The Devil Wears an Apron

What I learned when Nairobi County tried to tax the “secret society” everyone said would make you rich or damned.

Growing up in Kenya, we didn’t need Netflix thrillers. We had the Freemasons.

Their lodge—an old, grey-stoned mystery on Nyerere Road—sat like a horror movie set right in the middle of Nairobi. To kids like me, it was more myth than building. We’d hear tales whispered during blackouts: how members drank blood, worshipped serpents, avoided churches like vampires, and somehow never seemed to die.

One classmate swore his uncle joined and instantly bought a Range Rover. Another insisted there was a handshake that unlocked bank vaults. A third said they met inside volcanoes. We all nodded solemnly. None of us had ever seen the inside, of course—but the mystery was part of the allure.

So imagine the collective gasp in May 2025 when Nairobi County officials marched up to the Freemasons’ lodge and pasted KSh 19 million in unpaid land rate notices on their front gate—like overdue rent warnings at your local bedsitter. No brimstone. No smoke. Just bureaucracy.

Even the devil, it seems, isn’t above tax in Kenya.

The Freemasons responded with a calm, lawyerly denial. The land was held in trust, they said, and thus tax-exempt. But for many Kenyans, that moment felt like confirmation: See? Even the county government finally admits there’s something weird going on in there!

In Kenya, we are deeply spiritual, but also spectacularly suspicious. A society that prays hard also speculates harder. When information is scarce, myth steps in with flair. And nothing invites more myth than secrecy wrapped in wealth and ritual.

Freemasonry ticks all those boxes. Their symbols—compasses, eyes, pyramids—are everywhere, from currency notes to conspiracy documentaries. And unlike your neighborhood chama, they don’t advertise membership drives. They don’t explain themselves. That silence makes them magnetic.

Truth is, Freemasonry isn’t a cult or a get-rich scheme. It’s a global fraternity with medieval European roots, formalized in the 1700s. Its goal? To take good men better.

You don’t need to be rich. Or educated. Or wear goat-skin. You just need to be a man of legal adult age, of good moral character, and a believer in a Supreme Being—whether that’s God, Allah, Nyasaye, or the cosmic algorithm.

The initiation is symbolic—candidates are blindfolded to represent ignorance, led in a symbolic journey around the lodge, and “granted light” by removing the blindfold. They're given tools like a square and compass—less for building cathedrals and more for building character.

Their central myth, the story of Hiram Abiff—the architect of Solomon’s Temple who was murdered for refusing to reveal sacred knowledge—is an allegory. It teaches integrity, loyalty, and the price of moral failure. Not unlike your average Sunday sermon. Just with more aprons.

British colonialists introduced Freemasonry to Kenya. For a while, it mirrored the class and race hierarchies of the empire. Over time, however, Kenyan professionals—judges, architects, businessmen, civil servants—joined and even led.

There are active lodges across Kenya, tied to both the United Grand Lodge of England and the Grand Lodge of Kenya. Most of their work involves charity—funding schools, orphanages, scholarships. But because they do it quietly, and dress like Victorian butlers doing cosplay, no one believes it.

Case in point: in the early 2000s, a group believed to be Mungiki attempted to raid the Nairobi lodge. Theories abounded—hidden treasure? demonic artifacts? secret tunnels to State House? They were repelled by guards, and vanished like bad tweets. No statement was issued. Nairobi carried on guessing.

Here’s what I actually learned after diving deep into Kenyan Freemasonry. They’ve had their share of drama—raids, taxes, and the eternal wrath of WhatsApp forwards. They’ve also been deeply misunderstood—because secrecy, like silence, breeds suspicion. And when you peel back the myths, they’re just a fraternity of mostly older men who believe in personal development, spiritual reflection, and community service.

Globally, the brotherhood has included George Washington, Winston Churchill, Simón Bolívar, Mozart, Buzz Aldrin, and even Nat King Cole. You’d expect sorcery; you get history nerds, philosophers, and humanitarians with robes.

So no—there are no demonic orgies behind the gate on Nyerere Road. Just old buildings, old rituals, and a bunch of aprons that don’t get dry-cleaned enough.

We want to believe in secret rulers, because it’s easier than believing the world runs on disorganization, bad policy, and poor WiFi. But most of the time, the biggest conspiracies are just... paperwork.

If there’s a devil in this story, he doesn’t sit on a golden throne inside the lodge. He probably lives in the fine print of a Nairobi County invoice.

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