In every city, there’s a silent economy operating just beneath the polished surface. In Nairobi, it hums from the alleys of Nyamakima, pulses through the narrow corridors of Kamukunji, and flows with the tide of foot traffic on River Road and Nyamakima. It may not be glamorous, but it’s alive. And for many who understand it, it’s where real business happens—away from the glass-walled offices and showroom façades that symbolise success to the outside world.
I once met a mechanic in Kirinyaga Road whose story stayed with me. He had worked for a major car service centre along Mombasa Road—one of those spotless facilities with customer lounges, cappuccino machines, and uniformed attendants. Over time, however, customers began requesting to be served only by him. He had unintentionally become the business’s biggest draw, a quiet brand ambassador in overalls. After years of loyal service, he made a decision that stunned many: he left the glitz and opened a modest, jua kali workshop downtown.
To some, it looked like a step down. But he told me, with calm certainty, that what he now earns in a single week is what the glamorous garage used to pay him in a month. The difference? He no longer spends on commuting or overpriced meals. He eats fresh, affordable food from nearby kiosks—produce that feels closer to the farm than anything sold in a food court. And his clients? They all followed him. His value wasn’t in the building. It was in the trust he’d earned.
It’s a story I’ve heard repeated in different forms across Nairobi. Many of the most profitable traders don’t work in air-conditioned offices or wear tailored suits. They’re in the alleys of Nyamakima, where imported electronics and fabrics are moved in bulk; they’re on River Road and Kamukunji, fulfilling wholesale orders for everything from utensils to furniture. These places are rarely featured in corporate brochures, yet they often outperform their uptown equivalents by sheer volume and speed.
There’s a rhythm to downtown business that can’t be replicated in high-rent malls. Shops operate with minimal overheads and maximum efficiency. You’ll see delivery riders weaving through traffic with parcels. Traders shifting thousands of shillings’ worth of goods by midday. And you’ll hear multiple languages—Kiswahili, Kikuyu, Amharic, Somali—evidence of an economy that’s deeply pan-African, informal, and global.
Some of the savviest businesses play both sides. They maintain outlets both downtown and in the high streets, selling the same products at different prices. The packaging might differ, but the origin is often the same. I once stood in a lighting shop downtown and was shown the exact chandeliers I’d seen in an upmarket mall the week before—only these were in boxes, not mounted for show. “In town,” the trader smiled, “you pay for light. There, you pay for lifestyle.”
This duality extends online, too. A growing number of young entrepreneurs are building successful businesses entirely on digital platforms. They don’t own physical shops, but they have catalogues on WhatsApp and Instagram, networks of downtown suppliers, and loyal customers. With a few clicks, they fulfil orders across the country. No overheads, no rent—just relationships, trust, and smart pricing. These aren’t side hustles. They are full-fledged businesses, run with discipline and vision.
The irony is that many of us were conditioned to aspire to something different. We were taught that education was a ladder to a corner office. That dressing well, speaking English, and sitting behind a desk defined progress. We chased jobs and titles, often hopping from one office to another, believing that was the ultimate measure of success. But downtown Nairobi tells a different story. A more honest one. One that doesn’t always come with a necktie, but often comes with cash in hand.
And this is where I’ve come to appreciate the heart of the “hustler” narrative—not as a political slogan or a caricature, but as a real ethos. One that values grit over gloss, earnings over appearances, survival over performance. It’s not about dressing down. It’s about knowing that substance often hides behind simplicity.
A casual walk through Nyamakima or Kamukunji on a weekday is a business lesson in motion. You’ll see informal networks, real-time procurement, and rapid restocking. You’ll witness trade with Uganda, Congo, and Tanzania—not just in conversation, but in tangible product flows. These are not people trying to “make it.” They’ve already made it. We’re just slow to see them.
Even the food tells a story. While some spend KSh 1,000 on lunch in the CBD, downtown workers buy hot, wholesome meals for a fraction of the price—meals that resemble what they’d cook at home. It’s not just economic sense. It’s cultural grounding.
As consumers, we often pay for polish. But the smartest shoppers are starting to look past the display. They know that walking a few more blocks, away from the marble floors and ambient music, can cut costs by up to 50 per cent. In the end, it’s the same goods, same quality—just stripped of illusion.
The truth is, Nairobi isn’t a single city. It’s many, coexisting uneasily. There’s the visible one—of status, branding, and perception. And there’s the quiet one—of value, volume, and real returns. The first one teaches you how to look successful. The second one teaches you how to be successful.
If you really want to understand how this city works, don’t just look up at the towers. Walk down the alleys. Listen to the traders. Follow the sound of metal grinding, cash being counted, packages being sealed. Because behind the glass walls may lie ambition. But behind the backstreets? That’s where the business is done.
Edward Mwasi, Media Industry Strategy and Innovation Consultant, CBiT.
