JAMES MUGO TO JAMES PLOTI

 

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The Seedling Boy: Chapter One

James Ploti came from soil.

He was born in the green hills of Kirinyaga, where Mount Kenya watches over the farms in the early morning. His father and mother were peasant farmers. They owned little land, but they knew how to make it grow. Every morning, before the mist lifted from the valleys, they knelt in their small nursery beds and raised vegetable seedlings: sukuma wiki, cabbages, tomatoes, and onions. They tied them in bundles with banana fibre and sold them to farmers who came looking for something to plant.

James grew up among those seedlings. He learned early that something small, cared for patiently, can feed a whole family.

When James was still young, his father got a temporary job as a cook at Kirinyaga Technical College. It was not much, but it was steady. Each evening he came home smelling of firewood and githeri, and he told stories about students who carried books and talked about engineering, accounts, and computers. James listened closely. Somewhere deep in his heart, a seed was planted.

The Farm Boy

Life did not wait for James to grow up. While other boys his age played football with balls made of polythene and string, he went to work as a farm boy for his aunt. He woke before dawn to milk the cows, dig the shamba, carry water, and chase goats away from the maize. His hands grew rough and his back grew strong. He never complained. Each day he told himself, "This is not where my story ends."

Later, a relative offered him work as a house manager. James accepted, because a young man from a poor home does not choose his opportunities; he takes them. Then he found a second job as a shop attendant. So began the hardest season of his young life.

During the day he stood behind the shop counter, weighing sugar, counting coins, and smiling at customers. At night he went back to the house to cook, clean, wash, and look after the home. He slept little. He ate on his feet. Some nights he sat on the edge of his mattress and his eyes closed before he could lie down.

Even so, James saved. Shilling by shilling, he put money aside, and with it he enrolled in a driving course. "A man with a skill," he told himself, "is never completely stranded."

The Rope Seller

Eventually his body could no longer bear the exhausting kibarua. One evening he packed his few belongings and went back home. Some people whispered that he had failed. James knew better. He had not come home to rest; he had come home to start again.

He went to Mbeere, where the people twist strong ropes from sisal and natural fibre, and bought a bundle. He added packets of elastic rubber bands, the kind every shopkeeper, mama mboga, and market trader needs. Then he lifted the load onto his shoulders and walked.

He walked through Kutus, Kerugoya, Kagio, and Sagana. He walked through markets, villages, and dusty roads under the hot Kirinyaga sun. "Kamba! Rubber bands!" he called. Some days he sold everything. Other days he came home with sore shoulders and only a few coins. But every rope he sold taught him something about people, about persuasion, and about the dignity of honest work.

James Ploti was learning to sell long before he knew that selling would become his calling.

The Classroom Door Opens

The money from the ropes did more than feed him. It opened a door.

James enrolled at Ebenezer College to study computers. For a boy who had grown up among seedlings and cowsheds, the first time he touched a keyboard felt almost unreal. He studied hard. While others treated the course as a hobby, James treated it as an escape from poverty. He performed so well that his teachers took notice.

Then came news that made his father's eyes fill with tears: James had been admitted to Kirinyaga Technical College, the same college where his father cooked, to study IMIS, Information Management and Information Systems.

There was one problem: fees. The college owed his father salary arrears that had not been paid. So an arrangement was made. The money his father had earned over many hot hours in that kitchen, money he had never received, would pay for his son's education instead.

James understood the weight of that sacrifice. Every lecture he attended was paid for with his father's sweat. Every exam he wrote was a thank-you he could not put into words. So he did not just pass. He excelled.

When he graduated, his results were excellent. He had the grades and the hunger for higher studies. What he did not have was the money. The arrears had covered what they could, and there was nothing left. Further studies would have to wait.

Many young men would have given up. James Ploti packed his bag.

Nairobi Calls

He boarded a matatu to Nairobi, the city of dreams and broken promises, where the noise never stops and opportunity hides in plain sight.

He had no salary waiting for him, no office, and no connections. What he found was a job marketing beauty products on commission. If he sold, he ate. If he did not sell, he went hungry.

So James did what he had always done. He walked. He talked. He smiled at strangers in River Road, Ngara, Kilimani, and Westlands. He knocked on salon doors and spoke to office ladies during their lunch breaks. He carried his products the same way he had once carried Mbeere ropes on his shoulders, with patience, courage, and belief.

The boy who grew up among seedlings had come to the city. And just like those seedlings, he was ready to be planted in new soil and grow.

But Nairobi had plans of its own for James Ploti.

For what happened next, read the next chapter.