She is Wanjiru,
But we call her Teacher Shii.
At 28, the TSC gave her a job,
A future in her hands, bright as the dawn.
Within a year, the banks and Saccos came calling,
With one tempting message:
"Come for a loan, your payslip will secure it."
At 29, she took the bait—
800 thousand, five years to pay.
She bought her boyfriend-turned-husband a Probox,
Their second stream of income.
But every weekend, they hit the road—
Road trips, and drinks to go with them.
One weekend, Shii stayed behind, tied to school games,
While he went out with friends, as usual.
That trip was their last—
An accident took his life,
And the Probox, wrecked beyond repair,
Left without insurance to cover the cost.
Shii, a young widow,
Pregnant, burdened with a fresh loan,
And nothing to show for it.
She turned back to the lender,
For a top-up, a lifeline,
Her payslip still breathing,
It swallowed another 400 thousand, stretched to six years.
With hope in hand,
She bought three motorbikes,
Handing them to young men,
Hoping for 300 shillings a day from each.
It started well—
900 shillings daily, every day of the week,
But after nine months,
The bikes became burdens, not blessings.
She sold them, barely scraping back what she’d spent.
Shii went underground,
Reappearing at the lender's door,
This time, with a new request:
Another top-up, another chance.
Her loan officer, a lending guru,
Calculated her future,
By 31, her pay slip was left on life support,
A loan of 1.6 million, stretched over seven years.
Her take-home—320 thousand, just enough
To furnish a home she barely lived in.
But we call her Teacher Shii.
At 28, the TSC gave her a job,
A future in her hands, bright as the dawn.
Within a year, the banks and Saccos came calling,
With one tempting message:
"Come for a loan, your payslip will secure it."
At 29, she took the bait—
800 thousand, five years to pay.
She bought her boyfriend-turned-husband a Probox,
Their second stream of income.
But every weekend, they hit the road—
Road trips, and drinks to go with them.
One weekend, Shii stayed behind, tied to school games,
While he went out with friends, as usual.
That trip was their last—
An accident took his life,
And the Probox, wrecked beyond repair,
Left without insurance to cover the cost.
Shii, a young widow,
Pregnant, burdened with a fresh loan,
And nothing to show for it.
She turned back to the lender,
For a top-up, a lifeline,
Her payslip still breathing,
It swallowed another 400 thousand, stretched to six years.
With hope in hand,
She bought three motorbikes,
Handing them to young men,
Hoping for 300 shillings a day from each.
It started well—
900 shillings daily, every day of the week,
But after nine months,
The bikes became burdens, not blessings.
She sold them, barely scraping back what she’d spent.
Shii went underground,
Reappearing at the lender's door,
This time, with a new request:
Another top-up, another chance.
Her loan officer, a lending guru,
Calculated her future,
By 31, her pay slip was left on life support,
A loan of 1.6 million, stretched over seven years.
Her take-home—320 thousand, just enough
To furnish a home she barely lived in.
