Man, if you’d told my college crew back then that we’d be rolling through Nairobi in a shiny BMW, blasting tunes and cracking jokes, we’d have straight-up snorted our cheap coffee. Picture this: three regular dudes, scraping by on instant noodles, splitting tiny rent like it was a treasure hunt, and clinging to those wild “one day” fantasies. Dreams? Oh, we had ’em in spades, world domination, fancy dinners, the works. But let’s be real, hope doesn’t cover the rent.
Those campus vibes? Pure chaos, but the good kind. We’d pool our loose change for a roadside nyama choma, then roast each other about hitting the jackpot someday. Late-night chats under flickering bulbs, hyping up our futures while secretly sweating the “what now?” post-diploma dread. In Kenya’s job scene, it’s not just grind, it’s who you know and a sprinkle of luck. Degrees? Cool, but they don’t always open doors. Graduation hit like a plot twist from hell.
We pounded pavements, CVs clutched like lifelines, enduring endless “maybe next week” ghosts in stuffy waiting rooms. I swear, I nailed a dozen interviews, only for radio silence to echo back. Our spark? Fading fast. Three guys in our early twenties, pretending we had it together, but nah—bills don’t care about your hustle heart. Then, one sticky sunset on our creaky bedsitter stoop, my boy drops the mic: “Guys, enough chasing shadows. Let’s build our own lane.” Continue Reading https://drbokko.com/?p=34153