If you want to see a man lose his will to live, don’t take him to a funeral; just show him Benedict Mutiso looking at his payslip. In this city of “faking it until you make it,” the only thing real is the sigh Benedict lets out every end of the month. He’s realized the bitter truth we all ignore: for three-and-a-half months every year, he isn’t working for his kids or his future - he’s a state-sponsored slave. If the taxman and the taxpayer met in a dark alley in River Road, the physical confrontation wouldn’t just be likely; it would be a spectator sport.

But wait, the government isn’t done with its “dating phase” where it takes everything and gives back nothing. Starting this February, your payslip is scheduled for another raid. It’s not a deduction; it’s a home invasion. While we are busy arguing about whether “going commando” is African or not, the state is busy unzipping our pockets with the precision of a professional pickpocket. They call them “additional cuts,” but let’s be honest - it’s a blood transfusion where the donor is anemic and the recipient is a vampire.

The hypocrisy is what really salts the wound. While the ordinary Kenyan gets squeezed until their pips squeak, Parliament is out here pressuring the NSSF to waive Sh102 million in penalties for ex-MPs. Imagine that. The same people who make the laws are the ones getting a “get out of jail free” card, while you get hit with interest the moment you’re a day late. It reminds me of the exploitation in The Digital Graveyard: Kenya’s Secret War Against AI Trauma, where the poor are sacrificed for the comfort of the global elite. Here, the “elite” are just our own neighbors in fuel guzzlers.

Then there’s the corporate facelift. Billionaires like the late Kirubi can rename a bank “Sidian” and inject capital like it’s a Botox treatment, but the underlying rot remains. We are being asked to fund multi-billion shilling projects that are 12 years past their deadline. In any other world, that’s a failure. In Nairobi, that’s just another Tuesday. We are paying for ghosts, for delays, and for the luxury of people who have forgotten what a matatu smells like.

So, as you wait for that February alert on your phone, don’t expect a salary. Expect a ransom note. You’ll keep working, keep sighing, and keep funding a system that views you as an ATM with a pulse. Benedict is right to be angry, but in this city, anger is just another thing the government hasn’t figured out how to tax yet. Give them time, though - I’m sure there’s a “Grudge Levy” coming in the next budget.