26/07/2025
Part 9 of how I became a millionaire after school with a salary of 5k per month.
If my life was a mobile phone, this was the moment I got to low battery mode—but with 5% left and 'amenipa juju' still playing in the background. I had saved. Hustled. Blocked Kevin. Scaled up. Partnered with boda guys, sold hohos with handbags, and delivered sukuma while wearing heels.
Then one evening, seated on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by books, Mpesa messages, and that one leaking thermos Mum never throws away, I decided to count my net savings. Actual savings. Not "I had money before I withdrew it." Not "ata k**a iko kwa float." Just real cash and locked M-Shwari goals.
I took out my tin labeled “Vacation – Diani not Busia,” my Naj Hustle Notebook, my phone for mobile statements, and that one impulse-bought calculator from Text Book Centre. I added slowly, carefully, holding my breath like a pregnant loan app.
The total? Ksh 999,260. I looked again. Closed one eye. Opened it. Same thing. Nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, two hundred and sixty. I was 740 bob away from one million. I screamed. Not a loud scream. No, the one that you scream but don't want to attract attention type of scream that only comes once in a lifetime. The scream that makes even house geckos freeze mid-run. I had done it. Well, almost. Because what is 740 bob to a woman who once sold sukuma for 20 bob a bunch and walked in mud like a rice farmer?
For a few seconds, I pictured myself walking into Co-op Bank with dark shades, handing them a cheque, and saying, “Hi. I’d like to open a millionaire account, please.” But I knew the money didn’t come from luck or witchcraft. It came from skipping lunch for months, blocking smooth-talking scammers, taking risks with five dresses and three tomatoes, and believing in myself even when my bank balance said “relax.”
Hitting 999K didn’t mean I was rich. No. I still lived with my parents. My wardrobe still had one good bra and a sports shoe with a “hole of humility.” But the number meant one thing: I now had the power of choice. I could move out. I could buy a deep freezer and expand veggie storage. I could finally register my business. I could build a simple kibanda into a legit boutique. I could even go to Diani and take pics with captions like “soft life chose me.”
But you know what I did first? I took Mum to Bungoma town. Bought her a proper handbag—not the one she ties at the handle with leso. Took her for fish and ugali at a hotel that has serviettes and super sport on their television. As she wiped her mouth and said, “Aki Naj, umekuwa mkubwa sasa,” I almost cried.
On our way home, I got a text from an old schoolmate. He had seen my page grow over the years. “Naj, I really admire what you’ve done. Would you be open to catching up sometime?” Now, I won’t lie to you. He was cute. Responsible. Employed. And once borrowed my blue pen in Form 3 and actually returned it.
But before I said yes, I texted back, “Just to be clear… I’m not a sponsor. If you ask me for capital, I’ll report you to God.” We laughed. He respected that. And slowly, something began brewing.
I went to bed that night knowing one thing: I am a millionaire in waiting—and I earned it. The rain that used to wet my deliveries no longer scared me. The boda guys who used to cancel on me now asked to be my “official supplier.” I had built something with my own hands, my own heart, and my own ginger tea addiction.
But before we wrap this story up in golden ribbons… There’s one last part you must read. The moment that money finally hit seven digits? I did something I had never done before. Naj style. Follow Nice Naj for more
