The Coldest Night in Githiga

When we relocated, we moved about forty-five minutes away from where our small business was located.

It was a small general shop, what people in our area call a Mali Mali shop. One of those shops that sells a little bit of everything: household items, small essentials, cheap plastics, random things people pick up on their way home. Nothing fancy. Just a small hustle we were trying to build.

The shop was in Githiga, Kiambu County.

And if you know Githiga, you know that place is cold as hell. Not normal cold. That cold that gets into your bones and starts making personal decisions on your behalf.

Now, technically, the shop belonged to us. But realistically, my partner ran most of it.

I had an on-site job, so I was not always around. My presence at the shop was not felt much. I handled the bigger decisions and overall direction, but day-to-day operations were mostly on my partner. She had a remote job, so her schedule was a bit flexible. She could check in, follow up, manage issues, and generally keep things moving.

To make management easier, we hired someone.

And this is where the story starts getting fucked.

The lady we hired was not just some random person we picked from the street. She was referred to us by our mama fua, so there was already some level of trust there. She was around twenty-two years old, with one child and another one on the way. Her belly was showing, not heavily, but enough for you to know she was pregnant.

Her situation was honestly sad.

The father of her first child had left. The current man in her life was a boda boda guy who already had another family. She had not gone to college. Life had clearly beaten her from several directions, and my partner, being the kind-hearted person she is, felt sorry for her.

So we gave her a chance.

We did not just treat her like an employee. We treated her like someone we were trying to help.

My partner even gifted her our small 6kg gas cylinder because she felt the girl needed it more than we did. That gas was not a big thing, but still, it was ours. It was given from a good place. We looked at her situation and thought, “This girl needs help.”

Looking back, that was the first mistake.

Not helping her, but trusting blindly because we felt sorry for her.

The shop ran for about four months.

And to be honest, it was struggling. It was still a startup, so most of the expenses were coming from our pockets. Rent, stock, transport, salary, small repairs — all those annoying little costs that don’t care whether your business is making money or not.

Then we relocated.

That made everything harder.

The shop was now far from us, and at the time, we did not have a car. So checking on it meant using public transport, which was hectic. You have to plan the trip, waste time on the road, spend money moving around, and still get there tired before you even start dealing with business problems.

But we decided to give it a month and see what would happen.

That month was the worst month the shop had ever had.

The whole shop made KSh 260 in sales.

Not profit.

Sales.

Two hundred and sixty fucking shillings.

At that point, we knew something was off.

There is struggling, then there is nonsense.

A whole shop cannot make KSh 260 in a month unless something is terribly wrong. Either the business was completely dead, or someone was eating from it quietly.

So we decided to cut our losses and close the shop.

Because of our schedules, I picked a Sunday to go and close it permanently. Sundays were good because the shop was usually closed, so I could take stock properly, pack everything, clear with the landlord, pay the employee, and move on with my life.

That was the plan.

Very simple.

Go there. Take stock. Pay her dues. Pack the remaining items. Leave.

I organized transport. I spoke to the landlord. I informed the employee about what she needed to know. I had the money for her pay. I had no intention of refusing to pay anyone.

But I wanted to take stock first.

Because that is basic business sense. You don’t just pay someone, close your eyes, pack whatever is left, and later realize stock has vanished.

That Sunday morning, I...