Nice Naj

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 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.

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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.

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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 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.