I Sold My Syokimau Land to Buy Matatu, I Now Work as a Gardener

This story is as told to Stacy Thondi by Dancun Mwanza. Mwanza is a 54-year-old father of 3.

***

I still see the irony every single day. I trim the hedges, clear the weeds, and water the lawn of a man whose wealth is literally built on the mistake I made. You see, I work as a gardener on a home built on my ancestral land, which I sold 30 years ago. 

Back in 1996, Syokimau was a jungle. A bush—the kind of place where a quiet evening was often disrupted by the sound of laughing hyenas. When I inherited the two acres from my father, my friends mocked me. "What are you going to do in this wilderness?"

I was young, I was energetic, and I was hungry for liquid money. I didn't want a piece of paper saying I owned a remote, useless chunk of earth. I wanted cash I could feel and spend and grow right now.

My older relatives pleaded, "Hold onto it, kijana (young man). Land always appreciates." I saw Ksh500,000 in my hand versus a dream deferred, and I chose to sell the two acres to a man named Alfred Mbithi, a quiet guy who worked as an accountant in Machakos, for Ksh500,000 (which is roughly Ksh4.8 million when adjusted to inflation today). He saw potential where I saw a bush.

The Enchanted Matatu Industry

My big plan at the time was to venture into the matatu business. Everyone said it was a guaranteed money-spinner. I bought a second-hand Nissan with part of the money, ready to conquer the Nairobi routes. I bought the Nissan with Ksh350,000. At the time, a newly imported ex-Japan car was retailing for around Ksh680,000 (around Ksh6.5 million today). The shilling note still held more value, and an MP’s monthly salary was Ksh5,000, with allowances totalling around Ksh19,000.

I had done my research, and the matatu industry seemed profitable. A vehicle owner of a 14-seater matatu could make as much as Ksh4,500 in profits, and I had jumped in with both feet. That was when my dream started to look like a nightmare.

First, the crew. My conductor, a cheeky fellow named 'Kevo' saw me as an ATM. Every day, it was a fight over the squad (daily collection), with him pocketing half the fares. I spent more time checking the math than running the business. Then there were the cops and their brothers, the Kanjos - always ready with a trumped-up traffic violation, demanding a kitu kidogo from my meagre profits. 

Worst of all was the machine itself. A constant money pit. The gearbox collapsed, the differential gave up the ghost, and the engine was constantly overheating. I would fix one thing only for two more to break. The Ksh100,000 I had set aside to survive on until the business broke even was gone in less than two years, vanished in repairs, bribes, and stolen fares.

The Return of the Prodigal Son

Shame, that heavy Kenyan shame, drove me out of Nairobi. I spent years in Mombasa, working odd, frustrating jobs, taking to the bottle just to quiet the regret.

In 2013, broken and beaten, I returned. I stepped off the Coast Bus and looked around Syokimau. I couldn't believe it. It was a thriving middle-class estate—tarmacked roads, bungalows, and German cars parked in driveways. 

I later learned that an acre in that area was then fetching about Ksh12 million. Twelve million. My two acres were worth Ksh24 million, 48 times more than the measly Ksh500,000 I had accepted.

I was no longer ashamed, and my ego was completely deflated. I set out to look for Mr Muuo. He recognized me instantly. My old 2-acre jungle was now a lush estate. Muuo had split it into eight acre plots - sold some and developed about 8 plots where he built beautiful mansions for rent.  That’s how I became his gardener.

Today, I rake the leaves, I prune the flowers, and I can't help but do the math. Today, one acre is valued at close to Ksh36 million. My Ksh500,000 has exploded into potentially Ksh72 million—wealth I threw away because I was impatient for immediate cash flow.

My young friends, especially those of you just starting out in life, don't make my mistake. Don't chase the small, immediate liquidity at the expense of big, long-term assets like land or stocks. That quick cash will be spent. The asset? That's the legacy you'll be glad you kept - for yourself but also for your kids.