I’m Samuel, just a regular guy hustling in Nairobi’s bustling streets. One hard-earned lesson hit me like a matatu in rush hour: not every cheerleader’s rooting for your win. Folks with the sweetest grins can sometimes harbour the sharpest grudges. Back in the day, I dreamed of a steady gig. Kicked off with a modest stall in the CBD, peddling car parts under the hot sun. I scrimped and scraped, turning every shilling into sweat equity.
Bit by bit, it clicked; I grew the shop, snagged a beat-up ride, and even lent a hand to kinfolk in tough spots. Figured blooming success meant smooth sailing. Nope. It just rolled out the red carpet for envy. Subtle jabs crept in first: my little bro ribbing me nonstop, cousins ghosting texts till their wallets whimpered. Then the weird curveballs: staff calling in “sick” right before opening, loyal customers vanishing mid-deal, and cash evaporating like morning mist.
Heck, my jalopy conked out on a prime delivery dawn. Spilt it to Mum one evening; she chuckled wisely, “Son, money’s a magnet; it draws admirers and ankle-biters alike.” It gnawed at me, but my gut screamed truth. Rock bottom? That festive upcountry bash. I hauled groceries for the clan, plates piled high with joy. We feasted like kings. Come morning, agony gripped my belly; I doubled over, useless as a flat tyre. Continue Reading https://drbokko.com/?p=34114
