Story of Kenyan Who Made Ksh1 Million as Househelp & Lost It All to Relatives

On finance, money, and wealth management, thousands of best-selling books have been published and every third podcast has a self-styled guru giving ‘secrets’ to financial empowerment.

Very few, though, offer sharper financial insights than a Kenyan girl flying out of JKIA for a housekeeping job in the Middle East. 

I’ve heard a lot of stories. They are never about savings plans, pension portfolios, real estate, or generational wealth. There are a few success stories, yes - but most dwell on betrayal and mistrust from family.

The Lure of the Middle East 

In my family, Becky’s case hit hard. Becky’s foray into the Middle East was a tragicomedy of sorts. She was barely 20 years old at the time.

Always jovial, sprightly, and an adventurous mother of one, Becky had dropped out of high school in her third year due to an unplanned pregnancy. But in the village, she had steadily built a reputation as hardworking. The word ‘kujituma sana' was synonymous with her hustling disposition.

She always had a hustle going - pushing boiled eggs at the bus stop, selling in-season fruits like mangoes or pixie oranges. Nothing too big, but she always had some income flowing in.

Then came the lure of the Gulf. Word spread in the village that women could find work easily - no academic papers required. In tandem, employment agencies popped up in downtown Nairobi, offering job placements for a small commission.

Becky was quick to bite. 

To raise the commission, she sold off everything she owned - plastic chairs, gas cooker and her prized TV. She convinced her mother to support her by selling the three goats and a small loan from her Chama.

Her daughter would remain with her mother. 

The entire village and church sent her off with prayers. It was an emotional affair.

Life Abroad

Becky and her colleagues landed in Qatar without much fanfare, just a fast-tracked processing and a ride in an air-conditioned van to a massive hostel. They waited for two days before they got job placements. 

Before she could blink, she was scrubbing marble floors and toilets for sixteen hours a day and was allocated a small, bare room, which was, at the very least, connected to Wi-Fi.

She later learnt that some girls she had traveled with had landed in far worse conditions. She could scroll social media, connect with other girls in the Gulf, and reach her family. 

Becky earned Ksh45,000 a month. While it didn’t reflect her workload, she knew it was like gold back home. Annually, the salary represented a respectable Ksh540,000.

Then, it started going sideways. 

Endless Demands

The downside with access to Wi-Fi is that Becky was easy to reach. Everyone back in the village with a smartphone and internet connection could conveniently reach her at any time.

At first, conversations ranged from How was your flight and Is Arabic food delicious? " to We miss you so much. Then, as the weeks went by, most of her correspondence was veiled and brazen requests for money. 

Suddenly, Becky had more relatives than she could remember! Her immediate family didn't play around with airing their expectations, which sounded more and more like a birthright.

Her mother, well, she had never tried anything more agricultural than a few dairy goats and chickens scratching the yard. She wanted to start a dairy farm.

“Send Ksh80,000 for the first cow, Becky. I’ll take care of everything, and we’ll be rich. I’ve learnt everything from Mama Brayo, and seen how much she earns from milk every month…”.

Her mother’s friend was indeed a good dairy farmer, but she didn’t notice that her friend’s husband was an agricultural extension officer. 

So, Becky first sent Ksh30,000 to make a decent cow shed. A dairy cow wouldn’t survive under their avocado tree near the gate. Two months later, she sent Ksh80,000 to buy a high-performance Friesian heifer. 

Meanwhile, her brother Ian had just cleared high school. As is popular in the village, Ian had a profound love for bikes. The boda boda bug hit hard. 

“Siz, please buy a bike - I’ll work with it. I’ll deposit Ksh300 every day to your account. Utacheki tu ni idea poa sana (You will soon realise it is a good idea)…..” 

A brand new Chinese-manufactured motorbike was selling at Ksh130,000 at the time. Becky didn’t have that kind of money, and so she agreed to finance a Ksh20,000 deposit for a bike loan.

The dealers had an arrangement that a loaned bike would need a Ksh500 daily deposit for a year. It was an expensive loan, and her brother hardly read the fine print before signing the dotted line.

Towards the fifth month, Becky had sent home close to Ksh220,000. Besides the suggested projects, she largely rooted the entire family budget.

Her daughter and a few other children in the homestead needed school fees, new clothes, and medical check-ups once in a while. 

Extreme Black Tax 

Well, by the seventh month, Becky started noticing a trend. The updates and promises from her co-investors in the family started reducing.

A week would pass by, and her mother would rarely pick up her calls. When she did, she kept avoiding any inquiries about the state of her dairy farm.

At some point, her mother stated bluntly, “Our cow fell sick and died.” No further explanations. 

Becky flinched, a load of money down the drain. But that was nothing compared to what her brother had in store for her. 

Sometimes, he'd say the bike had developed mechanical issues. Another time, it had hit a neighbor’s cow, or it had been detained by traffic police officers.

It took a cousin to break the news that her brother’s bike had been repossessed for non-payment of the loan. That’s another big sum lost.

Becky’s psyche hit a new low, but she kept sending family upkeep money. After all, she had committed better their lives.

Dull Homecoming

Time flies when you are busy. Two years later, when her contract ended, she had earned a total of Ksh1.08 million. She packed her bags and boarded a flight back to Kenya, ready to reclaim the life she had left behind, looking forward to strides made in her investments.

Her arrival, though, was anything but grand. No one even bothered to pick her up at the airport.

Despite all the money she’d sent her mother, their house was still bare. The leaking in their roof was worse than ever.

Her daughter was shabby and malnourished. Her brother? Left home for an undisclosed job in Nairobi.

The worst sight was her mother’s empty cow shed, now used as a firewood shelter, barely holding up to the elements.  

“I wish we still had our cow…” she once said to her mother across the open hearth.

“Oh, it didn’t work out. I had to sell it. Dairy cows are really stressful…” her mother responded, with a finality in her voice signalling that she was no longer interested in such talk.

“You told me she died, mother!” She cried out. 

“I didn’t want questions. You wouldn’t understand.”

It hit Becky in the gut quietly. There was no anger, no shouting, just a slow, crushing realisation.

Her dreams had been taken, piece by piece, for nothing. She made a silent resolve: Get her daughter, leave the village, and start life afresh in the city with the little savings she had squirrelled away. 

Well, Becky had experienced a sad reality. Money can help bring a happy life, but it’ll just as easily take away the little happiness you have. She had lost her investment and family.