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.

When Silence Became Symphony: Beethoven's Triumph Over Impossible Odds

Ludwig van Beethoven began losing his hearing in his late twenties - a devastating fate for any musician, let alone one of history's greatest composers. By his forties, he was completely deaf, living in a world of silence that would crush most people's spirits.

But Beethoven refused to surrender.

Unable to hear the music he created, he learned to "hear" through his mind, feeling vibrations through his piano. He composed his most magnificent works - including the iconic Ninth Symphony with its triumphant "Ode to Joy" - in total deafness. Imagine: creating one of humanity's most joyful, powerful pieces of music while trapped in complete silence. He conducted the premiere himself, and when the audience erupted in applause, he couldn't hear them - a musician had to turn him around to see the standing ovation.

His personal life was equally heartbreaking. Beethoven fell in love repeatedly but was rejected time and again. One proposal, possibly to Therese Malfatti, inspired the tender "Für Elise" - a love letter in music that she may never have heard him play. He never married, never found the love he desperately sought. His famous "Immortal Beloved" letter reveals a man aching with unfulfilled longing. Yet from this ocean of pain - deafness, loneliness, rejection, chronic illness - Beethoven created beauty that has moved billions of souls for over 200 years. He once wrote: "I will seize fate by the throat; it shall never wholly overcome me."

And he did exactly that.

The lesson? Your obstacles don't define your potential. Beethoven's ears failed him, love eluded him, his body betrayed him - but his spirit never broke. He transformed suffering into timeless art, proving that greatness isn't about perfect circumstances; it's about refusing to let circumstances define you. Whatever you're facing today - hearing loss, heartbreak, rejection, isolation - remember: a deaf man composed "Ode to Joy." If he could create such beauty from such pain, what might you achieve when you refuse to give up?

Seize fate by the throat. Don't let it overcome you.

Scouts Leaders Introductory Training Course

 

Robotics Training by Stemtrix East Africa at Potterhouse School

 

World Environment Day 2013

 

A New Trend of Bodaboda Robberies

What I'm about to share has just happened (again), and I've stopped everything I was doing to highlight this urgent issue. It's a repeating pattern in our area that we can no longer ignore. Other areas may be facing the same challenge.

As night falls, many people rely on bodabodas for safe transport, especially after 10 pm due to the known insecurity issues. But there's a hidden danger we all need to be aware of.

Here's the alarming part: some bodaboda riders are exploiting this trust. They've found a way to rob unsuspecting passengers, primarily targeting women.

The usual scenario? A lady reaches her destination by bodaboda, waiting for the gate to open or paying via Mpesa. That's when the rider strikes, snatching her phone and sometimes bag.

I've personally witnessed this happen twice as a night owl. The sudden screams in the night, the rush of the bodaboda speeding away - it's a terrifying reality.

The irony is striking: you opt for a bodaboda to escape the notorious chokehold gangs (Ngeta gangs), only to end up being robbed by the very person you trusted—and paid—to ensure your safety

Advice to all ladies: When paying, hold your belongings tight. If you're using a bodaboda at night, try to have loose cash handy to avoid opening your bag. Speed is safety.

Many don't memorize the number plate or the rider's face in a hurry. This anonymity aids these issues. Are the authorities Directorate of Criminal Investigations - DCI National Police Service and bodaboda associations aware of this trend?

I respect the majority of bodaboda riders who provide valuable services, like the commendable Daniel Ndungu . But the few who misuse their position need to be addressed.

Please share this information widely. Awareness can prevent these incidents and help keep our community safe.

Wahome Thuku Sikika ROAD Safety

The Nile

 

China allows three children

 

Tiktok Ban

 

Dubai and other short stories ...

 Coming up soon. 

Love Liberty - the concert

I enjoy the performances of symphonic choirs, their gorgeous sounds and a mass of voices accompanied by a full orchestra. On 29th and 30th April, the Nairobi Music Society Choir and the Nairobi Orchestra provided one such rare opportunity with outstanding performances under the collective title – Love Liberty – at the Kenya National Theatre.  

To get the best view, I sat at the parquet circle ready to savor the show. When the stage was set for the first song, I quickly glanced at the performers hoping to see my colleague Kavee Mutonga. To my surprise, I also saw two former colleagues – Ms Mary and Mr Kisenyu in the stage right. I felt at home. 

The melodious voices accompanied by a full orchestra elevated our spirits, blissing us out. The Conductor Levi Wataka in his element did us proud and was kind to acknowledge performers with an outstretched arm and a formal bow after every performance. Bennars the pianist was exceptional.  

The medley of songs performed live on set included: Dunia ya Rero, Singo Jadolo, Kokoliko, Nimerudi Mashambani among others. Interestingly, one soloist (pictured) had a strong resemblance to my good friend Gitau Richard in speech and gait. Talk of doppelgangers!

The choir’s performance of David Zalo’s “Nimerudi Mashambani” (I have gone back to the village) had the biggest impact on me, coming against a backdrop of fuel crisis, political bickering by Kenya’s top three politicians and runaway inflation. And its lyrics hit hard … “Maisha ya mjini ni tabu tu, madeni tu. Pesa za mjini ni kama chumvi, huyeyuka, ni bure tu! Baba nipe shamba, nitafanya kazi kwa mikono yangu, nijilishe mwenyewe” (Life in the city is full of challenges, the money one earns melts away like salt. Father, give me a piece of land, I will work hard and take care of myself).

For a moment I thought about counter-urbanization but the sweet melodies jolted me out of my day dream back to bliss. All the same, am I ready to "…rudi mashambani?" Not before I watch Backstreet - the play by my former colleague Xavier Jerry Nato Millaz Productions - rolling out on the 6th, 7th and 8th of May in the same theatre. See you there!

Education is Lifelong, Lessons Abound

As Mark Twain pointed out, "Schooling should not interfere with Education." Did he make sense? Let us see. 

The squad pictured below was known as Wazito crew. These were my varsity friends. Wazito was a colloquial word for heavyweight despite the fact that all its members were lightweight, back then. Far from the calmness depicted in the enclosed photo, the group was boisterous if not rowdy which made comrades campaigning for various leadership positions in the Students Organization of Maseno University (SOMU) seek its highly sought-after services to ramp up support for their candidatures. Those services came at a hefty fee. Note, hefty here is relative. Lesson 1 – turn your negatives (if any) to positives.

The group’s aggressive campaigning strategies and candidates' success rates were at an all-time high. For fear of repercussions,  no opposing side would dare pull down any banner linked to Wazito let alone the easily accessible posters on various locations within Maseno’s Siriba and College campuses. Candidates considered the group’s involvement in their plans a big plus. Some humorously referred to the group as Team Sinister. Lesson 2 – is this how organized gangs come up?  

If the University's Senate had given Sam Sam Karagita (pictured on the far left) a clean bill of health to vie for SOMU's Chairmanship, I bet, the group would have campaigned in his favor day-in day-out, probably free of charge - but its greatest wish did not see the light of day! Lesson 3 - sometimes we don't get what we want. 

I was particularly talented at making handwritten campaign banners. As the group negotiated its campaigning fees, candidates would always be reminded that a ‘banner person’ was intact. At one point, Rita Nemayian Oyier met us for a consultative meeting on her SOMU's Organising Secretary (OGS) bid. In the same season, it was not easy  to choose between  Anthony Kibagendi Anthony Kibagendi  and #MbuguaMbugua in their quest for SOMU's Secretary General position. I still have Rowan Alusiola's banner in the village. Rowan was another top aspirant for OGS if not the coveted Treasury. I'll confirm from the banner soon. Back then, computer graphic design was still at its infancy and local painters, like me, would have a field day during campaigns. Now, tables have turned and computer graphic designers have taken over most design jobs making many painters adapt to change. Lesson 4 - change with time. 

A set of unwritten rules governed the group's day-to-day operations. Any member who breached them would be referred to as Mwepesi or Simple One - the modern day Simp. Name-calling would go on for days on end until the member learnt to toe the line. Note, I do not recommend name-calling as a method of behavior modification.  Lesson 5 - Discipline is key. 

In the group, I would see all that Dr Kawaka had taught on Group Dynamics in her Psychology classes. This group became my first school of character development and the lessons that I learnt are extremely useful to this day. One particular character developer (not pictured) was nicknamed Pilipili, the Swahili word for (red) pepper. He was a notorious conman who would swindle comrades out of their Higher Education loans. After borrowing, say, Kshs 200, he would often convince his victims that Easy Coach (a popular bus along Nairobi-Busia route) would deliver his money later that day and he would repay at 3 pm on the dot! Yes, on the dot! He would even ask some victims to accompany him to Easy Coach's station only to disappear into thin air. I was Pilipili's victim once and the said 3 pm has not ticked on his clock, many years later. That experience developed my sixth sense. Lesson 6 - Life is full of Pilipilis, be careful!

Why Easy Coach? In that era, we had no mobile money transfer technology. Money would be sent in physical currency via Easy Coach and other couriers. Couriers such as Securicor (present day G4S) charged an arm and a leg to transport money. The other alternative was Posta/Post Bank but the process of withdrawing money from that bank was fraught with challenges and unnecessary delays. I remember comrades filling in a small book and queuing for hours waiting for a few hundred shillings to survive on. It is for those reasons that many students preferred Easy Coach's money transfer services. Lesson 7 - Grab opportunities the way M-PESA did. 

Today, members of the group have lived to be Wazito, this time, physically. Gyms and bicycles have replaced excessive watching of soccer and rugby matches. Water has become a beverage, of choice. For some, cross country running is now a part and parcel of their day-to-day lives. Middle age is sneaking in, grey hair, joints, weight, balding, name them! Perhaps, it’s about time to look for the much-talked-about multivitamin. At this juncture, staying calm is more important than anything else. To a majority of members, family life and fatherhood is the name of the game. I have asked some if they are currently campaigning for any aspirant or themselves during this electioneering period (in Kenya), and your guess is as good as mine. In fact, only one Kiriungi Kimotho is directly involved in active politics. Maybe, someday, political passion will return. Lesson 8 - slowing down is okay but keep walking!

Back to the point. School is not school without learning vital life lessons, learning to keep an ear to the ground, survival tactics and everything else that is not written in books. I learnt some, I am still learning, and as Prof. Okello would always say, 'Education is Lifelong.’ Folks, keep learning! Lesson 9 - Let nothing interfere with Education.

A Perfect Score - Memoirs of a Teacher - a micro review

 

For sure, those of us who were at Oshwal Academy Nairobi in 2016 will remember Mr Clifford Oluochcliff 's final speech titled 'The Ten Demandments of Employment.' (A summary is available at the comments section). Arguably, the point that grabbed our attention the most was “Your employer is not your mother”… We all laughed but the truth in that statement reigns supreme, ask me later. One more point which became my favorite is “Before you press the send button, think, reread, think again...” I paraphrase.

That speech left everyone in the auditorium awestruck, pensive, touched… all by the talent, flow, wisdom and powerful narration by Mr. Clifford Oluochcliff ; and it is in the same fashion and style that the book 'A Perfect Score' is written. Captivating, edifying, educating, totally - A Perfect Score. In fact, there is a whole chapter capturing the magical moments at Oshwal Academy Nairobi back then. The mention of Bulema Road reminds me of much more. I urge you all to grab a copy asap.

I must also give credit to Mr. Clifford Oluochcliff for molding my character. I was once a temperamental teacher, easily angered and quick to take misaction. Over time, Mr. Clifford Oluochcliff guided me on dealing with highly charged teenagers, albeit with some warnings. Nowadays, I deal with much younger ones but his impact on me will always remain A Perfect Score in his mentorship, my life and profession. Input from Leanne Wohoro Muigai Muriuki Mburu Geetika Saxena Mark Dunnell Rosemary Kalani Kareen Simpson, Ed.S, M.Ed., BA., DipEd. Linda Potticary is also greatly acknowldedged.

Grab your copy at Ksh.1500 via Mpesa Buy Goods 5714863. Proceeds go towards Homeless of Nairobi kitty. https://lnkd.in/eFB8nXhe.
Free delivery within Kenya.
For more information call/text 0796734343

 

 

Northern Bypass junction with Kamiti Road is a death trap

https://www.the-star.co.ke/opinion/star-blogs/2019-10-23-nothern-bypass-junction-with-kamiti-road-is-a-death-trap/