Immediately after Form Four, I knew I had no time to dream. I had to hustle—not because I loved the life, but because I had no choice. After my father’s death, everything we once took for granted became a luxury. Even sanitary towels. Even three meals a day.
When the monthly visitor came knocking, anything absorbent was used—old cloth, mattress foam, whatever I could find. My only goal then was simple: finish school and start helping my mother take care of my younger brothers.
The first job I landed was as a house help in Umoja Inner Core. A two-bedroom house, one child—just three years old. The madam was kind, the child was easy, but the pay was small: KES 4,000. I didn’t blame her; that was all she could afford. My plan was to do the job temporarily, just until something better came along.
Two months later, my friend Akinyi—who used to be a house help too but had recently left that life—told me she had found a better opportunity. She was now a barmaid, earning KES 6,000. But the real money, she said, came from the tips. “Drunkards give you money for breathing,” she laughed.
I hesitated. That kind of environment didn’t feel right. But KES 6,000 sounded better than 4K, and I desperately needed to send more money home. I gave in.
I got the job with just one look from the bar owner. She didn’t ask about my experience. My body gave her all the answers. Flat stomach, hips measuring 42, smooth, spotless skin—I was her new marketing tool. That evening, I was trained. That night, I started work.
By 8 PM, word had already spread that a new, young, beautiful girl was serving drinks at the local bar. Curious men filled the place. Business boomed. Madam was delighted.
The building had three sections: a bar, a small hotel, and behind them, a lodging with 12 rooms—each going for 500 bob. Madam made extra money from these lodgings, especially when her own girls were involved. If a customer took me or any of the other three girls to the rooms, they had to pay her 200 bob as commission. She insisted on this rule. Drunk men, she said, forget to pay. Some lie. She didn’t want her girls working for free.
I didn’t like the idea, but the math didn’t lie. 6K per month couldn’t even keep me afloat. And the others? They were already in the business. Three other girls worked with me, and all of them had fully embraced it. They’d earn that 500 several times a night, and Madam didn’t mind—it meant more money for her too.
I said no at first. Repeatedly. I served drinks, smiled, and dodged hands. But the truth is—poverty wears patience down. The first salary came. I did the math. It wasn’t enough. Rent, food, fare, a little for home… there was nothing left to save. That pressure changed everything.
I told myself I’d just take one man. A regular. One who would pay and come back often so I wouldn’t have to deal with many strangers. That was how I accepted Jerry.
He was older, smooth-talking, and didn’t drink much. He liked me. I tolerated him. He paid every time. Four times a week—that was 2,000 bob. A decent top-up to my measly salary.
Then Jerry got busy. His visits dropped to once a week. I couldn’t afford that gap. So I accepted Kim. Then another. And another. The money became sweet. The shame became quieter.
Soon, I was like the rest. I stopped asking too many questions. Protection was a suggestion, not a rule. We feared pregnancy more than diseases. After all, everything had a cure—except HIV. And we had a joke: we tested for HIV with our eyes.
“I thank God my eyes never failed me,” I used to say.
It didn’t take long for me to become the most wanted girl in the bar. I was the prettiest, the smartest, and the most strategic. I picked clients who tipped well. I avoided the violent ones. And the money? It flowed. More than I had ever seen in my life.
But every night I laid down, I felt something missing. I would count my money and feel nothing. Regret slept beside me. Shame waited for me in the mirror.
I thought about quitting every week. But quitting meant 6K again. Or worse—no job at all. The only other option was starting a business, but with what knowledge? What if I lost all the money? I didn’t come from a line of businesswomen. I came from survival.
Still, I began to hate myself.
To distract my mind, I started talking to the men. I’d ask them questions. Real ones. The kind of questions you shouldn’t ask in a bar.
“What would you do if you found out your daughter was sleeping with men for money?”
They’d blink. Sober up a little. Then say things like:
“My daughter? Never! I’d sell everything I own before letting her live like this. I’d do anything to protect her.”
Then I’d ask, “So why are you doing it with me?”
They always had answers.
“You’re not my daughter.”
“You’re grown. You’re free to do what you want.”
“I pay you. This is business.”
Their words stung more than slaps.
One morning, I looked at myself and I couldn’t recognize who I had become. I didn’t hate the other girls—I understood them. But I could no longer face myself.
So I packed my things and left. I went back to being a house help.
