Makutano Madness: When a Ksh 200 Bill Ended a Whole Era

Men Enjoying Keg Beer at a local joint in Kenya. Photo/getty images.

They say I’m petty.

And honestly, they’re not lying. I’m proudly petty. The kind of petty that will cancel you faster than an expired Mpesa loan limit. I won’t return to a cheating ex even if she reappears with a choir and a PowerPoint. And I sure as hell won’t keep giving my money to a business that treats me like a nuisance instead of a valued client. Unless, of course, you’re selling tickets to heaven. Then we can talk.

Now, I usually write about life—mine, yours, and that of random strangers I meet on these Meru streets. Some stories come soaked in emotion, others in satire. This one? This one is drenched in cheap beer, petty drama, and my own wounded pride.

Makutano Nights & Local Church Vibes

Let’s begin with a confession. I enjoy the occasional drink. Not the daily-down-your-sorrows kind, but the kind that says, “I survived today, let’s toast.” You can’t even blame me. My folks named me Kinyua, which in Meru loosely translates to “the one who drinks.” That’s like naming your child Simba and being shocked when they become a lion.

Now, in Makutano, everyone has their corner. For some, it’s a hardware store where lies about land deals are traded. For others, it’s the kinyozi where hairlines go to die. For me, it was this humble, lively local joint I’d called home for months. A safe haven. My sanctuary. The kind of place where the waitresses know your order and your secrets, and where each bottle comes with free village gossip.

But as of this week, my friends... that chapter is closed.

Enter: The Rich Friend Plot Twist

So there I was, roaming around Makutano—not drinking, just chasing stories like the faithful scribe I am. I hadn’t budgeted for a drink that day. I was strictly on “journalist mode.” Then, as fate would have it, I bumped into two acquaintances. One was the owner of my regular joint. The other was a rich friend of mine—well-dressed, well-connected, and well... loaded.

The guy was glad to see me. We’ve done business before, and he trusts me like a pastor trusts Sunday tithe. He was in a hurry, though, so he told the bar owner, “Give my guy anything he wants. I’ll settle it. Just send me the till number.” Simple. Done.

Feeling blessed but humble, I ordered one drink. Just one. No excess. No drama. Just a little something to toast to friendship and unexpected favor.

Meanwhile, the joint owner sat in the corner, flipping through his sales book with fake concentration, throwing me side-eyes like I’d just walked in wearing a balaclava. The tension? Thick enough to spread on bread.

And Then the Plot Thickened...

Once I was done with my humble sip, I walked over and reminded him to send the till number to our mutual sponsor. That’s when things got shady.

He looked up with the calm of a man about to ruin your day and said, “Sina airtime.”

Not “I’ll do it later.” Not 

“Give me a second.” Just “Sina airtime.”

Mind you, this is a man who collects cash all day. Even the cockroaches in that place could afford airtime. But okay. Maybe Safaricom had just disappointed him personally that morning. I offered to wait.

Then I noticed a small meeting happen in whispers with the waitress. Suddenly, she started circling me like I owed her dowry. My instincts kicked in. I started walking toward the exit—respectfully, as any decent human with a pending bill would.

And that, my friends, is when Meru turned into Netflix.

Public Enemy Number One: Over Ksh 200

Phones were pulled out. Calls were made. Security almost got involved. Over what? A measly Ksh 200 drink that I didn’t even plan to buy in the first place.

They threatened to seize my phone—my Ksh 34,000 smart device—as if it was collateral for a bar loan. I stood my ground. The petty in me fully activated. “Can’t pay, won’t pay,” I told them. “I was sent here. Your beef is with my sponsor, not me.”

But logic had left the building. They made it clear: my loyalty meant nothing. The hundreds I’d spent in that joint over months? Irrelevant. The tips? Forgotten. All that mattered was this one day I didn't have cash in my pocket.

Respect My Money or Miss It

So now I’m done. Finished. Over it.

Not because of the Ksh 200. I’ve spent more on eggs and airtime I never used. No, it’s the disrespect. The public humiliation. The fact that in Makutano, a man can drink faithfully for months and still be treated like a flight risk the moment he sips on someone else’s tab.

I’m now on the hunt for a new joint. One where they don’t need to call the police when you owe them the price of a packet of mandazis. Or maybe it’s time I ditched the bottle altogether. Return to church. Join the praise team. Sing my trauma away and find healing in hallelujahs.

Whatever the case, this is your reminder, dear reader: respect your customers. Especially the loyal ones. The petty ones. The ones who always pay until they don’t.

Because when you treat people like beggars over small things, you lose the big things they would’ve brought.

So cheers to pettiness. Cheers to new beginnings. And cheers to me, walking out of that joint like a broke king with unshakable pride.

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About the Author

Felix Kinyua is a journalist, storyteller, and full-time observer of human behavior—especially the chaotic kind. Born with a pen in one hand and a glass in the other, he writes about real-life experiences with a mix of humor, honesty, and a touch of spite. Based in Meru, he finds inspiration in the drama of everyday life, the politics of friendship, and the occasional foolishness found at the bottom of a bottle. When not writing, he’s likely arguing with boda boda riders or plotting his next petty revenge over a cup of strong tea.