After my consultancy empire disappeared faster than a politician switching off their phone after elections, I found myself under my usual mango tree.

I was chewing on stolen sugarcane from Mzee Otongolo’s plantation, thinking deeply.

As I sat there, watching goats fight over plastic bags, an idea so brilliant hit me—I almost choked on my sugarcane.

Chicken farming!

People in Shamakhokho love chicken. They also love quick money. So why not give them both?

I stood up, dusted myself off, and marched to the market like a man with a plan.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Shimonjero Chicken Investment Scheme is here! Invest 500 shillings today, get 1000 in two months!”

Villagers gathered instantly.

"Eh, how does it work, Shimonjero?" Mzee Oyondi asked, scratching his bald head.

"Simple!" I declared. "I use your money to farm chickens. After two months, I sell them at a profit and double your investment!"

"Ahhh!" they nodded, impressed.

Wekesa sold his old radio and handed me 500 shillings. Mama Kadogo sacrificed her food budget. Even the church treasurer appeared.

By evening, I had made thousands.

Life was sweet.

But there was just one small problem—I did not own a single chicken.

But no worries! I would buy some next week.

For now, I deserved enjoyment.

That evening, I bought a new shirt. I walked into the butchery like a man who had won a tender and ordered 5 kgs of meat—”no vifupa kwa iyo nyama.”

I even went to a hotel and told them to "weka sausages mbili!" like a man who owns a plane in aviator mode.

Then, I hired a motorbike for a whole day, riding around like a local tycoon, looking for more investors.

For two weeks, I walked like a millionaire.

Then, just as I was planning to finally buy the chickens, disaster struck.

One morning, I woke up feeling... wrong.

My stomach started making noises I had never heard before.

By midday, my intestines decided they were on strike.

I ran to the toilet faster than Usain Bolt.

Then back to my hut.

Then back to the toilet.

My friend, I was fighting demons.

It was food poisoning.

Now, in Shamakhokho, if a young man falls sick suddenly, the first suspect is witchcraft.

By the time I crawled back to my hut, villagers had gathered outside.

"Mmmh, this must be a curse," Mama Kadogo said, shaking her head.

"Maybe he angered the ancestors," Mzee Oyondi added, spitting on the ground.

I wanted to tell them, "No, I just ate bad meat," but I had no strength.

Then, as I lay there weak, someone entered my hut and robbed me clean.

When I finally sat up, half-dead but grateful to be alive, I noticed something.

My money was gone.

The 500-shilling notes from the chicken investment? Gone. My best trousers? Gone. Even my emergency roasted maize stockpile? Gone.

A thief had robbed me while I was busy fighting for my life.

I staggered outside, still weak, looking for justice.

"Mtu ameiba kila kitu kwangu!" I announced.

Villagers stared at me.

Wekesa chewed his sugarcane slowly, unmoved.

"Even you, you stole from us," he said.

"Chicken investors tunataka pesa yetu!" Mzee Oyondi shouted.

That’s when I noticed something dangerous.

The villagers were forming a crowd.

And it was not friendly.

It started with small threats.

Then Mama Kadogo removed her slipper and aimed it at my forehead.

Then someone threw a stick.

Then another one threw a half-eaten mango.

Just as I thought I was safe, someone launched a heavy Bata sandal—the kind that could be used as a weapon in a war.

My friend, I knew it was time to run.

Despite my sickness, I took off like a man escaping a lion.

I dodged slippers. I dodged stones. I even dodged an avocado.

As I disappeared into the bushes, I heard a villager shout:

"Shimonjero! Next time we catch you, utaona!"

TO BE CONTINUED…

As I’m writing this, I’m still in the bushes, planning my next move.

But let me tell you, the villagers of Shamakhokho won’t be ready for what I’m planning next.