In 2024 I subcontracted at the Maa Cultural Festival under my mentor Asad Anwar, an experience that sparked a promise. On September 1, 2025 I walked into Kajiado County offices uninvited, determined to bid for a transformational camp—courage paired with preparation and deep belief within.
Promise and Arrival
My diary marked September 1, 2025 as a vow — not merely a date but a challenge I set for myself. I arrived at Kajiado County with no referrals and no appointments, asking directions, until a stranger paused, listened, and made a call. That single act of kindness led me to the Tourism Director’s number and then to Waziri Jeremiah at the Governor’s office. Standing outside the boardroom, rehearsing my words, I felt every beat of anticipation: the humility of being new and the audacity to ask for ten minutes. When the door opened, those ten minutes became the hinge for a plan to build a 2,000+ capacity semi-luxury camp in Amboseli — a dream suddenly palpably possible.
What followed was a rapid, intense stretch of logistics and human connection. I pitched, the Minister of Trade listened, and plans took shape on paper: maps, service descriptions, compliance sheets and quotations. Back-and-forth calls, sleepless nights and long drives became the currency of progress. I felt simultaneously elated and vulnerable — excited by the opportunity, anxious about the process. At vetting sessions I met giants in the field, including my mentor Asad, and competitors whose names carried weight. Yet presence mattered more than pedigree; courage and preparation placed me at the same table. That process taught me the value of meticulousness: one missing stamp, one late document could change everything.
Courage is not the absence of loss, but the decision to keep building when doors close.
Tendering to Legacy
Tendering required more than resolve — it demanded coalition. I reached out to friends who knew government procurement, and Kiosh became the paperwork maestro who guided me through compliance and forms. Caxton Murage turned raw content into a polished tender that read like a story. Flora, Duncan, and Muthoka sourced bunk beds and essentials; Buffalo and Magnesium stood as quiet pillars. Sue — my Shue, Olang’ — planned food for guests and anchored morale with prayer and calm. Every person contributed beyond a role: they invested trust, time, and sweat. We compiled professionally bound proposals, site maps, and schedules, each page a testament to a team that believed this idea could stand with the best.
When the award announcement arrived, the contract went to Asad — my teacher and rival in equal measure. I didn’t get the headline win, but the outcome was layered: Asad sub-hired my equipment, and I hosted seventy guests under ILO sponsorship. The loss felt paradoxically like a shared table rather than a closed door. Humera’s pledge of collaboration — “If you win, loop us in. If we win, we’ll loop you in” — reframed competition as relationship. I left with more than a signed form; I carried new credibility, paid-in-full lessons, and a network that could be leaned on. The episode proved that perseverance and integrity keep you in the game even when the trophy belongs to another.
Boots, Salutes, Return
“Boots on the Ground” became a small victory — equipment in use, people fed, tents raised. Though the headline contract slipped away, work kept us in the field and gave us lineage: labor turned into lived experience and opened immediate revenue streams. Sue’s unfailing support, Flora’s sleepless commitment, Duncan’s quick thinking and Muthoka’s resourcefulness turned logistical stress into operational choreography. Buffalo and Magnesium held the line. I learned that practical wins—being present on site, delivering reliably, and honoring commitments—forge reputation faster than any single awarded contract. In those moments, gratitude and grit replaced disappointment.
I salute Asad for his mastery, Waziri Jeremiah and Julius for opening doors, and Anne in the Tourism office for kindness that mattered when it counted. To my team I offer deepest thanks: you carried the mission through doubt. To my seven-year-old son, Jedel, you were the light that kept me moving; to Mathew and my brothers, your readiness mattered. This story closes not with surrender but with a promise: return stronger, wiser, and ready to meet Asad again in the ring at the 2026 Maa Cultural Festival. Loss taught me grace; the journey taught me that resilience, relationships, and readiness write the next chapter.
