Nice Naj

Petroli imepanda tena… lakini Safari Rally Kenya bado inaendelea.
Hii nchi ni ya ajabu kidogo 😅
Wao wanachoma fuel wakizunguka Naivasha for fun, sisi tunachoma fuel tukizunguka town kutafuta maisha.

Part 7 of how I became a millionaire after school with a salary of 5k

Have you ever got a phone call that changed your whole mindset?

Mine came on a random Tuesday evening, just after I had finished packaging spinach in old bread bags (Reduce, Reuse, Rehustle). I was chilling on the veranda, sipping black tea like a rural CEO, when my phone rang.

Caller ID: Jael - Campus Friend (Used to Borrow My Lotion)

I hesitated. She once “borrowed” my Dubois coconut lotion and forgot to return it for 3 semesters. But anyway, I picked.

> “Naj! Babe! I’ve been seeing your page. Wueh! You’re really making it!”

I laughed. “We’re trying, Jael. Hii maisha haiko na script.”

Then she dropped the sentence that nearly made me spill my tea:

> “Listen… would you want to try mitumba wholesale? I’m in Gikomba now, I can plug you.”

Pause. Rewind.

Mitumba. Wholesale. Gikomba.
Those are the three ingredients of generational wealth in Kenya.

I almost screamed, “Yes!” but remembered my manners.

> “Sounds interesting. Tell me more.”

Jael explained that she had started a mini-supply biz. She would send a camera selection (aka slay-worthy picks) from Gikomba every week to people upcountry who didn’t want to physically hustle in the market.

All I needed was:

A little capital (even 2,000 bob to start)

Transport fee for bales/pieces

The courage to sell like my rent depended on it (which it kind of did)

---

🎯 Small Start, Big Hustle

I started with five mitumba tops she sent me via parcel. Handpicked. Nice quality. One even had a Zara tag that I showed everyone like it was a visa.

I took photos on my cousin Liz who has shoulders that do justice to all outfits.

Captioned them on Facebook:

> “Cute tops for queens who slay on a budget! Ksh 350 only. Free spinach with first order.”

Yes, I was still mixing vegetables with fashion like a confused but ambitious salad.

Guess what? They sold out in one day. One client even ordered three and asked if I could deliver to her chama meeting. Of course I did—with a free hoho.

I was now selling:

Bodycon dresses (high demand)

Mitumba tops (fast-moving)

Sukuma, spinach, hohos (my green gold)

---

This time I wasn’t about to blow my profits on heartbreak or hairstyles.

I started using a little notebook labeled “Naj’s Future Millions.” Every sale I made, I wrote it down. Every expense—transport, airtime, parcel fees—I recorded it.

I started saving in two places , my usual M-Pesa lock savings account and a chamaa-style kitty with my childhood friend Christine Mallanu (we called it Vijana Tuinue Hustle)

I didn’t have much. But it was consistent.

By the end of that month, I counted my profit after expenses and saw something that made me emotional:

16,800 bob.

SIXTEEN THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED.

Me, Eunice “Naj” from Bungoma, who once fainted with sukuma in her bag, had now doubled her old salary, feeding people and fashioning them at the same time.

---

I wasn’t just chasing money—I was chasing freedom.

Freedom to wake up and choose my schedule

Freedom to say “no” to clients who want to pay 200 for a dress and still want delivery

Freedom to take Mum out for lunch without checking my balance five times

And slowly, the idea of 1 million shillings didn’t feel like a dream anymore. It felt like something I could actually touch. One hustle at a time.

---

But just when I was cruising, I got a message request from a guy whose profile photo was suspiciously familiar.

Guess who?

Kevin.

Yes, that Kevin. Mr. Kamukunji-that-never-existed. Talking about “Naj, I’ve been thinking about you. I’m a changed man. Can we talk?”

Wueh.

If you want to know whether I forgave him or forwarded his number to the group of women scammed by fake boyfriends, stay tuned Nice Naj

Part 2: My First Hustle — The Bodycon Breakthrough

The dress that changed my life was red.

Not Valentine red. Not tomato red. It was that deep, rich, “you’ll see me before you greet me” kind of red. A stretchy bodycon that hugged the curves of the model on Facebook so well, I almost asked for her waistline measurements. It was going for 550 bob, and in the comments, I saw things like “Following” and “DM price.” I knew right then: this dress was gold.

I took a screenshot and sent it to my boutique friend Jacky with one question:
“How much do you think I can sell this for in Bungoma?”
She replied in less than a minute.
“Hii utauza 1,200 bila stress. Ni camera dress.”

Camera dress = the kind of dress that makes you look 5kg lighter in pictures. Our national dream.

So I did what any broke-but-determined girl would do. I withdrew 700 bob from my precious savings (yes, including delivery), bought one red bodycon, and waited. And when I say waited—I mean I stared at the cyber door like a dog waiting for its owner.

It arrived wrapped in a black paper bag. I felt like I had just received a container shipment from Dubai.

That weekend, I convinced my cousin to wear it and take a few pictures. We found the one white wall in our plot and I took photos like my name was Diana of MD Homes. Then I posted them in a Facebook group called “Fabulous Queens Bungoma” with the caption:

> “Ladies, bodycon stretch dress now available at only 1,200! Fits S to L. DM fast before it sells out 🛍️💃🏾”

My phone was hot in 30 minutes.

One lady even asked if I had it in blue. Blue? I only had one dress! But I said, “Yes, blue available. Delivery Tuesday.” That’s when I learnt the sacred art of fake it until you restock.

That weekend I sold the red one to a salon lady who said it was for “date night with bae.” I delivered it in person, even threw in a paper bag I recycled from Mum’s birthday gift. Profit? 500 bob.

Not a lot, but it tasted sweeter than salary.

With that cash, I bought two more bodycons from Nairobi, and this time I posted both. Again, they sold. And so it began: my side hustle life.

Some lessons I learnt in those early days:

1. Always take your own pictures.
Nairobi vendors will show you dresses worn by slay queens with lighting from heaven. Then deliver a version that looks like it fought with an iron box.

2. Not all customers are serious.
Some would say “I’ll pay you Friday, I promise,” only for Friday to come and they’re posting quotes like “You can't pour from an empty cup.” 😒

3. Delivery is not for the weak.
I once crossed River Nabuyole on a boda to deliver a dress, only for the lady to say, “Eeeeh… si you bring another colour next time?”

But even with all the challenges, my confidence was growing. My savings pot, which had been limping along, started to beef up again. I was saving my cyber salary and flipping bodycons on the side like a pro.

Of course, my boss didn’t know. He thought I was “always on my phone,” which was true—but I wasn’t chatting. I was closing deals. He was shouting about paper jams, and I was calculating how many dresses could fit in a parcel from Nairobi with 200 bob delivery.

Then one day, I got a bold idea:
Why not expand to veggies?
I know, I know. From body-hugging dresses to sukuma wiki sounds like a weird jump. But hear me out. Bodycons fed my wallet. But sukuma? That’s where I saw farming money.

But that juicy story? That one is waiting for you in Part Three.

Stay tuned. And remember—sometimes your million starts with one dress and one Facebook post. Follow Nice Naj for more of this

PART 1: The Cyber Girl Who Skipped Lunch

After college, I thought I’d become a banker or maybe a manager with my managerial diploma in my bag I thought I had it all, Or at least wear high heels in an office that had a coffee machine. But the only machine I ended up using was an old, noisy HP desktop at a cyber café in Bungoma town.

My starting salary? A spicy 5,000 Kenya shillings per month. Yes, you read that right. Five Thousand. For working Monday to Saturday, 8 a.m. to 7 p.m. My boss, a man who swore he had once “worked for Safaricom,” would only buy new mouse pads but not raise our salary.

I was staying at home with my parents in Musikoma. No rent, but responsibilities? Unlimited. My mother believed since I had “a job,” I could now buy her some utensils, help with some groceries and contribute towards the local women’s chama.

But even with all that, I decided one thing: I must save. Every month, I’d try my best to put aside 3K. How? By becoming the queen of packed lunch.

Forget tupperware. I carried my food in old yoghurt containers. Ugali and sukuma or githeri wrapped like government secrets. Sometimes the sukuma would spill in my handbag and everything smelled like garlic—including my ID. But it was worth it. Lunch at the kibanda was 80 bob, which I saved like a disciplined accountant I have become.

People used to laugh at me. Some came to the cyber to print CVs for jobs paying 60K and I was there, serving them politely like I too didn’t want to print mine. But deep down, I was building something. A vision. A future. A savings culture. And hunger tolerance.

Then one day, while scrolling Facebook on the office machine (when boss had gone for tea), I saw a lady selling bodycon dresses online. They were hot. Ankara, stretchy material, body-hugging. I took a screenshot, sent it to my friend Jacky who had a boutique and asked, “How much do you think I can resell this for?”

And just like that—something clicked.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. The story of how one bodycon turned into a side hustle empire? That’s Part Two.

Stay tuned. And remember—if you’re in your 5K phase, don't panic. Just carry your lunch, switch off peer pressure, and plan your plot.