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.
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