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 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

Part 8 of how I became a millionaire after school with a salary of 5k per month

If there’s one thing about Kenyan exes, it’s this:

They’ll ghost you when you need them most, then reappear when your skin is glowing and your hustle is moving like Express matatu with WiFi. So there I was, living my best life, sipping tea with a side of spinach orders, when I saw a message request.

“Hey Naj... been thinking about you.”

I nearly choked on my mandazi.

Kevin.

Yes, Kamukunji Kevin. The man who disappeared with my 8K and dreams of couple goals. I opened the message out of curiosity—and also because God is still working on me. It continued:

> “I’m not proud of how things ended. I was in a bad place mentally. But you’ve always been special to me. I’ve changed. Can we talk?”

My finger hovered over the reply button. For about 0.3 seconds. Then I did what every healed, self-respecting Bungoma queen does. I blue-ticked him, then blocked.

Let me tell you: the block button is the true symbol of healing. I didn’t even break a sweat. The girl who once cried over 8K was now shipping spinach and selling mitumba with a smile. Kevin was now history. Like analogue TVs.

With toxic energy out of the way, I made a decision:

> "No more operating like a jua kali side hustle. Naj, it’s time to build a brand." I printed business cards (okay, just 50, but still—progress!).

Updated my page to:

“Naj’s Fresh & Fab – Dresses. Veggies. Hustle with Heart.” I also added weekly specials:

Dress of the Week (comes with earrings or pilipili)

Sukuma Combo Pack (3 bunches + tomatoes + onion at discount)

Mitumba Mystery Bag (pay Ksh 1000, get 4 surprise tops)

People loved it. One lady inboxed, “Naj, you’re the reason I smile on Mondays.” I blushed in the dark like a Form Two girl who’s just been called “mrembo.”

Then came the wildest part: other hustlers started reaching out. A girl selling homemade peanut butter wanted me to include her jars with veggie deliveries. A bodaboda guy offered to be my full-time delivery partner.

An NGO lady asked me to speak at a youth group on “how to hustle without losing your mind.” I, Naj, speaker of the year? From cyber cafe to keynote address? I couldn’t believe it. I was finally being seen—not as a struggling girl—but as a woman building something real. Even Mum started introducing me to visitors like:

“This is my daughter Eunice. She’s self-employed. A very serious business lady.” I felt ten feet tall.

---

I wasn’t rich—yet—but I had peace. I wasn’t borrowing bundles. I was sleeping better. I even started putting 500 bob every week in a tin labeled:
"Future Vacation – Diani, not Busia." 😂

Kevin? Gone. Stress? Managed. Hair? Edges laid. Focus? Laser sharp.

But just when things were flowing like River Nzoia again, I got an idea so wild… it scared me. “What if I opened a small shop? Like an actual space. No more delivering from my mum’s sufurias or using her basin for sukuma.”

I took a deep breath. Opening a shop? That meant rent. Stock. Branding. Bigger risks. But also: bigger returns.I was scared. But I was also tired of playing small.

And that, my friend, is where we begin the journey into 999k. Follow Nice Naj for more

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)

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🎯 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.

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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 6 of how I became a millionaire after school with a salary of 5k.

Let me tell you something nobody warns you about. When you finally start making money from your hustle—REAL money—you get drunk. Not from alcohol, but from excitement, ambition, and hot air from too many compliments.

And that’s exactly what happened to me.

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🔥 Hustle Mode: 100%

After that sweet 12K month, I felt unstoppable. I was replying to inboxes at midnight, doing deliveries during lunch breaks, washing sukuma at 5 a.m., and even trying to design my own labels like “Fresh & Fab by Naj.”

My mother, who used to ask “Hii kazi ni ya nini?” now started referring customers to me.

> “Naskia unauza spinach? Utafute Eunice, mtoto wangu. Ako na mboga safi sana. Hata anatuma kwa WhatsApp.”

Ah, growth.

But with growth came madness. Because your girl Naj forgot one very important thing: I am not a robot.

I stopped sleeping properly. I was constantly on my phone. One day I cooked supper and served salt instead of sugar in the tea. My dad took a sip and stared at me like I had committed national sabotage.

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🚨 The Day My Body Gave Up

It was a Thursday. I had just delivered sukuma and hohos to a teacher’s estate, then rushed to town to drop a floral bodycon to a salonista whose Mpesa name didn’t match her Facebook name (red flag, but that’s a different story).

I hadn’t eaten the whole day. My water bottle was empty. And my brain was running on fumes and sweet potatoes.

As I walked up Muslim estate road, I felt dizzy. Like the earth had gone on mjengo break. Then—blackout.

I fainted.

Woke up on a plastic chair outside a shop, with a worried boda guy sprinkling water on my face like I was a pot of sukuma about to die. My wig had shifted to the side like it was also tired of my hustle.

“Uko sawa madam?” he asked.

I looked at him, blinked twice, and whispered, “Ni stress ya kuchukua order ya spinach na dress pamoja.”

That was my wake-up call.

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I went home and told Mum everything. The work. The pressure. The Kevin trauma. The 5 a.m. spinach. The midnight bodycon DM replies. She listened, then gave me porridge and the biggest lecture of my life.

> “Unatafuta pesa hadi unaanza kufaint kwa Barbara, kwani hizi pesa inatafutia nani ? Maisha yako ni muhimu kuliko pesa mwanangu."

So I took a weekend off. Switched off my phone. Put an out-of-office post on my page:
“Hi Queens, resting this weekend. Orders resume Monday. Stay fab!”

And guess what? I didn’t die.

People still bought from me on Monday. The world didn’t collapse. In fact, I came back stronger, clearer—and with new rules.

I resolved to always take a rest as it is part of the grind. A nap is not laziness but it's like fuel to my body.I also gave myself a pep talk that not every inbox deserves a reply at 2 a.m. So my people you should treat your body like a business partner. Feed it. Respect it. Let it rest.
Have boundaries. I am not a bodaboda. Orders past 6 p.m. wait till morning.Last but not least I will not kill myself to deliver a dress to someone who’s asking for a 100 bob discount.

The best part? Once I slowed down, my creativity came back. I started thinking smarter.

Instead of running around, I began batching deliveries.

I started doing “combo deals”—get a dress + 2 bunches of sukuma at a discount.
Caption: “Slay outside, stay healthy inside.” 😂

Then came my biggest mental shift yet:
“Naj, you’ve built something. You’re no longer just surviving—you’re growing.”

But deep inside, I still wanted more. I wanted something big. Something scalable.

And out of nowhere, I got a call from a former classmate with a life-changing idea.

But before I tell you that twist, let me take that rest tomorrow is also a day. Don't forget to follow Nice Naj

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

They say every disappointment is a blessing. Honestly? That quote used to annoy me. Especially when my blessing looked like 8,000 bob evaporating into a Kapsabet love scam. But in true Bungoma style, I didn’t sit and mope—I bounced back harder than borrowed bundles.

Kevin might have 'finished' me, but he also taught me something vital:
People will waste your time, but business? Business always pays you back—if you respect it.

So I refocused.

I wrote a simple list titled "Plan B for a Broken Heart."

1. Rebuild my veggie hustle

2. Boost my dress sales

3. Eat well and mind my skin (breakups cause pimples, don’t ask me how)

4. Open a page for my brand

That’s when the magic started happening.

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💼 Veggie Plug Vibes

I approached Rosemary’s Restaurant in town—small but busy, known for chapati so soft they could solve marriage problems. I asked the cook if they’d consider buying sukuma and spinach directly from a local supplier (mimi 😌).

She looked at me, skeptical. “What’s wrong with market sukuma?”

I smiled and said, “Try mine. First bunch is free. If you don’t like it, no harm done.”

I call this "Risk With Style."

The next day, she called me.

> “Bring more. Yours cooks faster and doesn’t have soil. Are you washing them with holy water?”

I didn’t respond. I just smiled, wiped the sweat off my face, and made a new delivery. And just like that, I had my first regular veggie client. It wasn’t huge money—maybe 1,200 bob per week—but it was money with structure.

I took that money and bought 3 new bodycons—but this time I didn’t wait for random sales. No, no. I took marketing seriously.

---

I rebranded.

Created a page called "Lush Looks & Veggies by Nice Naj " (yes, I was still deciding if I was a fashion girl or a farmer—turns out, I was both).

I started posting photos with catchy captions like:

> "Eat sukuma like a queen, slay like a goddess. Inbox for both 😎"

People laughed, shared, and commented things like “Following” and “Where are you based, gal?”

Orders started trickling in. A nurse ordered two dresses and asked if I could deliver to the hospital. I said yes—even though I had to wait two hours outside maternity because “mama alikuwa theatre.”

Another day, a lady asked if I could include spinach with the bodycon. I said yes.

She paid. I delivered.
I was now officially a one-woman wholesaler of beauty and health.

---

Instead of wasting time talking to men who want money for imaginary businesses, I started learning.

I followed Kenyan business pages.

Watched TikToks on pricing and stock rotation.

Read stories about women in Meru turning 1K into a chicken empire.

Even found a YouTube video titled: “Stop being broke: Sell like a savage.” I watched it three times. Took notes.

By the end of that month, I did something I’d never done before:

I counted my monthly income.

💸 Veggie sales = 4,000
💸 Dress profits = 6,800
💸 Random one-time gigs (like creating CVs) = 1,200

Total: 12,000 bob.

TWELVE THOUSAND.
That’s more than double what I used to earn at the cyber! And no one was shouting at me about printer toner.

That night, I danced to Otile Brown in the dark with earphones. It wasn’t even my birthday but I bought myself a soda and said:

> “You’re doing well, mama. Don’t let Kevin’s cologne confuse you again.” 😂

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But just when things were starting to stabilize, burnout came knocking like a jealous ex.

Too many deliveries, too much pressure, too little rest. My body started whispering, “Breathe, woman.” Then one day, it screamed.

I collapsed on my way from delivering hohos in hot sun.

But that story of sweat, self-care, and how Mum finally believed I wasn’t just “selling funny clothes on Facebook” is for.....later...

Part 4 of how I became a millionaire after school with a salary of 5k

They always say, “Don’t mix business with pleasure.”
But me? I didn’t just mix it—I put it in a blender, added feelings, and served it cold with heartbreak on the rocks.

His name was Kevin.

We met in the most romantic of places: a Facebook comment section. I had posted some bodycons on “Bungoma Hustlers Queens” and this guy commented:

> “🔥🔥The dress is nice, but your hustle is even nicer.”

That’s how it started. Compliment. Like. DM. Boom.

We started chatting daily. He was smooth like peanut butter and claimed he ran a small electronics business in Nairobi. Sent pictures of himself in a polo shirt leaning on a borrowed car. He always said, “You inspire me. You remind me of those women who become millionaires silently.”

Me? Silent? Please, I’ve never been silent a day in my life. But I smiled like an idiot every time I saw his messages.

Then one day, he hit me with:

> “Babe, I’ve been thinking... what if we started a business together?”

At this point, I was not thinking with my brain, I was thinking with my future wedding hashtag. I replied instantly:
“What kind of business?”

Kevin said he had access to cheap power banks and earphones from Kamukunji and wanted to start a wholesale supply hustle. He just needed “a small boost” of 8,000 bob to complete his stock.

I should have paused.

I should have done due diligence.

But no. I wore my best “ride or die” girlfriend hat and said, “Babe, I got you.”

Red Flag #1: He asked me to send the money to a random Till Number that had the name “Kisa Ventures.”
Red Flag #2: After I sent it, he replied, “Thanks babe, you’re different from other girls.”
Red Flag #3: He went silent for three days.

Three.

No “Good morning sunshine.” No “How’s the sukuma?” Not even a blue tick. Just offline like he’d been kidnapped by network demons.

On day four, I texted him:

> “Kevin, is everything okay?”

He replied with the classic:

> “Babe I’ve been going through something but didn’t want to stress you. I’ll refund your money this Friday.”

Spoiler alert: Friday came. No refund.

I knew something was off when I checked his page and saw he had changed his relationship status to “It’s complicated.” What was complicated? My money is straightforward, sir!

So I did what any girl who watches crime documentaries would do.

I investigated.

I DM’d the guy he was always tagging in memes. That guy spilled the whole tea. Kevin didn’t sell electronics. He didn’t even live in Nairobi. He was in Kapsabet, staying with his auntie. The pictures were staged, the polo shirt was borrowed, and he had done this before.

I. Had. Been. Played.

I won’t lie, I cried. Not because of the love—because of the money. That was my capital for restocking bodycons and buying sukuma seeds. I felt stupid. My pillow felt soaked.

But that night, I wiped my tears, made a cup of strong tea (sugarless, because I was now officially broke), and told myself:

> “It’s either a loss or a lesson. You choose.”

I chose lesson.

Lesson 1: Don’t invest in someone who calls you “babe” but doesn’t know your second name.
Lesson 2: A real man will never go silent after receiving money. He’ll go shopping—with you.
Lesson 3: Business and boyfriend can’t share the same wallet.

I took a break from love. Opened my small notebook and wrote at the top:
“REVENGE: In Form of Success.”

The next day, I posted four new bodycon designs. No caption. Just vibes. By evening, three were sold. That week, I used my remaining savings to double down on veggie delivery and even convinced a local hotel to buy from me weekly.

I didn’t need Kevin. I needed consistency. And WiFi.

And speaking of WiFi, guess who was about to land her first BIG client?

Part 3: Sukuma and Side Hustles

Let me confess something.

Before I started horticulture, I thought sukuma wiki just grows itself. You dig, you plant, you water, you harvest. Simple, right?

Wrong.

My journey into farming started the way all big mistakes start: on WhatsApp. Someone forwarded a story about a university graduate making 200K per month from selling managu. I didn’t even finish reading. I just texted my cousin Brian and said:

> “Tafuta ka-kashamba ka cheap, na tupande vitu za salad.”

Brian, a loyal hustler with zero chill, replied in 8 minutes:
“Tuko na ka-plot ya mzee hapa kanduyi. Haijalimwa. Uneza tumia tu.”

Boom. Just like that, I became a part-time cyber girl, part-time vegetable boss lady.

With 2,000 bob from my dress sales, I bought seeds—sukuma, spinach, managu—and a few gardening tools. I still remember the look Mum gave me when I walked into the compound carrying a jembe.

> “Na sasa? You’ve joined mjengo?”

> “No Mum. I’m now into agribusiness,” I said, chest out like I had shares in Bidco.

We cleared the land with Brian. Correction: Brian cleared the land, I mostly took selfies with the jembe. But I was there in spirit. We planted, watered, and waited.

By the third week, green life started popping up. My sukuma babies were growing. I was checking them daily, like a nursery school teacher taking attendance.

Then one day I got home from work and found tragedy.

Chickens.
Our neighbor’s chickens had trespassed like drunk teenagers and feasted on my seedlings like it was KFC.

I saw feathers, dug-up roots, and three hens casually strolling like they had paid rent. I wanted to cry. Or pluck them and sell to Mama Mboga.

Brian helped me replant. I added a small fence using old mosquito netting and maize stalks. And this time, I became strict. I watered them in the morning before work, checked for pests in the evening, and even whispered motivational quotes to my sukuma.

> “You are not just vegetables, you are destiny. Grow, my darlings.”

Eventually, they grew strong and healthy. And then—harvest time.

My first customer was our neighbor’s house help, Doreen. She bought a bunch for 30 bob and even said, “Hii ni fresh sana kuliko soko.” I wanted to frame that comment.

I started selling to a few mama mbogas nearby, then to a kibanda guy who supplied sukuma to local schools. Soon, I was delivering small bundles every three days and making 500–800 bob per week. Not crazy money, but passive income ni income all the same.

Then my cyber boss said the most painful thing of 2021:
“We’re closing down. The shop isn’t making profit.”

Just like that, my 5K salary was gone.

But this time, I didn’t panic. Why?
Because I had options.

I had my bodycon customers. I had sukuma customers. I even had one lady who bought spinach and a dress in the same transaction. Lifestyle meets nutrition.

So I took a deep breath and told myself:

> "Girl, maybe this is your sign. To stop thinking small. To focus on these hustles fully. To level up."

I didn’t know how. I didn’t have a business plan. But I had faith, bundles, and a kiondo full of hope.

What I didn’t expect was that my next big move would nearly destroy all my savings—thanks to one very smooth-talking, cologne-wearing boy named Kevin.

Affordable housing in Nakuru

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.