How a Teacher Lost Ksh300K and a Car After Closing Deal With Ugandan Friend

Riding on a boda boda in Kisumu used to be a regular affair. As a teacher by profession, I was used to the daily hassle of commuting, but as my family grew, my wife and five children, the need for a spacious family car became a necessity, not a luxury. 

We had been saving for years, and the plan was to get a decent second-hand vehicle, probably a Toyota Voxy, to ease our transport woes. The Kenyan market, however, had its own rules, and the prices were simply out of reach.

That was until my good friend, Sam, a Ugandan businessman who had been operating in Kisumu, came in. Sam was a character. Always on the move, always with a new idea. One evening, he called, sounding a little stressed. He was in a financial fix and needed Ksh300,000 urgently. My first thought was to help, but that kind of money was our car fund. I didn’t want to give it away as a loan, especially since I knew how hard it was to get money back from friends.

I told him I couldn’t loan him the cash, but I had a proposition. I knew he owned a Toyota HiAce with a Ugandan number plate. He had bought it from his home country, and the car was in pristine condition—the kind of vehicle that would cost over Ksh600,000 to buy in the Kenyan market. A deal began to form in my mind.

“Sam, how about you sell me your HiAce instead?” I asked.

He was quiet for a moment. I could sense his mind turning over the numbers. It was a win-win. He would get the cash he desperately needed, and I would get a car that was perfect for my family—spacious, reliable, and for a price that was half the market value. When I talked to my wife about it, she was ecstatic. It was the perfect solution. In western Kenya, you see plenty of these Ugandan-registered vehicles on the road, and they’re often a bargain.

Within a week, Sam was at my doorstep. He had the car and a pile of documents, including a Foreign Motor Vehicle Permit. He explained that this was what he had been using to drive in Kenya. My plan was to use the permit for the next six months while he helped me process the Kenyan registration. We were friends, after all. What could possibly go wrong?

For the first month, everything went smoothly. I drove the HiAce with a smile on my face, the kids loved the space, and my wife was happy. The police occasionally stopped me at roadblocks, but after I presented the permit, they would give me a quick glance and wave me on. I began to feel confident. This was the best deal of my life.

Then, one sunny afternoon, as I was driving along the Kisumu-Busia highway, a feeling of unease washed over me. I noticed two vehicles trailing me. My gut told me to be cautious, but my mind reasoned it was just a coincidence. Moments later, one of them overtook me and blocked my path. I was forced to stop. When I looked inside the cars, my heart sank. It was a joint team of police and Kenya Revenue Authority (KRA) officials.

They were polite but firm. They asked for my documents, and when I handed them the permit, their demeanor changed. One of them pointed to the car and said, "This vehicle is not registered in our system. The papers you’re using are fake."

I was stunned. I tried to explain that I had bought the car from a Ugandan friend. I even offered to call him. But their response was cold: "That’s not our problem. You have an outstanding tax payment of Ksh250,000, and until you settle it, this car will be impounded."

The situation became tense. I was threatened with arrest, and after a series of tense back-and-forths, we reached a fragile understanding. They took the vehicle away and told me it would be released only when I could provide the proper, authentic documents and settle the outstanding taxes.

I immediately called Sam. He was apologetic, and his voice was full of promises. He swore he would bring the authentic documents from Uganda to help clear the mess. But those promises never came to pass. With each passing day, his calls became less frequent, and he eventually stopped answering. I knew the classic ghosting routine when I saw it.

Desperate, I reached out to a family friend who worked at the Busia border. I explained my situation, and he told me the bitter truth. These cars are often smuggled into the country, and the permits are usually worthless. The most likely scenario, he said, was that the car had been stolen from Uganda. The deal was a classic con.

In the end, I had no choice but to let the vehicle go. The thought of paying another Ksh250,000 on top of the Ksh300,000 I had already spent was unthinkable. There was no one to hold accountable, and I couldn't even ask Sam for my money back. I had given him the cash, and he had given me a vehicle that was now gone. Our friendship was never the same.