A reminder from a Mama Mboga
Earlier this week, I got powerfully reminded of the truth metaphorically represented in J.R.R. Tolkien’s poem, All that is Gold Does not Glitter from a Mama Mboga.
I had stopped by her stall, and, finding her a bit unsettled (she was playing with a fruit knife, hitting the blunt edge against her left palm carelessly, absent-mindendly, clearly disconcerted), I asked her what was wrong?
“Sometimes one feels like not coming to work,” she said mournfully.
“How come?” I was trying to be gentle, to show empathy. The pain that showed on her otherwise happy face ran deep.
“Ah!” she said sharply, clicking her tongue, almost personalising her hurt on me.
“Pole,” I said, using that Swahili phrase of comfort that has no translation.
“Imagine, last night was the third time this month. Mama kama yule (that woman over there) has been robbed each of the three times?” She was livid.
If you are familiar with the setup around the typical Mama mboga (fruit/vegetable seller’s) stall on Kenyan roadsides, you would have gotten the picture as fast as I did. They operate beneath a loosely set-up canvas, displaying their wares on a stepped display. She showed me something I had not seen – underneath the display is the overnight storage box, which they lock-up with an easily breakable padlock.
I was angry, thinking of the impact of those set-backs (each Mama mboga’s entire capital taken away by thieves, three times in one month!), forcing her to re-start her business from scratch! A businesses that had no insurance, nay, could not be insured; un-insurable.
“So how do you protect yourself from these… invaders?” I was trying to find a way of contributing meaningfully.
“You know,” she explained. “We have had a very good base commander. A wonderful man. Until recently. He knew all the thieves and, in his term, we have had good security.”
A good police service. Security.
“Then he gets transferred and we get this ….” (she issued an insult, her anger spewing out with it).
“Are you, as a group, able to hire your own watchmen?” I ventured.
“We tried,” she explained. They had paid three boda (motorbike riders) to keep vigil overnight and, through them, had gathered all the intelligence they needed to have the police take action. But, when taken to that …. new base commander, he took no action.
I thought of Proverbs 29:2: “When the godly are in authority, the people rejoice. But when the wicked are in power, they groan” (New Living Translation).
“How about yourselves carrying out an ‘arrest’, to frighten the thieves?”
They had done that too, earlier that morning. They had actually prepared the dreaded tyre “necklace” for the thieves. Someone tipped the …. base commander and he spoilt the party.
“Wow,” I groaned with her, helplessly. “So what next now?” I had, by now, realised that she and her group were quite savvy, so I wasn’t going to rush to offer any advice.
“That’s why I am distraught,” she said. He crestfallen demeanor returned. I remembered how I had found her.
Thinking that we had exhausted all her options and could now only now operate on my turf, I ventured presumptuously:
“You need to think of investing some of your daily gains into passive alternatives….”
She nodded.
“Like buying grain during harvest and storing it to sell after the harvest crunch.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do that. I pre-fund rice production.”
“How does that happen?”
She gave me a most detailed explanation on how she and her mom operate a trust-based mechanism through which they extend credit to needy rice growers – the ones they can trust. They fund seeding, weeding, harvesting – making cash available through the growing season. Then she gets paid with rice, in paddy form. Which she stores and/or sells depending on the state of the market.
“Wow,” I said again, this time, really admiringly. “How much do you make?”
“More than double,” she says. “Every year.”
“So what do you do with the money?” I could not help being this curious now, considering that the total capital represented in her business, the one that was driving her into near madness, was hardly Shs 3,000 ($30).
“I buy bulls.” My mouth opened wide.
“And… and who takes care of them?”
“Mzee. My dad.” I remembered then she had in the past told me she had a son. A single mother. “My dad and I raise bulls together, but we keep them in different sheds.” They buy bulls at about Shs 9,000; her father takes care of them for a year and a half, roughly, then they sell – at about Shs 20,000 typically.” I knew her math were correct, because I also do bulls.
“I buy another two bulls with the cash and I use the 2k on myself!” Self-rewarding, an important take away from a good business.
“So how many bulls do you have now?”
She was seated, still playing with the knife; I standing, looking down with admiration. She looked up to me quizzically, with a look that said, You are being very inquisitive. I would have understood if she did not answer, but she did. “Five,” she said. “And dad has three.”
” A plot? Real estate?” I prodded cheekily. She smiled widely and wished me a good day.
Awe-stricken, I went away totally fulfilled. Mama mboga’s business had all the components of a great business, totally well-rounded: daily cashflow (and she understood how important it is; why thieves or a corrupt police must not disrupt it); a savings mechanism (the rice pre-growing funding), only that unlike regular banking, her savings doubled every year; and a mid-term and long-term investment options! And personal rewards.
By the way, in case you are not familiar with J.R.R Tolkien’s great poem, here goes:
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crown-less again shall be king.
Photo by Julian Hanslmaier on Unsplash
Haron Wachira 