Faya si Faya: How Kindiki’s slogans slipped from social media into Kenyan homes

“mbwegzeee mbwegzeee… mbwegzee, mimi ni noma si noma, Kindiki ni faya si faya?”

Once the preserve of social-media memes, the phrase has crossed into everyday speech — half playful, half earnest. What began as political shorthand has become something more deeply embedded in ordinary Kenyan life.

This Christmas, across villages in Eastern Kenya and beyond, the slogans were as present as roast meat and shared meals. Children repeated them in jest, elders chuckled over them while sharing busaa, and even preachers slipped them into sermons for comic relief.

The result was unmistakable: a political catchphrase that no longer belongs to the internet. It belongs to the people.

Deputy President Kithure Kindiki’s now-familiar “faya si faya” did not emerge by accident. It is simple, rhythmic, and unmistakably Kenyan — the kind of phrase that rolls easily off the tongue and invites repetition. Its appeal lies in its accessibility. No heavy ideology. No complicated messaging. Just confidence, delivered with humour.

And Kenyans did what they always do best: they took it, reshaped it, and made it their own.

Online, the slogans inspired skits, jokes, and playful exaggerations. Offline, they quietly migrated into real life — into matatu banter, family jokes, village conversations, and festive gatherings. That migration matters. In politics, once language leaves elite spaces and settles into daily life, something fundamental has shifted.

Kenyan politics is often analysed from Nairobi studios and social-media timelines. But real political capital is built far from ring lights and hashtags. It is built where language is oral, communal, and shared — in homes, markets, churches, and along village paths.

This Christmas, “mbwegze mbwegze” was not just said for laughs.

History shows that leaders who are initially laughed at — but remain consistent and disciplined — often outlast louder, flashier rivals. Mockery fades. Presence remains.

What makes Kindiki’s rise notable is its lack of theatrics. There is no constant chest-thumping, no daily political firefighting. Instead, there is method, restraint, and repetition.

When a politician’s name begins to appear naturally in family jokes, festive chants, and village humour, it signals something deeper than popularity. It signals integration into the national psyche. That is how household names are made — not through force, but through familiarity.

Kindiki is not loud. He is deliberate. And in Kenyan politics, where endurance often matters more than excitement, that combination is powerful.

If momentum, discipline, and grassroots resonance count for anything, then the road to 2032 may already be under construction.

Sometimes power does not announce itself with sirens.

Sometimes it arrives smiling, repeating a phrase everyone knows