It builds slowly when you’re doing a toxic, repetitive job. Underpaid, stuck in an eight-hour, five-day loop that never quite feels like it ends.

It always starts in the morning. The alarm goes off, and for a moment, you just lie there. Half-awake, already negotiating with yourself. Five more minutes. Maybe 10. You snooze it, then again, then again, each time knowing you’re only delaying what’s coming.

There’s a heaviness before you even move, a quiet dread that settles in before your feet touch the floor. Then the day begins, almost on autopilot.

Everything blends into everything else. The same tasks. The same conversations. The same routine playing out like a loop you didn’t consciously choose but somehow can’t step out of. Hours pass, but they don’t feel like they lead anywhere. It’s motion without progress, noise without meaning.

And the hardest part? You don’t get to pause. You can’t just step away or press reset. Life doesn’t offer that kind of luxury, not when there are responsibilities waiting, people depending on you, expectations that don’t loosen their grip.

So you keep going. You show up, you do what needs to be done, you carry it all like you always have.

Until, slowly, the tiredness stops feeling temporary. It settles in and becomes your lifestyle.

Then comes the math. You listen to those motivational talks saying employment will never buy you a Range Rover. This time it doesn’t sound like noise. You actually sit down and calculate.

On a Sh30,000 salary, which is very normal in Nairobi, the numbers don’t lie. And don’t forget tax; Zakayo has already taken his share before you even see the money. Rent: Sh10k for your bedsitter. Transport: Sh6k, if you’re lucky. Then black tax, food, ‘small, small’ emergencies. By the time you’re done, saving is basically a rumour.

You slowly realise, the ‘B’ in your name stands for Broke. Sindio, Brian?

It becomes clear to you that life can actually pass you by while you’re just managing.

You start asking yourself questions you never had time for before. Why did I wake up at 5am all those years in boarding school, only to come and struggle like this? Why did they make it sound like hard work was a guaranteed exit plan?

Then you scroll. Using your neighbour’s WiFi, of course. And there they are, people selling everything, Mkorogo, thrifted clothes, bedding, random imports, digital services, forex traders giving you pressure from here to Timbuktu, all kinds of things. Things you didn’t even know were things.

Conventional or unconventional, it doesn’t matter. Their lives look good. Deliveries, road trips, small wins every other day. Some are even driving the Range Rovers you were told to stop dreaming about.

And suddenly, the thought doesn’t even feel rebellious. It feels… reasonable.

“Maybe I should just start a business.”

The devil will whisper to you to quit your job. And you will, because to be human is to try.

Then very quickly, haiya! You realise you’ve jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

You thought you were entering a hustler economy, but the big hustler, Mr Kasongo, is hustling you.

Business in Nairobi is not a joke. SMEs are struggling. Some months there is no profit, just survival. You move from complaining about salary to wondering how you’ll consistently keep a roof over your head.

You see, social media will not show you that side. It will show you ‘another day as a boss’, soft life and growth. It won’t show you the slow days or the panic.

This is not to discourage you. Just… don’t be impulsive. Don’t quit just because you’re tired. Plan properly. Save something. Understand what you’re getting into. This economy is not forgiving, and vibes are not a strategy.

But also, try. Because business will teach you things employment never will. It will stretch you. It will humble you. And who knows, it might actually work for you.

Just don’t let desperation be your business plan.