The 3-part series is as narrated by the author, from a personal experience.
NAIROBI, Kenya – It was a particular Tuesday morning that my life took a drastic turn. I vividly remember it; the day I “blew” my forex trading account.
The shock was so overwhelming that my brain seemed to shut down. I forgot my lovely Kikuyu language and, for some mysterious reason, developed a British accent for a few hours.
My body, in its desperation to escape reality, sought refuge in sleep. I slept deeply for about ten hours, hoping that I would wake up to find it was all just a terrible dream. But it wasn’t.
When I finally woke up, disbelief and denial gripped me. I had borrowed substantial amounts of money and sold some of my household items to fund this ill-fated venture.
In my despair, I tried everything to snap out of it. I took a cold shower, but the water was unbearably hot. I lay on the floor, hoping it would cool my heated thoughts, but it felt even hotter. I tried to cry, but my eyes were dry, devoid of any tears.
Screaming for help seemed like the last resort, but that was out of the question—my ancestors would never forgive such a display of weakness. As a devoted Christian, turning to alcohol was not an option.
Facing the impossible task of paying back the debts and covering my bills, I was in a state of utter hopelessness.
The realization that my so-called forex friends might have been the ones who scammed me didn’t occur to me immediately. That thought wasn’t even on my radar initially.
However, I noticed improvements in their lifestyles—new clothes, phones, recliner sofas, and a new house solely for trading—that’s when the pieces started to fit together. How could they be thriving while I was in ruins?
Life became incredibly hard. Within a few weeks, I was struggling to put a meal on the table. Desperate, I opened up to my forex ‘friend’.
He offered to help, telling me I was welcome to take food from his house. He even paid my rent for two months. His generosity, however, felt like a cruel joke—he was a real demon in disguise.
As the weeks passed, creditors started coming after me. I was reduced to making empty promises.
“Hii Monday inakam nakulipa. Kuna deal nangoja iivane,” I used to assure them.
But the pressure was relentless. Loan apps began contacting people in my contact list.
One day, a lady called and threatened my mother, telling her that they would come for our cow and iron sheets if I didn’t pay.
“Wewe mama ambia kijana yako alipe loan ama tukujie ng’ombe yako na mabati ya nyumba unyeshewe,” those were her exact words.
My mother was furious and wouldn’t listen to any explanations, not after such terror.
I also remember another evening I received a call from one of my high school friends. He did not even greet me, he was so furious with me as guys from one of the lending apps had terrorized him too.
“Wewe kijana kwani umekuwa mwizi? Ulipe pesa ya wenyewe!” he exclaimed.
It reached a point where I could not leave my house for fear of running into those I owed money.
My debts had accumulated to about Sh250,000. My friend who had lent me Sh75,000 was particularly painful to face. We were both academic writers and had been through a lot together. I had helped him buy a writing account and taught him how to operate it.
We had a great friendship, but things changed after I failed to pay him back. It felt as if the earth was going to swallow me alive. The worst part was people telling me, “I told you but you couldn’t listen.” That was painful.
My brother had sent me Sh20,000 which I later learned that it was for paying his rent. I don’t know how he managed that month, but I am sure he used to curse me every day before received his next pay.
My dad had sent me Sh25,000 , a female friend had loaned me Sh30,000 from Mshwari, and my mother had also given me Sh20,000 from her annual coffee bonus, just to mention a few…it was pure hell.
The luxurious life I dreamed of had made me poor and dragged my family and friends down with me.
I cried often, blaming myself for everything. Isolated and friendless, I felt like I was on an island.
The only light in my life was my girlfriend. She was a true pillar of support. Despite her not knowing the full extent of my losses, she would sense my stress.
As a true African son, I had decided to die with my secret. I knew that telling her the amount of money I had lost would break her more than it did to me.
This dark period in my life was a stark reminder of the dangers of trusting too easily and investing blindly. It taught me lessons about resilience, trust, and the true meaning of friendship.
