The Foreman Who Flew Without Wings (And Crashed in Meru)

Construction worker Working at a Construction site. Photo/Business Daily. 

Listen my good people. You always accuse me of telling stories za jaba, but today’s tale is as real as your landlord’s knock at the end of the month. This is the story of a foreman — a man who thought mjengo money was a lottery jackpot.

Now, let me start by saying this: I, myself, have tried mjengo. With all my degrees like a thermometer, I thought I could survive anywhere — even at a construction site. Eh, my career there lasted shorter than a TikTok video. One time a fundi told me to “bring Cobra.” I, being academically decorated, asked him which bush the snake would come out of. And that was the end of my mjengo career. Later I discovered Cobra is a tool, not a reptile.

But today, it’s not about me. It’s about a foreman with manners smaller than Airtel bundles. For those who don’t know, a foreman is the guy in charge of workers at the construction site. The one who, if you trip and roll down with a bag of cement, instead of saying “pole” will clap for you and say he likes your shortcut to the ground floor. That one.

So, picture this. Last week, a foreman was managing a crew at one of those big schools where corruption is as unwanted as ugali without sukuma, and payment is always on time. As mjengo tradition dictates, wages come on Saturday. That’s why construction workers walk into locals like kings on weekends. But this Saturday, ooh, a national disaster occurred.

The engineer handed the foreman Ksh80,000 to pay his crew. A normal person would pay the workers. A wise person would even pay and keep a little commission for tea. But our foreman? The man touched the money and immediately transformed into “Foreman Airlines.” He vanished faster than promises during campaign season.

Calls were made. Texts were sent. Even rumors were spread on word of mouth broadband. Nothing. By the time darkness fell, the crew realized their money was in heaven, and the foreman had joined the saints. They went to the engineer, who nearly fainted in shock. The school had never delayed payment — not even for a one-day job. So the crew, now hotter than a sufuria on a charcoal stove, decided to call in the police.

And people, let me tell you. The search party found our foreman on Sunday morning, in Meru, inside a popular lodging, preparing for the “morning glory” service — if you know, you know. The workers, plus police, stormed in. The scene was so dramatic even Nollywood directors would have taken notes. The angry crew wanted to frog march him immediately, but police had to plead: “Wacheni at least avae nguo za ndani.”

And that is how a foreman who tried to fly without wings landed in a police cell.

Moral of the story? Never play with mjengo people’s money. Them and boda boda riders are in the same league. If you owe them, just know you’re about to star in a free action movie.

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About the Author

Felix Kinyua is a freelance journalist with a degree in Communication and Media and an MA in Public Policy and Administration. He tells stories with humour, satire, and a touch of irony, often turning ordinary events into unforgettable lessons. When not writing, he’s busy dodging mjengo tools like Cobra.

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