The year is 2019.

Fresh out of campus, I and two close friends had already been making good money online as academic writers.

But the industry was shifting. AI whispers had begun. The writing platforms we relied on were exploitative. We needed something more stable, more predictable.

So, we decided to invest in a hotel business. The location is Pipeline Estate, Nairobi.

None of us had hotel experience, but we took the risk nevertheless.

We pooled our savings, KSh300k. We bought an existing hotel, and thought we’d cracked it.

At first, everything looked fine. The hotel was stocked. A few customers were walking in. And we felt like real business owners.

But then, in the second week, the nightmare began.

It began one morning when our hotel staff called. “Hakuna stima. The whole place is dark.”

I rushed to find the power lines cut. Turns out, the business was running on illegal electricity (mulika mwizi) all along. The very guy who sold us the hotel, we would discover, was a dangerous cartel, and the mind behind Mulika Mwizi connections in Pipu.

He wanted Ksh 13,000 to “fix it.” And we paid, because what choice did we have?

Later, I learned he and his secret agents were behind the disruption to our business. They had disconnected and stolen cables in the darkness.

Then the next day, at 6 AM, the caretaker, Mwash, knocked. Angry.

He claimed the “illegal” connection on which we had paid 13k had bypassed him. So he threatened to escalate the case unless we gave him 5k.

“Luckily,” we negotiated and paid him KSh3k.

But that same morning, Mwash casually announced the rent had gone up by Ksh 1,500.

The first month was gone. Then on the first Tuesday of the second month, we woke up to dry taps. The pipes feeding the hotel had been cut.

Guess what? The water, too, wasn’t legal. Like Mulika Mwizi, this too was controlled by Dinnox. We had to make another round of payments to get reconnected.

But even after reconnecting, it became a weekly circus—cut, pay, reconnect. It was the same with power.

We could shift to legal connections, but there was a problem. KPLC power via token was too expensive. Our struggling hotel couldn’t manage that.

Kanjo water was affordable, but unreliable.

As if we already didn’t have enough problems to deal with, KRA agents stormed in just in the third month. They accused us of running on fake documentation.

Remember, the seller had assured us everything was in order, but it was all lies.

So, to survive, we had to use paperwork from one of my other businesses to avoid penalties.

Then came the health and safety team, asking for everything our hotel and, of course, other small hotels around didn’t have.

Meanwhile, sales were painfully low.

And because the three of us were still busy writing online, we left the daily running to our manager. Misreported sales, missing cash, and endless excuses were daily stressors for us.

Problem after problem piled up and recurring. Power, water, taxes, rent, staff, … ……. many more.

It became clear we hadn’t bought a hotel. We had bought a collapsing mess wrapped in cartels and shortcuts.

Regardless, challenges were bearable until COVID-19 hit hard. No eaters. We would cook and eat our own food with the staff.

By early 2020, our hotel hadn’t paid even a month of rent.

Staff? We paid for that from our own pockets.

Buying stock regularly needed external backup.

Eventually, we got tired. We accepted the defeat.

We agreed to sell the hotel. A customer offered Ksh 90k. We took it, accepting over half a million in financial loss.

But forget about the financial loss. That business literature left me with white hair.

Sema stress.