I Bought a Matatu & Made Ksh20,000 on a Good Day, 2 Months Later I Was Broke

For the longest time, I believed matatus were easy money. Every time I travelled between Kisumu and Busia, I would see packed 14-seaters ferrying passengers throughout the day and imagine the amount of cash their owners were making. 

Every Kenyan seems to know someone who built a house, bought land, or educated their children through the matatu business.

So in 2023, after receiving my SACCO savings, I finally decided to enter the industry.

At the time, I was 36 and working in procurement for a manufacturing company in Kisumu. I had saved about Ksh900,000 and used the money to buy a used 14-seater matatu that would operate on the Kisumu–Busia route.

The route looked attractive. There was a constant flow of traders, students, and travellers moving between the two towns. In my mind, the numbers made perfect sense.

On good days, the vehicle could reportedly collect between Ksh18,000 and Ksh20,000. Even after fuel and crew expenses, I convinced myself I would comfortably earn over Ksh100,000 every month.

I genuinely thought I had found financial freedom. 

To make things easier, I hired my brother-in-law as the driver. I trusted him completely. He had driven PSVs before, and I trusted him.

The first few weeks were exciting. Every evening, I would receive updates showing healthy collections. Sometimes Ksh12,000. Sometimes Ksh18,000. On busy days, the collections even crossed Ksh20,000.

Also read: All You Need to Venture into the Matatu Business in Kenya

I started calculating profits before I even understood the business properly.

That was my first mistake. What nobody tells you about the matatu business is how quickly money disappears.

Fuel alone consumed a huge chunk of the daily collections. Then there were crew payments, parking charges, Sacco fees, county levies, and countless other expenses I had never factored into my calculations. Then came the police.

Almost every other day, my driver called complaining about inspections or enforcement officers along the route. Sometimes it was a reflector issue. Other times it was paperwork, uniforms, or something that felt completely random.

Whether justified or not, these interruptions often meant lost time and lost income.

Then came the breakdowns. The vehicle was second-hand, and suddenly every week seemed to bring a new problem. One week, it was the suspension. The next week it was the tyres. Then, the electrical issues started appearing.

I remember one month spending nearly Ksh70,000 on repairs alone. That is when I started noticing something else.

The collections were becoming inconsistent. One day, the matatu would supposedly make Ksh18,000. The next day, only Ksh9,000. Then Ksh11,000. Then Ksh13,000.

The explanations were endless. Traffic, few customers, police crackdown and impounding. At first, I sympathised. Then one afternoon, I decided to visit the stage unexpectedly.

What I discovered changed everything. One afternoon, the conductor called me and asked if we could meet privately. At first, I assumed he wanted a salary advance or had decided to quit.

Instead, he shared information that completely changed how I viewed the business. According to him, my brother-in-law was shortchanging him.

He claimed that there were days when the matatu would carry excess passengers, especially during peak hours, but the extra fares would never be reflected in the reported collections. In some cases, he said he wasn't even receiving his full share from those additional passengers.

At first, I thought it was simply a disagreement between a driver and a conductor. Then he revealed something else.

Occasionally, the vehicle would be hired privately for trips, particularly on weekends. These hires generated decent money, but I had never heard about most of them.

That revelation hit me hard. Suddenly, the numbers that had been troubling me for weeks started making sense.

The matatu wasn't necessarily underperforming. The problem was that I had very little visibility into what was happening once the vehicle left the stage every morning.

The conductor insisted he was speaking up because he felt he was also being cheated. Whether his intentions were genuine or not, his information forced me to start asking difficult questions.

Also Read: My Friend and I Invested Ksh500K, I Made a Loss, and Now He’s Worth Ksh5M

When I confronted my brother-in-law, things became awkward almost immediately.

He denied some of the claims, admitted to others, and accused the conductor of trying to create conflict. What started as a business discussion quickly became a family issue.

My wife found herself caught in the middle. My in-laws felt I was attacking one of their own. 

The trust that had made me hire him in the first place had completely broken down.

Meanwhile, repairs and operating expenses continued piling up. The excitement I had started with was gone.

The funny thing is that from the outside, the matatu still looked successful. People assumed I was making serious money because they saw it operating daily.

What they did not know was that I was increasingly using my salary to cover shortfalls. I had entered the business thinking revenue was the same thing as profit.

I also underestimated how demanding the industry is. The matatu business requires close supervision, proper systems, and a deep understanding of how crews operate.

You cannot run it on assumptions. And you certainly cannot run it purely on family trust.

Eventually, I sold the vehicle for Ksh750,000 just to stop the financial bleeding.

The matatu business taught me one painful lesson: a business can look extremely profitable from the roadside while quietly draining the owner's finances behind the scenes.