Bombs Go “TikTok”

Frank was a 24-year-old graphic designer hailing from Nairobi’s Eastlands, juggling freelance gigs and dreams of launching his own studio. His life was a combination of late-night Photoshop sessions, matatu commutes, and weekend football with friends in one of the Eastlands playing grounds. TikTok was his escape—a place to share skits and animations under the username of @hei.sfrankie. With 700 followers, mostly friends and a few fans he had gathered over time, he posted for fun, not fame. It all blew up one Saturday evening.

Burnt out from a client’s endless revisions on a recent project, Frank filmed a quick video in his cramped bedsitter. Wearing a faded Arsenal jersey, he parodied Nairobi’s hustle: “POV: You’re pitching a design to a client who wants to ‘make it pop’ but only pays in exposure.” He acted out a dramatic client call, complete with exaggerated eye-rolls and a mock faint, set to a trending TikTok beat. Frank captioned the short video, “#HustlerLifeKE #NairobiStruggles,” uploaded it, and crashed.

By morning, his phone was a mess. Likes surged past 3,000, then 30,000. Comments sped across the screen as viewers commiserated. “This is EVERY freelancer!” “Tag my boss!” Friends blasted it across WhatsApp; strangers dueted the clip with their own hustle stories. Views hit 250,000 by noon. A local blog ran a headline: “Nairobi Designer’s TikTok Nails Freelance Woes.” Influencers started reposting it, pushing views past three million. Frank’s followers soared from 15,000 to 150,000 in just a few days.

The rush was electric. Frank dove in, posting skits about matatu Wi-Fi scams, the mugging business within the dark corridors of the city, and animating Nairobi’s skyline with quirky effects. Each video exploded, with some reaching 20 million views. Brands flooded his DMs; a tech startup offered 60,000 Kenyan Shillings for a gadget ad, a streetwear brand sent free hoodies for corresponding promo videos. He quit freelancing and bought a ring light, a used MacBook, and a better phone. His bio changed from a mere content creator to a professional digital creator. Invites poured in—art events, influencer meetups at Two Rivers Mall. Strangers at Java House whispered, “That’s hei.sfrankie.” Fame felt like a rocket, but that high crashed hard. 

TikTok’s algorithm was a beast — post daily or fade into the crowded world of reels that were anything but real. Frank’s days became a grind; the professional world wasn’t going easy on him: brainstorm at dawn, film in borrowed spaces, sometimes on the streets, and edit till 3 AM. Sleep was a memory — he lived on cold coffee and buns. But Frank also wasn’t going to give up that easily. This was a far better profession than being in an environment where he was always watching out for his supervisor. Here, he could do his work without any other third-party pressuring him. It was only his clients and him.

However, when things seemed to be moving well, and the algorithm had really realized his craft, a very unfortunate event happened. One time, he had posted a video advertising a scammer company. Well, at least he did not know it was a fraudulent company until his clients, some of whom were his followers, raised an alarm of being conned by the very company he had posted a sponsored AD for in his latest TikTok video. Negative comments oozed, most of which blamed him for leading people into a con. Frank tried to laugh it off, but the hate clung like damp air. Privacy vanished. A fan spotted him while shopping at his estate’s shop and leaked his address. Brands stopped endorsing him. A phone company withdrew an endorsement worth a hundred grand for a promo of the newly launched model of an Android phone.

Then, engagement dipped. Frank hid his stress, publicly lying about his bank balance. Burnout consumed him. His appetite also seemed to be in jeopardy. His weight dropped; his dreads dulled. Endless insomnia kicked in hard as Frank was haunted by internet trolls and the rapid loss of followers. Clearly, things were getting out of hand, and he had to do something quickly before everything spiraled further. Like many influencers before him who had undergone the same ordeal, going live in a bid to try to explain the current situation to his loyal remaining fans was the only option.

Unlike the usual live broadcasts where a creator talks with their audience directly, Frank decided to do it differently. He wanted to resolve everything with a skit of how people were being taken advantage of on social media, especially upcoming artists and creators. Suddenly, in the middle of the skit, panic struck. Heart racing, hands trembling, he choked, “I’m drowning.” He cracked while filming. Tears fell. The chat was split in their support and venom: “Clout crying,” “Overrated,” alongside “We got you, Frankie.” Frank ended the live video, collapsing on set while his crew rescued him.

The moment of truth and realization had finally struck. Viral fame wasn’t a throne; it was a cage. The money, however vast and consistent, unlike an employer’s salary, bought only glaring ring lights and flashing cameras, not joy of any kind. Frank missed creating for passion, not likes. This is when he decided to start creating with his hands what he felt was burning inside him. He decided to start expressing for both his art and himself, not for unknown, insatiable consumers who would not appreciate his flaws whenever they occurred. Frank began focusing on his vision of having his own studio where he would create whatever he wanted and display it proudly.

He logged off for about two months, but of course, the spirit of digital creating hadn’t really left him. He planned a comeback, but this time he would do things differently — he shifted gears — posting three times weekly, blocking haters, and ignoring statistics. He started showcasing his talent for design on his platforms, which attracted new positive and passion-aligned followers. He even got a partnership with the city’s gallery center to help him showcase his art. Support started coming his way, and eventually, his vision of having his own art exhibition center materialized.

Sudden fame had thrust Frank into a storm of hype and pressure — doubt, isolation, and the grueling chase to remain relevant to strangers on the internet. But stepping back, reminding himself of who he was and what his art stood for, he found his spark once more. Fame wasn’t the goal; purpose was. In Nairobi’s pulsing streets, Frank created again—not for the algorithm, but for his art and the studio he had started, honestly and earnestly.