From Land Mawe to South C and the Kerosene Stove

If you've read my previous story, you know what life was like in Land Mawe's chapati bedroom. So after my first salary bump, I felt Land Mawe was no longer good enough for a person of my caliber and upgraded immediately. Many young people do the same - often too soon.

Where next? My school was in South C, so I figured I'd save money on fare and avoid traffic jams. I could also do private tuitions late into the night without worrying about matatus closing business before I was done. There were no bodabodas back then - I don't remember seeing any - or Uber and other conveniences we enjoy today.

South C was moving from middle class to... expensive. I'm not sure there's a social class called "expensive," but South C was. Damn expensive.

Back then, there were rumors about money from pirated ships in the Gulf of Somalia being hoarded there - if you remember. Rumors, like the current ones that money from Kenya’s Northern Frontier is invested in South C. There's always a rumor about South C.

So I was competing for housing with well-to-do folks, most of them from the Somali community. But luckily, I got one. Near 5 Star Estate.

A cool servant's quarter at the corner of a big compound. The owner's house was on the left. There was a mango tree next to my house and lush green lawn. I'm not sure such houses exist in South C today - there must be a 16-story building replacement by now.

That night I bid my Land Mawe landlord goodbye, as well as my chapati friend Ben, they were both disappointed. For whatever reason - maybe I was both a tenant and a watchman.

As my world was small, a mkokoteni (handcart) was enough to transport my items - actually just some clothes, a mattress, a sufuria or two, and a kerosene stove that I hadn't used in ages thanks to the free electricity in Land Mawe.

Off we left, with my mkokoteni, to the big South C. I finally felt like a big boy in the city.

Believe you me, when I arrived, the landlord immediately refunded my rent and deposit, sent me off, and said with a Somali/Arabic accent: "Mwenyezi Mungu akusaidie." (May God help you.)

And He did.

As I left, I wondered - was it the mkokoteni? There were no movers back then, and even if pickup trucks existed, I literally had nothing. Hire a pickup for two sufurias? I remember the landlady's pitying look as the landlord sent me away - almost apologetic

So I started moving from house to house, those with "Vacant/To Let" posters, with my whole world in the mkokoteni. The mkokoteni guy was so shocked he didn't even scale up his fees.

From the looks we got from South C people, they probably thought we were garbage collectors or scrap metal dealers.

I would tell my mkokoteni guy to stay 50 meters away as I inquired about houses, to avoid a repeat of what had happened.

By around 3 pm, we'd found a house.

To my new landlady's amazement, I brought my belongings almost immediately after she received the money. Strictly cash.

"Did you live nearby?" she asked. 

I smiled. 

Next set: This landlady, her house in Mugoya, and my kerosene stove.

Wait. 😂

Business Lessons from a Chapati Bedroom

The year 2009. I'd just landed in the city with a job in South C. 

Through a chain of connections, I got a mabati (iron sheet) room in Land Mawe estate. The irony? Living in a mabati house in an estate literally called ‘Stones.’

Land Mawe is a housing estate next to Nairobi Railway Station, right in the heart of the city. Originally built as living quarters for railway workers, but you know Kenyans - they'd build extensions and sublet to non-railway workers like me.

The room I got was originally designed as a chapati kitchen and store for a side hustle. Some call it chapo, others pocha, or flatbread in the West.

My house was 3 feet wide, 8 feet long, tucked behind my landlord's house. Slightly below his roof line. One wall was his house with a permanently closed window. The other wall was the estate fence. Slanting roof like an attic of sorts.

The house fit only a 3 x 6 bed. The remaining two feet? That was my entire world - clothes, kitchen, everything crammed in one corner. I used a broomstick to tuck in the bed because there was no way to reach the other end unless I climbed onto it.

One strange perk: Electricity and water were free. Maybe some benefit for railway workers having to deal with diesel trains all day.

My tenure in the house didn't stop the chapati business. In fact, the massive pan was placed right outside my door on a jua kali electric cooker. An ever-full 100-liter water tank stood beside. Only a roof extension was added from my door outward to create a new kitchen.

Bales of flour were always stacked against my front wall, along with cooking oil and utensils. At night, I'd keep one ear open in case anyone tried to steal - though most intruders were just dogs looking for fallen chapati bits.

But by 3 am, the chapati maker - let's call him Ben - would be up and running.

Ben was a quiet guy, always lost in his world. A conversation with him on any topic wouldn't last two minutes. Always had earphones in. I thought I was an introvert until I met my senior.

He meant business.

"Shwaaaaaa!" "Shwaaaaaa!" - the sound of oil sizzling on the massive super-hot pan.

"Shwu!" "Shwu!" - pochas rotating in the simmering oil.

"Sha!" - the flip.

That was my alarm clock. Every morning. 3 am sharp. If that failed, the sweet chapati aroma would wake me up.

I didn't live there alone. Being a chapati zone - flour, oil, bits of chapati on the floor, crumbs, sugar - I cohabited with cockroaches and other scavengers.

The cockroaches were well-fed. Some were so large they didn't even fear me. I'd try scaring them away and they wouldn't move an inch. Perhaps thinking, "Mwalimu, enda shule. Ulitupata hapa." (Teacher, go to school. You found us here.)

We soon found our coexistence.

Ben would make two small buckets of chapatis from 3 am to 5:30 am - about 100 chapatis.

By 6 am, he'd be in the streets of Nairobi distributing them, mostly to security officers changing shifts. He also had a small tank of black coffee and disposable cups.

He'd make more chapatis at 10 am, sell them over lunch, then again at 5 pm targeting supper time. Apart from city sales, neighbors would also pass by and buy - but his main target was the city security workforce.

Sometimes I'd accompany him on his rounds to save him a second trip. But somehow, I never got the epiphany to join him in business. Maybe my white-collar mentality back then.

Let's do some math. One chapo = Ksh 20 (about $0.15 USD). He'd sell about 300 chapatis per day. 20 × 300 = Ksh 6,000 per day. I'm not sure about coffee sales. Cut off expenses - remember, electricity was free - so I assume he made about Ksh 4,500 profit per day. I don't remember any mention of taxes or kanjo.

This guy was doing way better than me financially, but my white-collar mentality would never allow me to join him in the trade. I'm not complaining, but imagine if I'd joined him back then, even as a side hustle.

So if you ever see me making chapatis on the roadside, just know - I got inspired 16 years ago.

Maybe, just maybe, someday I'll go all in.

The Day Nairobi Played me – Season I

The year was 2010. I was about two years into living in Nairobi - the City in the Sun - and I hadn't yet met the worst of its cons.

I had just finished a private tuition class in Nairobi West, just opposite Nyayo Stadium (someone had  tried renaming it Coca-Cola Stadium). I walked through the alley between Nairobi West Hospital and a housing estate - one of the safest alleys in the city back then. Is it still there?

The bus stop was at the intersection of Lusaka Road and Mombasa Road next to Shell Petrol Station. The expressway didn't exist yet.

From the five matatus available, I chose one of those nganya types - stylish, loud music, booming speakers, massive screens, expanded wheels, some sort of hella flush vibe. The kind of therapy a young man like me needed after a long day.

As the matatu fired up, the conductor started collecting fares - unusually early in the journey. Should've raised red flags, but I handed him a fresh Ksh 500 note from my tuition client. He was supposed to give me Ksh 480 change.

I kept checking on him. His responses? "Tulia." "Bado." "Ngoja." "Sikatai na pesa zako…"

Then he'd flash a few other Ksh 500 notes and ask, "Mbona hawa wengine hawazushi?" (Why aren't these others complaining?)

At Bellevue stage South B/C, a guy boarded with a laptop bag - unusually long, overlapping both sides of his lap when he sat. (I later learned it was a tool of trade. A modern-day fisherman's net.)

The game was about to begin.

I had a new phone, two weeks old, maybe  Motorola, no, Nokia or one of those 2010 types, before smartphones became commonplace. It cost me Ksh 2,300. (18 USD)

The matatu filled up. A few skirmishes between the conductor and kamageras, and off we went towards Cabanas. I lived in Pipeline estate.

Around Sameer Park/General Motors, someone shouted, "Polisi! Tie your seatbelts!" Michuki rules were still hot those days.

In the commotion, as I reached for my seatbelt on the right side, my phone was smoothly pickpocketed from my left trouser pocket.

Next stage: Imara Daima.

The guy with the laptop bag alighted. Interestingly, the same guy who had shouted "Polisi! Polisi!" now screamed, "Wameniiba simu!" (They've stolen my phone!)

Then two more people did the same - genuine victims, I believe.

I touched my left pocket.

Phone, gone!

I looked outside. The guy had started crossing the 4-to-6 lanes of the busy Mombasa Road, wide median strip and all.

I dashed out of the matatu, tried crossing, but speeding vehicles blocked me. Then I remembered - the conductor still had my Ksh 480 change! I turned back, waving frantically.

The conductor, knowing well he had my money, ignored me completely and the matatu sped off.

So I walked. Through Imara Daima to Pipeline. Sad. Dejected. Mad.

When I got home, I called my number using my old phone.

The guy picked. Made a devilish laugh. Hung up.

A few months later, someone tried the same nonsense on Thika Road. I laughed out loud as I held my phone high in the air to safety. Tusha wajua. (We know the game now.)

To this day, I don't board nganyas unless it's an emergency. For me, only quiet matatus, no screens, no long laptop bags or heavy jackets, newspapers, envelopes, nothing.

Matatu Owner Turned Maize Farm Observer

Whenever I teach Primary Data Collection, I think of a legendary former colleague from my early teaching days.

He owned a matatu, and his crew's daily returns never added up. There were always unplanned deductions, convenience fees, ‘kamagera’ charges, ‘kanjo's lunch’ money, fewer trips, mysterious arrests.

You know, mchezo wa town. 

Back then, without strict SACCO enforcement, matatu accounting was... creative.

Fed up, my colleague decided to conduct field research.

His methodology? Hide in a maize farm along the route.

Yes, really. During school holidays or weekends, he'd pack a pen and notebook, find a strategic spot in a maize farm near the main bus stop, and spend the entire day squatting among the stalks counting trips.

Trip 1... Trip 2... Trip 3...

Then he'd go home, wash off the dust, and wait.

That evening, the crew would arrive with their returns - and a completely different story.

The look on their faces when he calmly presented his data? Priceless.

To this day, when teaching observational methods, I picture him crouched in that maize field, tallying trips as safari ants crawled up his legs. 

Jokes aside. 😂

When Hard Work Met Hard Math (And Got Us Fired)

Back when one of Kenya's big telcos launched their fintech service, we were among the first hired by a super-dealer to register customers - which meant updating SIM cards and collecting data. When I think about how freely we collected people's personal information back then, I honestly shiver.

After a while, we discovered the dealer was earning about 100 bob (roughly $1 USD at the time) from the telco for every customer we registered. Meanwhile, we were on a fixed retainer - no commissions, no bonuses.

Naturally, we tried negotiating with management for performance-based pay. You know, something fair that reflected our actual output. Management's response? A hard no.

Fortunately, we had Kiriungi Kimotho on the team, a senior statistician-turned-health-advocate who did exactly what you'd expect a numbers person to do: he developed a mathematical model.

The model calculated fair compensation based on registrations completed, factoring in weather conditions, day of the week (weekends brought more people to town), and other variables. It was smart - balancing our output with fair pay while still being reasonable to the company. Perfect equilibrium, right?

Guess what happened next?

We were discontinued shortly after. 😂

Modern Literature

Where are the books on cryptocurrency scams? Romance fraud? Identity theft? Phishing? We must prepare students for the tough times ahead, not just celebrate the past. Modern students need modern literature.

Honouring Ms Leanne Wohoro

I would like to honour Ms Leanne Wohoro today. She guided me through my toughest career transition. Her patience was unbelievable as she taught me people management, appropriate reactions to challenges, and professional wisdom I  use today. She believed in me when I couldn't.  And in her recent visit to her Australian roots, she checked on me. Thank you for shaping who I am.