My attempt to beat cunning brokers once and for all flops

Every time I listen to farmers talk about their many woes, the word brokers always features.

The leeches are sweet-talkers and they always give very “plausible” offers. They come to your farm and pay for produce in cash. That means they sort your immediate money problems but make a killing selling your hard-farmed produce at twice the price.

I wasn’t ready to fall prey to these leeches. I vowed to block them from accessing a single coin from my cabbages. So when my 2,000 cabbages were ready for harvesting, I made an impromptu tour of Githurai market in Nairobi.

There, I discovered they were selling a cabbage at Sh40, four times more what we were selling at our farm.

I consulted my friend Karago on how he could assist me hire a truck and deliver the cabbages to the market. We approached Kiogora, a former army officer, who owns an old rickety truck he bought while still in the military.

Kiogora agreed to charge us Sh5,000. To sweeten his deal, he said we could pay him after the sale. With each cabbage going at Sh40, we saw ourselves collecting Sh80,000 from the booming Githurai market.

After deducting Sh5,000 for transport and Sh150 for lunch of three (though I had been told Sh50 gets one a king-size sumptuous meal in Githurai), I figured out I would end up with Sh74,850.

My research revealed that Saturday was the best time to invade Githurai market and walk away with real money. I was afraid of raiding the market alone but the heavily-built Kiogora assured me of security.

We landed at Githurai market at exactly 7am. The truck was full of cabbages, to the brim. We were ready to teach the brokers a lesson of their lifetime; that farmers did not need them, after all.

Kiogora’s moral support was quite encouraging.  “The shamba is yours; the seedlings are yours. You work on the farm yourself; you know where the market is, so why should someone idling in the market ‘eat’ your sweat?” he posed.

I had also sought the services of Kimata, a childhood friend and a teacher at a local primary school.

Kimata has a booming voice and after promising to pay him Sh1,000, he agreed to be the one shouting for customers. I would collect the money and Kiogora, now that he would not be driving, would check out for those treacherous characters who would attempt monkey games with our cabbages.

“When in Githurai, you must have somebody to be on the lookout just in case. Remember we shall be having real cash,” I advised, determined to kill the brokerage system at the notorious market. I knew so much was at stake.

The first 30 minutes were busy. Market women with torn lessos strapped around their waists scrambled for our produce. On two occasions, catfights erupted as one of them stepped on another’s toes.

MONEY WAS FLOWING

Money was flowing into my hands. “Mbao, twenty! Mbao twenty!” Kimata shouted in his creative way of calling out Sh40 per cabbage.

Just as we were selling, a well-built man chewing a roasted maize approached me. He whispered. “Sell all the remaining cabbages at Sh30. We are paying cash then you can go your way instead of spending the whole day here,” he said.

I roared back. “Kwani wewe huoni tunauza 40. Nyinyi ndio wale wakora mnaharibu soko. (Can’t you see we are selling at Sh40. You are the crooks who spoil market prices).

His once polite voice turned louder and more combative. “Nani amepatia hawa ruhusa ya kuuza vitu hapa?” (Who has given these people permission to sell in this market?).

He posed the question to nobody. He was now more menacing. “You must sell to us at Sh30 or you go away!” he shouted forcing some market women to move back.

Kiogora heard the argument and came rushing through the crowd and pushed the man. “Kwani wewe ni nani hapa? Ati unasema nini? Hatuwauzii,” Kiogora barked. (So who are you here? We shall not sell to you).

A stone landed on Kiogora’s shoulder. The next one on me and the third one on Kimata. More stones started raining on us but we could tell it was not from the man we were arguing with.

Banana peelings also followed, some landing on us and others on the lorry. Kiogora sensed danger and got into the truck and reversed quickly. I followed him and I was just in time for the door as a haggard pack of youths went for my pockets. Kimata slithered in the crowd and disappeared.

The market was now in chaos. Stone missiles followed us as women scampered for safety into their makeshift stalls. Some buyers sneaked into the crowd without paying for cabbages.

Out of the market, we checked and saw we had sold about half. Determined, we parked the lorry on the roadside in Mwiki and tried to sell but no one was interested.

Kimata called and confirmed he was safe. “I feared those guys were planning to lynch us. You see the petrol pump was just nearby,” he offered.

It dawned on us that the market cartels would not let us do all the work, that is farm and sell. “Soko zina wenyewe,” Kiogora said (These markets have owners). I am now thinking of selling my produce online.