How online gambling pushes youth into debt and despair

Betting addiction is a disease that heavily contributes to Kenya’s mental health crisis /AI ILLUSTRATION

What begins as a harmless attempt to while away the time slowly spirals into a destructive addiction that drains finances, shatters relationships and pushes young Kenyans to the brink.

For Kariuki* (Not his real name), now 37, online gambling crept into his life quietly in Central Kenya. 

Five years ago, he was not chasing wealth or thrill. He was simply bored.

One evening, while scrolling through his phone, an advert popped up. The promise was enticing: entertainment, excitement and a chance to earn extra cash.

He clicked without much thought, downloaded the app and created an account, unaware that he had just stepped into what he describes as one of the darkest chapters of his life. 

The platform featured live football matches, allowing users to place bets on ball possession and corner kicks, as well as and match results. 

When there were no live games, the app filled the gap with computer-generated matches, ensuring there was always something to bet on. “I started very small,” Kariuki recalled. “I would set aside Sh100 a day and break it into Sh10 bets spread throughout the day.”

At first, the results seemed harmless, even helpful. A few wins earned him Sh50 or Sh100, money he used for food and small daily expenses. The app kept him entertained and made him feel productive.

But the convenience of betting anytime and anywhere slowly tightened its grip. Within months, Kariuki found himself checking the app constantly, even during working hours. Kariuki was working on the communication industry.

What began as casual play turned into an uncontrollable urge. “I started looking forward to opening the app all the time. It became part of my routine,” he told the Star.

As his confidence grew, so did his stakes. The Sh100 daily budget quickly rose to Sh1,000, then Sh2,000 and sometimes Sh3,000, sums that began eating deeply into his income.

“I kept thinking, if Sh20 can give me Sh50 or Sh100, what would happen if I staked more?” he said. “You lose sometimes, you win sometimes, and that keeps pulling you back.”

The thrill of winning was intoxicating. At one point, Kariuki won Sh90,000 — the largest amount he ever received from gambling. 

“That rush is something I can’t explain. You feel like you’ve beaten the system.”

But the excitement was fleeting. Instead of saving the money, he spent a small portion on food and drinks and funneled the rest back into the app, hoping for even bigger wins.

Gradually, his financial life unraveled. Bills piled up. Despite being employed and earning a regular salary, he struggled to meet basic obligations. Side hustles that once supplemented his income now existed only to fuel his addiction.

 When his money ran out, he turned to digital credit apps, borrowing to keep betting. Annually, Kariuki estimates he gambled more than Sh500,000, money he barely had. “Every time you lose, you want to recover it. That’s when it gets dangerous. You bet more, and instead of winning back what you lost, you lose even more.”

In desperation, he took a Sh300,000 salary advance to clear debts, followed by another Sh100,000 to support himself. Much of it disappeared into gambling within weeks.

Attempts to quit were frustratingly unsuccessful. He deleted the app repeatedly, only to download it again hours or days later. Switching to a basic phone failed because his job required constant internet access. At his lowest point, Kariuki wrote to the gambling company, pleading with them to permanently delete his account. He detailed his addiction and begged for help.

“They took six months to respond,” he said. “Six months.”  

After the account was finally deleted, he managed to stay away from gambling for about a year. But the break did not last.

He soon stumbled upon another platform, this time an online casino with a roulette wheel that one spins and makes money if the ball lands on certain numbers. Convinced it was different and less risky, he returned. Worse still, he introduced two of his closest friends.

Within a year, all three were drowning in debt. “I couldn’t keep money in my M-Pesa anymore. I started asking clients (from side hustles) to pay me in cash.”

The damage extended beyond finances. Relationships were strained, trust eroded, and guilt weighed heavily on him.

“That’s when I realised how much time and money I had wasted. I’m especially sorry for dragging my friends into it. While I was in it, I desperately needed help but people didn’t understand. Gambling addiction isn’t like alcohol where you can detox and gradually move on with help. I should have gone for therapy, but I didn’t.”

His warning to young people is blunt: the promise of easy money in gambling is an illusion.

In Embu county, a 32-year-old secondary school teacher tells a hauntingly similar story, one that stretched over a decade and nearly cost him his life.

Introduced to betting while in university by a friend, he initially viewed gambling as harmless fun. Small wins kept him engaged, and over time, he discovered more platforms that accelerated his addiction.

While working in real estate in 2022, his gambling reached a devastating low. He was entrusted by his aunt with Sh2.3 million to purchase land on her behalf. Instead, he gambled away the entire amount.

“I used all of it in betting,” he admitted quietly.

The fallout was severe. His wife, exhausted by endless debts and broken promises, eventually left him. Family members who once stepped in to help grew weary and stopped bothering.

He was sued for fraud. 

“My father once sold his cows to clear my debts. My sister also gave me Sh100,000 for court bail. I gambled it within minutes and she had to source for more money elsewhere to bail me out.”

Things worsened after he secured employment as a teacher in 2023. A lump-sum payment covering three months' salary arrears lasted only days. His pay slip became fully committed to loans taken to sustain his gambling.

As a class teacher, he abused children’s trust by betting learners’ pocket money temporarily placed under his care. “I would take it hoping to replace it quickly,” he said. “Sometimes the students needed it, and I didn’t have it.”

By the time he sought help, he estimates he had lost Sh8.6 million. Crushed by debt and shame, he attempted suicide, buying poison from an agrovet in Embu town.

“I locked myself in the house and drank it,” he said. “I woke up seven days later in a coma at Embu Level 5 Hospital.”

Another survivor, Mathew Ndiku from Machakos county, nearly lost his life to gambling addiction. By mid-2024, he had lost Sh6 million — money meant to secure his future.

Overwhelmed by despair, he jumped into a dam in an attempt to end his life but was rescued by passersby. He was later admitted to Edin Care Rehabilitation Centre in Murang’a town and rehabilitation became a turning point.

While at the centre, Ndiku channelled his pain into writing. He authored two books — Wingu la Mabadiliko, which addresses social ills and addiction, and Addiction Is a Disease, Not a Crime, offering guidance to addicts and families. The books have sold more than 3,000 copies.

“I want people to understand that addiction is not a crime,” he said. “It’s a disease. Many families are suffering in silence.”

Both Ndiku and the Embu teacher now speak openly about their experiences, visiting schools, churches and community forums to warn young people and encourage those struggling to seek help early.

Charles Njugia, a counsellor at Edin Care Rehabilitation Centre, says pathological gambling has become a major contributor to Kenya’s mental health crisis.

“It’s a ticking time bomb,” he said. “Online betting is easily accessible through smartphones, and betting companies are everywhere.”

Njugia says gambling addiction often follows a predictable pattern: excitement, losses, revenge betting and eventual collapse.

“You lose money, then try to recover it by betting more. Before you realise it, everything is gone and the consequences include depression, broken families, financial ruin and, in extreme cases, suicide.”

At Edin Care, recovering addicts are followed up for as long as three months after rehabilitation to reduce relapse and helped to rebuild their lives through lifestyle changes and support systems.

The message from survivors and counsellors alike is that gambling addiction is real, destructive and increasingly common but recovery is possible.

Two weeks ago, Murang’a South Deputy County Commissioner Bernard Odino led security agents in destroying 47 gambling machines confiscated from outlets in his subcounty and nearby Kandara subcounty.

Odino raised concerns that gambling is entrapping young children and adults, and fuelling petty crimes as risk-takers seek money to bet.

“Children are sent to the shops by their mothers and end up using all the money in the betting dens. We will not allow this to continue,” he said, pledging to ensure consistent raids are conducted to rid the area of the vice.