Fake Gambling Winners Are Scamming Kenyans Into Poverty Through Media Lies

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.com 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.com 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.

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.