Doing Business in Kibera

Both Friday and today I had to journey through Kibera by foot in the hopes of helping to set up the business of one of our participants from last year. Part of this experience has been really fun. Today, while walking along one of the streets, I was stopped by three people, all of whom called me by name. Felix, who works at my hotel; Lawrence, who owns the matatu we used last year to get back and forth from Kibera; and Cartoon, one of last year's participants. On Friday, I ran into two of the other participants from last year. They all give huge smiles and loud, friendly greetings and handshakes. Kibera houses nearly a million people. I can't think of a time I encountered three people I knew on the same day while walking a street in Vancouver. There are not that many white people who pass through in the course of the day, so I'm easily recognized.

However, trying to set up a business here is not an easy task. In this situation, our team is trying to fund Patrick, who wants to start Nimitz Kerosene, which will sell small quantities of kerosene to individuals who can only afford to buy enough to cook one meal at a time. He is the only participant from last year who mostly completed a business plan, and one that showed that a profit was fairly easy to attain. We are committed to trying to set up a successful business so that we can show that our training can make a difference.

It is difficult to know how much of what feels like an almost impossible challenge is due to simple (!) cultural differences, and how much arises due to the unwillingness to just hand out money to a person starting a business. Our concern is that we really want Patrick's business to start--we don't want him to just take our money and use it for other purposes. The amount of money we're talking about is roughly $160 (10,000 Kenyan shillings.)

Trying to convince Patrick that he really does need to show us the receipt for the rent he paid (and trying to convince the purported landlord of the same) took about an hour. We didn't get a receipt at the end of that conversation. Henry, a Kenyan partner who is trying to help our team launch a successful business, interrogated them both, after I'd already done so before he arrived. I encouraged him to do it in Swahili, even though it would mean that I didn't understand the conversation. I figured he could assess honesty in "native" language better than I could do so in English. In the end, we agreed that the rent receipt must be produced at our next meeting.

Then we were off to buy 100 liters of kerosene, a tank to hold it, and small polyethelene bags (think baggies with twist ties!) Nothing is ever easy, though. The woman we'd met on Friday who is to sell us the kerosene wasn't around. One of her employees was. Should we buy from him or wait for her (because we need her to guarantee that if for some reason Patrick doesn't actually accept delivery of the kerosene, but wants the money instead, the money has to come back to us.) We'd also like to ask her to mentor him, so that each day, he deposits with her the cost of the kerosene he's sold that day (keeping the profits himself), so that by the time the first tank of kerosene is sold, he's put on deposit all the money needed to buy the next one.

Stymied on that front, we try to do something else--purchase the polyethelene bags that will hold the small quantities of kerosene. An old, rugged looking guy arrives at the kerosene depot after a five minute wait, carrying a very heavy bag filled with packets of baggies in a variety of sizes. Bargaining begins, all in Swahili. I can tell that the bargaining is not going well, at least for my side. The seller seems to think he has the edge. I whisper to Henry, "it's because I'm standing here," which he acknowledges. White people can afford to pay much higher prices, or at least that's what the seller is using as his bargaining strategy. He accurately assumes that I must be involved somehow, or I wouldn't be standing there. Henry tries to explain to him that the bags are not for me, but for Patrick. Somehow a price is arrived at that Henry deems fair, and then of course, I shell out the money ($3.87), living up to the stereotype: white people have the money.

We learn of a good price on the kerosene tank (1000 Kenyan shillings, or about $16), though it's sold at a shop near Bahati, our other teaching site. I decide that we can probably get our cab driver to pick it up for us during one of our daily trips. Then Patrick claims that he's already ordered the tank from elsewhere (meaning we're supposed to give him the money for it.) This was not in our plan (which was mainly to purchase his supplies, not give him any cash). So, we finally decide to give him the money for the tank, but not the money for his sign, and a few other things (all of these other things came to an amount equivalent to the cost of the tank). Instead, he'll have to produce the tank and the receipt before we go any further along in this business venture.

Before finishing for the day, we make Patrick sign a document acknowledging receipt of the money, and acknowledging that it's a loan which he must start paying off within a week, at $1.60 a week. At first he tries to beg that we give him a three-month grace period before he begins to repay the loan, but we do not budge. There is no interest charged. We tell him that if he misses any payments we will liquidate his assets to get our loan repaid. This is a high finance operation, afterall.

As I write this, I consider that maybe we should have just given the entire $160 away. Henry is a business consultant here in Nairobi, and I have a good salary in Canada. We have now spent 12 hours collectively trying to make sure we don't lose $160. And we're not even done. And, if I want to collect on the default, I may need to add on the cost of an airplane ticket to Nairobi. Or send Henry.

Mentoring entrepreneurs is hard work!