What It’s Like To … Be a Working Stand-Up Comedian and Satirist in Kenya

A stand-up comic, writer, and satirist, she has carved a niche for herself with a voice that is both disarmingly funny and fiercely observant. Whether on stage or online, Wanda’s work reflects a distinct ability to locate humor in the heart of discomfort. What began as an escape from a stressful job has evolved into a career that spans stand-up festivals, digital satire, and scriptwriting. As the creator and host ofFake Woke With Justine, her incisive online show tackling Kenya’s sociopolitical contradictions, she has become a compelling comedic voice of her generation.

But beneath the punchlines is a deeper commitment to truth-telling, to making space for marginalized voices, and to showing up with integrity even when the jokes are hard to find.

“People think if you’re funny in everyday life, you can be a comedian. Not really,” she tells OkayAfrica. “Being funny casually is instinct. Being a comedian is a craft. You’re expected to make people laugh,” She adds, “Being funny is who you are, but being a comedian is something you have to practice and own.”

That distinction is central to her approach and reveals the discipline behind her work, even when it looks effortless. She shares her story with OkayAfrica, reflecting on how a class clown evolved into a cultural commentator, why jokes still matter when everything feels bleak, and how comedy can serve as a form of resistance.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

Justine Wanda: It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment it all clicked for me, but there’s something really pure about stepping onto a stand-up stage, reading the room, trying to lift people’s spirits, and taking them on a little journey with your joke. That moment happened for me in 2019, and it was my first time doing stand-up.

It didn’t go well. I may have landed one or two jokes, but the rest? Atrocious. Nothing went as planned. But I didn’t give up. I made two people laugh, and somehow that was enough. Not giving up in that moment felt right.

I loved working in interior design, but my boss yelled constantly. I needed space to clear my head. Comedy became that space. It wasn’t just a break I needed. It was a breakthrough. So I went to this open mic show, needing something to shift. I got on stage, shaky but determined.Doug Mutai was on the lineup that night. He runs Stand-Up Collective. After my set, he encouraged me. That moment meant more than I realized at the time. It wasn’t just validation; it was a door. For the first time, I felt like I was stepping into a creative community I didn’t even know I was searching for.

I’ve always been a class clown. Growing up, I was mostly quiet. But when I did speak, it was usually something ridiculous. Like I needed to make it count. I wanted people to remember me. I didn’t think I was being funny on purpose. I was just trying to make sure no one felt uncomfortable. Being funny in everyday life, making people laugh, that’s more of an innate sense of humor built on human connection.

People think if you’re funny in everyday life, you can be a comedian. Not really. Being funny casually is instinct. Being a comedian is a craft. You’re expected to make people laugh. If you don’t, it messes with your sense of self. When your joke flops in real life, you move on. But on stage, silence cuts deep. Being funny is who you are, but being a comedian is something you have to practice and own.

Kenyan humor is different. We laugh at the absurd because taking it seriously would crush us. It’s part of how we survive. Like when the president got hit with a shoe, the memes were instant and hilarious. You’ll be at a kibanda, and someone will joke about dying from amoeba but still say it was the best fish they ever had. We’re dealing with so much, but we cope through laughter. It’s how we connect.

When I started doing comedy, I did a lot of reading. That’s important to me. I wanted to understand the world I was stepping into. I studied people like Trevor Noah, Dave Chappelle, and especially Hasan Minhaj. I loved Patriot Act. I still watch it. The topics remain relevant. They tell the truth, even when it’s messy. That’s what inspires me.

But satire doesn’t always come easy.

Last year, I originally joined the anti-government protests against the Finance Bill 2024. On one of those days, I stayed home to do some writing, and that’s when everything escalated. That was whenRex Masai was shot. I saw footage of live bullets outside Parliament. Then came the disappearances, the shooting of 12-year-old Kennedy Onyango. I kept asking myself, how do I make a joke out of this?

I tried to keep up the momentum. A joke a day. But by September 2024, I couldn’t anymore. I was losing it. I’d look at stories, and where I used to see six or ten jokes, I saw nothing. Everything was gray. I was afraid that was the end of joke writing, the end of this career, the end of the thing I love so much.

So I stopped. I let myself feel everything. I slept. I tried therapy. I held onto a bit of hope that maybe I’d bounce back. Eventually, I did. And when I returned, I remembered: jokes are king. If there’s no joke, no matter how emotional the story, it’s not comedy.

You can make money as a comedian, but it’s tough. It’s tough and incredibly humbling. You have to diversify how you use your voice. I love stand-up comedy, but it can’t pay every single bill. Sometimes, you may receive small contracts for writing, which help you stay afloat. Sometimes, you write your own show and hope someone will pay to come to a screening. You make a little money here and there. At other times, you may need to join a larger ensemble or a group working on a different project.

When I’m working on concepts, I try to think about the people around me who could contribute to or benefit from them. If you’re getting paid for a job, pull as many people with you as you can. Give someone an extra bump by sharing the revenue.

In Kenya, we need more spaces for comedy. More clubs, libraries, writing rooms, and community centers. We need to be able to read, connect, and understand each other. For comedy to grow, we need to interact with people from different backgrounds. That’s where the good stories come from.

The better you get at the craft, the more doors open. But more than anything, I hope this industry continues to value real voices. Because what we’re doing matters. These aren’t just jokes. They’re reflections. They’re truths - a way for us to find each other in the madness.