Mr Survivor: My Beetle will save me from poverty

There are survivors in the countryside, but then there is the Survivor, yours truly. They call me Survivor, which fits me as well as it suits their hearts.

I should, however let you know that they stole the name from my vintage edition of a Volkswagen Beetle, which I had christened so. As the moniker suggests, it has seen better days.

To make a difference between us, I have since renamed it Concorde, the famous commercial supersonic airliner.

Long and dramatic story

The long and dramatic story of how I came to own the Survivor from its first owner, a remnant of the famous Happy Valley partners in crime, at the foot of Aberdare ranges is a juicy story for another day.

For now, Survivor the car, nay, my car, now named Concorde is the very reason that my name is in the coveted list of who is who in the Aberdare countryside. Our drama beats Hollywood films. 

Made all the difference

When other shortsighted Kenyans were shouting themselves hoarse about devolved corruption, my financial hawk eyes saw the glass as half full not as half empty.

And that made all the difference in my life, which was nothing but misery to write home about. I have never been the same again.

If I may refresh your memory, you will remember some ingenious governor in our country buying some anti-carcinogenic wheelbarrows to protect his people from cancer. To me, that meant they were themselves out of the cancer’s highway. That was my time of awakening.

I had a dream. In that dream, my governor, his MCAs and all the lords of the county needed to eat anti-carcinogenic foods so that they could lead us for long and to greater heights of economic prosperity.

Kienyeji chicken

My contribution towards that noble duty would be to supply kienyeji chicken and eggs to high-end hotels in the county where my leaders patronised.

Having no one else in the length and breadth of the countryside highly endowed with such an entrepreneurial dream, I started the business without any competition.

After initial teething problems, the business picked up.

I started the business using hired motorcycles but soon realised that they were reducing the profit margin. And with the bad name of the boda boda riders, I immediately saw the need to have my own means of transport.

That is how I became a proud owner of a car, my VW Beetle, the Survivor. That success, however, came at a big cost. I immediately attracted enemies like a moth to a bulb. The Beetle became an instant hit as far as crude jokes were concerned.

Enemies of development

My enemies of development, who I got in more numbers than my fair share, devised a way of hitting below the belt. It is one thing to have people who do not matter to you laugh at you, but it is a different thing all together to have your wife join them.

I never knew that women had tastes for vehicles until Queen, my one and only wife, asked me why I had decided to embarrass her by bringing a tortoise home.

Worse still she was telling our young boys to avoid going near the tortoise because it could eat them. I had to act and act fast.

I engaged Queen in the business as the chief procurement officer and I retained the marketing and supplies portfolio. Her role was to buy all the hens and eggs at our Home Depot and I looked for market and supplied.

That was the masterstroke. I had scattered the enemies as fast as they had come. Queen had become busy bargaining to make a cut out of the flat late I gave per hen and per egg.

She had no time for idlers who would not give her the amount of money she made in the business.

Made a cut

Queen took up her role as the procurement manager of the family business with the zeal of the Queen that she is.

From the cut she made from the purchases, a fact I pretended not to know, she quickly started a village kiosk at the gate of the Palace, my humble home at the outskirts of my home country town. Within no time, she renamed it Slopes Supermarket.

On my part, I ensured she does not lack. I surprised her with a weekly ration of two litre packet of Del Monte mango juice. She has never been that happy.

You should hear her announcing at the rooftops for all who care to listen, and there are many of such variety in the countryside, that she is the woman behind the success of my business.

As a survival tactic, I allow her to massage her ego. In her braggadocio, my enemies are convinced that I am a female husband and therefore ignore my presence.

With the Queen well taken care of, and the Survivor on the road, I can see myself crossing over to the other side of the valley of poverty. Long live the Queen, long live Survivor.