You see, in Shamakhokho, people disappear. Not dramatically like in movies—no, here, a man simply “goes to visit his aunt ” and never returns.

I wasn’t going to be one of them.

So I did what any intelligent man does when his empire collapses.

I sat under the big mango tree, chewing on a sugarcane.

The sugarcane had come from a nearby plantation—acquired through methods I will not discuss here. Five fresh canes lay by my side as I chewed slowly, thinking deeply.

A man must eat. But how?

Then it hit me—I didn’t need to dig sand. I could dig for information.

You see, in Shamakhokho, knowing things is a business. There are two types of people:

1. Those who know things.
2. Those who pay to know things.

I could connect them.

I called it Shimonjero Consultancy Services—a big name for a small operation under a mango tree.

The sign was a piece of torn carton, written in charcoal:

SHIMONJERO CONSULTANCY SERVICES Expert in Everything – Fees Negotiable

At first, nobody took me seriously.

For two days, not a single client came.

Villagers walked past, shaking their heads. Some whispered. Some laughed.

"Huyu sasa anafanya nini?"

Even the cows gave me judgmental looks.

Then, on the third day, my first client arrived. Wekesa, the village philosopher, arrived first.

"Shimonjero, I hear you are now a consultant."

"Yes, I offer advice on everything."

"Okay, help me. My chicken refuses to lay eggs. What should I do?"

I stroked my chin, pretending to think deeply.

"Simple," I said. "The chicken is protesting against bad working conditions. Play it some music, feed it better food, and give it a motivational speech every morning."

"Ahhh!" Wekesa nodded. "So you mean my chicken needs motivation?"

"Exactly. Even humans don’t work without motivation. Why do you think we have church crusades every Sunday?"

Wekesa left satisfied.

Word spread like bushfire.

Before long, business was booming.

Mama Kadogo wanted to know why her husband was coming home late.

Mzee Oyondi wanted betting tips for SportPesa.

Atieno needed a love letter to impress the shopkeeper’s son.

I was now the official problem-solver of Shamakhokho.

Then came judgment day.

One morning, I woke up to an angry mob.

Leading them was Wekesa, holding a very furious chicken.

"Shimonjero! You told me to motivate my chicken! I played it Lingala, gave it VIP food, even sang for it! It still refuses to lay eggs!"

Behind him was Mzee Oyondi, looking like a man whose dreams had been shattered.

"You told me to invest in farming! Now the cows have eaten all my maize! Who will pay me back?"

Then came Mama Kadogo.

"You blamed football for my husband’s late nights! But now I caught him with Mama Atoti! What kind of consultant are you?!"

My friend, I had no answers.

This was the moment I learned that Shamakhokho does not forget.

That was the end of my consultancy career.

TO BE CONTINUED…

What’s Shimonjero’s next big hustle? Will Mama Atoti ever let me breathe? And what happens when I get caught in another scandal?

Find out in the next episode of Tales from Shamakhokho!