The Landlord from Hell: A Gospel of Rent, Rage, and Ridiculousness

Picture of a Tenant Moving out of an apartment.  Photo/The Standard. 

The Landlord Chronicles

My friends, I’ve discovered that when life throws stress at some people, they reach for alcohol, pick unnecessary fights, or start pointless arguments. But not me. No, I turn to my faithful companion—digital ink. Writing is my therapy, my courtroom, and my evidence locker. Whatever happens, I document, so I never repeat the same mistakes twice.

But today, my people, the joke is not on me. I am the injured party. The aggrieved soul. The innocent tenant wronged by a landlord so petty he could make a mosquito look like a Nobel Peace Prize winner.

Let’s start at the beginning.

Three months ago, I packed my humble belongings and waved a heartfelt goodbye to my former landlord, Mr. Mwenda—affectionately known as Baaba. May the gods of rental peace forever bless that man. In the two years I lived in his rentals, never once did he knock on my door with unnecessary drama. He minded his business so well, if “Minding Your Business” were a person, Baaba would be the cover model.

Alas, in pursuit of growth, bigger space, and proximity to Makutano CBD, I moved. And dear readers, I landed myself in the clutches of the Landlord from Hell.

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 Red Flags & Padlock Wars

First red flag? The landlord lives next door. A disaster waiting to happen. I should have run faster than Safaricom bundles on YouTube.

Then came the electricity saga. Apparently, tenants are supposed to track one shared meter like we’re contestants in a village raffle. I suggested modern prepaid tokens like normal people use, but no—my logic was too advanced for this compound.

Next, a padlock mysteriously disappeared from the gate. Who was accused? Yours truly. Because apparently, I looked like a man desperate for second-hand padlocks.

And the accusations didn’t stop there. Loitering in my own compound. Being “too clean.” Even hosting friends whose laughter, imagine, was deemed a national disturbance. All this from a landlord who texts, calls, and WhatsApps like a clingy ex.

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The Gospel According to the Landlord

This weekend, I finally said “Enough!”

Picture this: a quiet Sunday, midday, the holiest of hours. I decided to bless the compound with gospel music from my sound system—volume 4, mind you, on a machine that goes up to 32. Hardly a crusade.

But then, boom. Lights out. I thought Kenya Power had done their usual disappearing act, only to discover it was no blackout—it was sabotage. My landlord had cut my electricity. Yes, folks, I was now a victim of a one-man Kenya Power & Lightning Company.

When I confronted him, he called me a “vendor of shenanigans.” And when he realized his logic was thinner than tissue paper, he did the unthinkable—he called the police. Yes, the man phoned the authorities because I dared to ask why my gospel playlist offended him at noon on a Sunday.

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Final Sermon

Dear Landlord , this is your message: Refund my deposit and I’ll leave you your overpriced cubicle. Heck, you can even move into both houses and play landlord-musical-chairs for all I care. Because sometimes, being nice is not a blessing—it’s a burden.

And to the Officer who entertained this nonsense, let me educate you: tenant-landlord disputes are not criminal cases. They belong to the Rent Tribunal or the area chief. If I decide to take this route, I could legally spend the next three months in your house rent-free. Why? Because the law, my friends, sometimes has a sense of humour.

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About Me

Felix Kinyua is a writer, digital worker, and full-time survivor of Kenyan landlords. When not battling petty property owners, he can be found immersed in the digital economy, crafting stories, or blasting gospel music at a respectful volume 4.

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