. The area that was never meant to be in anyone’s line of sight for that long.

And these people do it regularly. Like it is a haircut. Every four weeks, they are back in that salon, assuming the position, like it is a normal Tuesday activity. “What are you doing after work?” “Oh, just going to get my butthole waxed, then maybe pick up groceries.” WHAT?

I am amazed. I am shook. I am in awe of the dedication. The commitment. The sheer audacity of the human spirit. Colonialism could not break us. The economy cannot break us. But we voluntarily let someone pour hot wax on our buttholes and rip it off. Kenyans are truly built different.

The Bush Keepers

Now, let us give respect where respect is due. There is a whole community of people who have looked at the Gillettes, the Veets, the waxing salons, and said, “Hapana. Mimi na mafudhi yangu, we are in this together. Till death do as apart.”

These are the naturalists. The conservationists. The Wangari Maathais of the nether region. While everyone else is deforesting, they are planting trees. They believe the bush was put there by God, and who are they to question the Almighty’s landscaping decisions?

And honestly? They have a point. No itching. No bumps. No chemical burns. No strangers ripping cloth off your private parts while you pray to Jesus, Mohammed, and Buddha at the same time. Just vibes and vegetation.

They walk among us unbothered. In the CBD, in Eastlands, in Karen. You cannot tell who they are. They could be your accountant. Your lawyer. Your pastor. Yes, even your pastor.

The bush keepers have a quiet confidence. A peace. While you are in the bathroom doing gymnastics with a razor, they are watching Citizen TV with a cup of chai. While you are screaming in a salon in Westlands, they are eating mutura in town without a care in the world.

The Trimmers

The diplomats. The middle ground. The coalition government of mafudhi management.The Nusu mkate

They do not shave completely because they learned their lesson. They do not keep the full bush because their partner gave them “the look.” So they trim. They maintain. They keep things neat. A little off the top, a little off the sides, like a kinyozi for the basement.

They own one of those electric trimmers they ordered from Jumia. The one that arrived three weeks late and looked nothing like the picture. But it works. Somehow. Most of the time. Except that one time it pulled instead of cut and they saw the white light and thought they were going to meet their maker.

The Unspoken Conversations

The funniest thing about mafudhi is that everyone deals with it but nobody talks about it. You will never hear this conversation at a chama meeting: “Wanajua, I tried waxing last week.” Never. It is the silent struggle. The private battle.especially amaong men.

But we all know. When your friend is walking funny on a Monday morning, you do not ask. You just nod. Solidarity. When your colleague keeps shifting in their office chair, you mind your business. You have been there.

And the partners. Let us talk about the partners. There is always that moment in a new relationship where someone has an opinion about the other person’s mafudhi management strategy. It is never said directly. It is communicated through a look. A suggestion. A “babe, have you ever tried...” conversation that ends with someone sleeping on the couch.

The Economy of Mafudhi

Do you know how much money Kenyans spend on mafudhi management? Think about it. Gillette blades are not cheap. Veet is not cheap. Waxing in those Kilimani salons will cost you rent money. We are literally spending our hard earned shillings on hair that will grow back in two weeks. It is the most Nairobian scam, and our own bodies are running it.

Someone, somewhere, is driving a V8 because of your mafudhi. Let that sink in.

A Moment of Appreciation

But let me be serious for one moment. Just one. Then we go back to jokes.

I am proud of the shavers. I am proud of the waxers. I am proud of the trimmers, the Veet survivors, the vajacial queens, even the butthole waxing champions. I am proud of every single person who takes the time to maintain hygiene down there. You are doing the Lord’s work and the public does not thank you enough.

Because let me tell you something. If you have ever been in a matatu during Nairobi’s hot season, squeezed between two strangers like sardines in a tin, with the window stuck and the conductor refusing to open the door because he is still looking for “mmoja, mmoja iende,” then you understand why hygiene matters.

Now imagine that matatu. It is 2pm. The sun is cooking Nairobi like it has a personal vendetta against the city. The seat is packed so tight that your thigh is basically married to the stranger next to you. The matatu hits a pothole on Jogoo Road and everyone bounces. Bodies are touching. Shoulders, arms, thighs, everything is in contact.

Now imagine, in that moment, a stranger’s sweat drops on you. Not just any sweat. Sweat that has been marinating in an unmaintained mafudhi forest since the Kibaki administration. Sweat that has been brewing in a bush thicker than Karura Forest. That sweat lands on your arm. On your leg. On your SKIN.

I cannot. I refuse.

So yes, I salute everyone who shaves, trims, waxes, creams, or does whatever they need to do to keep things fresh down there. You are not just grooming for yourself. You are grooming for the person who will sit next to you in that KBS. You are grooming for the stranger in the lift at Anniversary Towers. You are grooming for humanity.

You are the real heroes. Not all heroes wear capes. Some just own a Gillette and a dream.

In Conclusion

Whether you are a Gillette warrior with battle scars, a Veet believer with trust issues, a waxing adventurer with a high pain threshold, a bush keeper living your best life, or a trimmer playing it safe, just know this: the mafudhi does not judge you. It grows back regardless. It is loyal. It is consistent. In a world full of uncertainty, your mafudhi will always be there for you.

Unless you waxed. Then give it about four to six weeks.

The author of this piece wishes to remain anonymous for obvious reasons. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, or their mafudhi, is purely coincidental.