From Selling Sufurias to Skyscrapers: The Short-Lived Sales Career of a Village Boy

  

A Hawker hawking Merchandise in the streets. Photo/The Standard. 

Happy New Month, My People!

We’ve officially hit July — the halftime show of the year. If you’re still holding on to your New Year’s resolutions… you, my friend, deserve an Olympic medal for consistency. But let’s be honest — I know you dropped them somewhere between Valentine’s and Easter. Don’t worry, I did too.

Now that most of you have just been paid (shout out to civil servants—though your bank accounts are already whispering goodbye), let’s talk about money. Or rather, the lack of it. In this Kasongo economy, most of us are surviving like Netflix free trials — just counting the days.

But let me confess something today. When I get a job, I don’t work to satisfy myself — I work to satisfy the person paying the bills. Because at the end of the day, satisfaction haina receipt.

Now, in my short but eventful life, I’ve “resigned” from two jobs. I put that in quotes because these weren’t your formal, hand-in-resignation-letter kind of moments. No. These were survival instincts kicking in.

Both jobs were in sales. Yes, sales — that wonderful career path where your salary depends on whether you can convince a stranger to buy a sufuria they don’t need.

Job #1: The Electricity Pole Scam

Let me start with a disclaimer: Never — and I mean NEVER — apply for jobs advertised on electricity poles. Those posters are the evil twins of "Call Mganga Kutoka Kitui." Same font. Same location. Same scam.

Fresh from high school, fueled by financial independence dreams and nothing but ambition, I spotted a poster offering a sales job. The pay? Ksh 45,000. Forty-five thousand shillings! To a form four leaver, that sounded like CEO money.

I applied on Monday. Got a call Monday evening. Interview on Tuesday. You’d think I was applying for NASA.

Dressed like a Harvard graduate, I showed up first at a shady backstreet “office.” Red flag? I saw it. Did I ignore it? Absolutely. Hope is blinding.

At the “interview,” they took my ID, looked at my KCSE papers like they were Nobel credentials, and told me "Umeajiriwa. Unaingia kazi leo.”

Boom! Hired on the spot. I was paired with a seasoned “salesman” who handed me boxes of off-brand toothpaste, sufurias, and soap that could scrub your dreams away.

“Commission-based only,” they said. That’s when the lightbulb flickered — not in the office, but in my head.

By lunchtime, I had walked kilometers, sold nothing, and made Ksh 5. Five bob. That couldn’t even buy a mandazi, let alone dreams.

I resigned. Respectfully. Walked back home, hungry, wiser, and suspicious of all utility poles from then on.

 Job #2: Selling Penthouses with Peasant Problems

Now, this one was after college. A different man. Slightly older. Slightly broker.

I had just lost a good job with a company called Hamisha Me, where I was a property advert designer. I took pictures and did floor plans for posh houses in Nairobi. It was a good gig — until the employer went broke and “Hamisha Me” turned into “Achia Me.”

Luckily, I had made connections. One of them was the CEO of Pinecrest Construction Ltd. I called him up, and boom — connection ikalipa. He told me there was an opening in their marketing department. My ancestors rejoiced.

Now here’s where the joke writes itself.

The CEO had a big dream — selling luxury penthouses at Yaya Centre. Fancy, right? These weren’t just regular houses. These were blueprints. The buildings hadn’t even started. But the price tag? Ksh 11 million to Ksh 22 million per unit.

The catch? I had two weeks to sell at least one.

Now imagine me — a village boy with rent arrears — trying to sell a house plan to a millionaire.

I didn’t even know rich people. I didn’t even know people.

Long story short: I didn’t make a single sale. I took my half retainer salary, packed my suitcase full of dignity, and went back to Meru.

And That’s Why I’m Back in Meru.

So yes — judge me if you want. Laugh if you must. But I’m here because life happened. Circumstances folded my CV and filed it under “Try Again Later.”

But hey, we move. We hustle. We dream on. They say opportunity knocks only once — I think mine showed up, peeped through the window, saw I wasn’t ready, and left quietly.

But I’m still here. Still hopeful. Still funny.

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About the Author:

Felix Kinyua is a freelance journalist with a Bachelor’s in Mass Communication and an MA in Public Policy and Administration. When he’s not chasing stories, he’s dodging electricity pole job ads and looking for the next big opportunity — preferably one with a retainer.