My Daughter Thinks I'm Rich

My Daughter Thinks I'm Rich Because I Fix Things

There's a particular kind of confidence only a six-year-old can have, and my daughter Naomi has it in abundance. To her, if you can fix a broken socket, you can obviously afford anything in the world. Logic doesn't come into it. In her mind, "fundi" and "billionaire" are basically the same job title.

It started innocently enough. I fixed our neighbour's fridge one Saturday, and Naomi watched the whole thing from the doorway, arms folded, supervising like a site engineer. When the fridge hummed back to life, the neighbour clapped, gave me a thousand bob "for airtime," and Naomi's eyes lit up like I'd just performed a bank heist.

That evening at dinner, she looked at me very seriously and said, "Daddy, why do we still cook ugali at home if you're rich?"

I nearly choked on my sukuma.

"Naomi, fixing a fridge doesn't make me rich."

"But you got money."

"That's not how—"

"Then why don't we have a swimming pool?"

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