Why we will sell two taxi cars to buy a 2pc stake in Mr Li’s upcoming mascara company

“It’s nice to see you again, Safari,” I tell my cousin over a drink at the Panafric, where he’s been staying as he and his half-siblings sort out Aunt Cecilia’s probate issues in Kenya. “Hope you’ve gotten some rest after, errr, after the sen-off ...”

Safari has been hit hard by his mother’s death. I can tell by the crows’ feet under his eyes and the sad look. But he is a practical guy and shrugs, getting straight to the point.

“Mike, I gather you could do with an extra buck?”

“Shilling,” I say.

“Whatever!”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“Mum left a couple of cars that were being run as cabs in those taxi apps.”

“Bolt and Uber?”

“Yeah. I want you to run them for me here in Kenya, and for that service, I will pay you a quarter of the fare per ride. How does that ring in your ears, ninja?”

“You want me to be a taxi driver of two cabs, bro?” I ask. “How does that even work?”

“No, cuz,” Safari laughs. “Just to manage the drivers daily, and send me the take-in weekly, less their driving rate and your quarter cut for management. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

As a hustler living on the financial ledge, I feel I have no choice.

Reading the lack of enthusiasm in my face, Safari asks: “How is everything going with you, brother? Is business okay? Any girlfriends?”

With that, the dam pours open. I tell him about the roller-coaster of my life these past six months since I lost my job at the manure manufacturing company and finally the fact that I appear doomed to work in a mascara company in the near future under some Arab dude called Ben Bella, with his “Saddam Hussein” mustachio.

“I’m done with hustling, Safari,” I say, showing him Laura’s latest WhatsApp message, where she had basically said that on top of Neo’s fees in second term, she is expecting me to buy him books, new school and sports uniform, taekwondo uniform and scout’s uniform.

“I am sure I will hate my job, but at least it will provide me with a regular salary,” I say.

“Not to forget the commission my cabs will give you weekly, Mike,” my cousin says, but that doesn’t make me feel less depressed.

“I think I need to go home now and get some work done,” I tell my cousin. I head to the bus stage near Ambassador Hotel.
Like a lot of folks suffering the blues, I don’t have much of an appetite.

I simply climb into my bed, fully dressed, and sleep.

A phone call arouses me from my restless slumber, confused dreams in which I dreamt that bearded Algerians were chasing me through the CBD with knives – which turned out to be giant mascaras in their hands – as they yelled in Arabic.

It is my ringtone.

“Drop me a pin of where you are right now, Michael,” Safari sounds excited.

I do after he hangs up. In less than half an hour, he is at my flat.

“I saw Mr Li today at his office in Gong Dong Mall,” Safari tells me triumphantly, “and convinced him to give you a share in the coming company, Michael.”

“I’m speechless,” I say. And I am.

“I told him a small share in the company would make you the greatest manager he could ever have, and he finally agreed to give you 2 per cent shares in the company.”

“That sounds too good to be true, Safo.”

“Oh, 1 per cent is for your name rights! I told him ‘Safara Mascara’ is a great brand name, and he agreed that it is, man. But said you need to get all two percent.”

“Safa-La Mass-Colour g-late name for kam-pan,” I mimic Mr Li, cracking up my cousin. Then, anxiously, “and what’s the condition to get the other percent?”

“You gotta raise a million shillings to buy the other percentage point, Mike. Mr Li was ‘fell-lee’ clear about that. And you have just a week in which to do it.”

I rack my head and wonder where on God’s Earth I can get a million shillings from in such a short period of time.
“I have an idea, Safari,” I say. “Let’s sell those two cars that your mum left you and raise the money for the other percentage point.”

“Christmas came early for you, Michael?” my cousin says.

“No, bro.” I say. “Since I have to own two percent, we will sell the taxis to raise the capital. But in a separate agreement between ourselves, the other one percent will be yours, brother. Who knows how much that will be worth soon, compared to mere taxi fare? A hustler has to take risks in this life, dear Safari.”

“I agree,” Safo says, an excited gleam growing in his eyes. “But how will we sell the cars so quickly, without giving them at a throwaway price?”

“We will take them to the port in Mombasa, my brother. We’ll leave tomorrow.”

I know Laura has a Sacco where she can be loaned that sum, at the snap of a finger, to loan me. But the humiliation – “you worthless/good-for-nothing, desperate man. You want to steal a million from me when school fees scare you?”

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