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From jet-setting content creators to stunning news anchors, here are some of the hottest female Kenyan celebrities of 2020.
There’s no doubt that we’re blessed with many beautiful Kenyan female celebrities. They have dominated the industry with their impeccable style and graceful looks and are part of the reason many spend hours on Instagram scrolling through their pictures. Whether you admire their well-curated outfits or stunning curves, these beauties never disappoint earning them a place on the list. From jet-setting content creators to stunning news anchors, here are some of the hottest female Kenyan celebrities of 2020 in no particular order.
Above all, she has maintained a gorgeous body frame, managed to tone her body, and is seemingly bouncing back to her youthful looks. The model, lawyer and mom is indeed the finest mother in Kenya. And we have an assortment of photos to prove it:
For decades, tourism has accounted for about a tenth of the Kenyan economy, largely driven by the country’s natural splendor. So many people come to see the Big Five—lions, leopards, rhinos, elephants, and buffalo—that in Kenya the minister of tourism and the minister of wildlife are the same person. But the wilderness is deteriorating, threatened by climate change and by an exploding human population. When I first visited, in 1971, seven years after Kenya won independence from Great Britain, it was a nation of eleven million. Nairobi was a city of half a million inhabitants, with flame trees lining the streets and lions prowling the near suburbs. It was a destination for hunters, who left town on safari and returned for Martinis and clean sheets; the unsuccessful ones bought leopard-tail hatbands from the hotel shops to take home. The herds of wildlife seemed too vast to disappear.
The thesis was informed by work that she had done in the Tana River Primate National Reserve, where the American conservation biologist Margaret Kinnaird was studying the monkeys. Kinnaird needed a Kenyan field assistant; Kahumbu got the job, and spent six months in the forest. “I was in heaven,” she told me. “I was a girl in my twenties living in a tent in the bush. My mother was very unhappy about it, but I had a great time.” The experience was also a wake-up call. Kenya’s elephants were being devastated by ivory poachers. “We’d hear the gunshots, and we’d find the carcasses in the forest,” Kahumbu said. “I guess we just normalized the dangers.”
In 2004, Kahumbu brought an orphaned baby hippo to her reserve, and, with no other place to keep it, put it in a pen with a hundred-and-thirty-year-old giant tortoise. Overnight, the little hippo, Owen, and the tortoise, Mzee, became inseparable, swimming, eating, and sleeping together. Kahumbu got a Kenyan newspaper to publish a photo of the two, and was soon deluged with inquiring e-mails—“as many as a thousand a day,” she said. She started a blog narrated by the zookeeper, a Kenyan man named Stephen. In time, the blog grew into a photo book, “Owen and Mzee,” which sold more than a million copies.
By 2007, Leakey had helped found a conservation organization called WildlifeDirect, and he asked Kahumbu to join him. The country’s wildlife populations were plummeting. “We looked at what was working and what wasn’t working in Kenyan conservation, and we realized that the courts weren’t punishing poachers adequately,” she told me. She set up a team to monitor the courts, where poachers were typically let off with small fines, and she used her access to the media to advocate for tougher implementation of laws. After two years, Leakey made Kahumbu the organization’s C.E.O. (He retired in 2017 to devote himself to new projects, notably raising funds for a somewhat pharaonic museum dedicated to East Africa’s ecology and its status as a birthplace of prehistoric man.)
Kahumbu travels in a small convoy of safari vehicles built for viewing wildlife, along with two cameramen, a soundman, and several drivers, as well as her field producer, Yoko Seki, an amiable, pragmatic Japanese woman who grew up in Kenya and has been her friend since high school. On long drives, Kahumbu relaxes by studying nature manuals, trying to match pictures of species she has spotted. Curiosity can take precedence over haste: she frequently asks the drivers to stop so that she can photograph a flower or an unusual bird, interrogating whomever she can find about its properties and local name. In areas with cell-phone service, Kahumbu returns to work, calling allies around the country. During a recent drive, I listened as she mobilized resistance to highway crews who planned to uproot a sacred fig tree, and agitated against a government proposal to erect a fence in the last open section of Nairobi National Park.
Even if Kenyatta wants to effect change, Kahumbu said, “there is a big problem, in terms of the President’s ability to push the ministers to adopt what he is saying.” Last year, after the government proposed building a private lodge and a tree-canopy walk inside Nairobi National Park, Kahumbu warned on Kenyan television that the construction would harm the park’s leopards and birds. “We don’t need a hotel in the middle of Nairobi National Park,” she said contemptuously. Around the same time, a music festival was held inside another national park, near a fragile colony of nesting birds, despite Kahumbu’s attempts to get a court order to stop it. Not long afterward, Kahumbu found herself denied entry at the country’s national parks.
“My son was a polite and hard-working boy. He knew how to make his own money; he was not a criminal,” Gitau tells Al Jazeera, holding a photo of Kevin between her fingers. “And even if he was a thief, it’s not right to kill him. What is the point of having courts in this country if the police can just execute our children on suspicion of doing something wrong?”
The mothers also offered 28-year-old Zacheas Okoth new life after he was shot in the stomach by the Kenyan armed forces during election violence in 2017. Before the shooting, Okoth was training to be an electrician and working as a flooring installer. Now he cannot do any physical labour. “I can’t even bend or kneel down without feeling a lot of pain,” he says.
