18/06/2026
Mr. Kiongo was a farmer in the village where I was born.
He was among the very few people doing commercial farming. By commercial farming, I don't mean the modern version we see today. I mean he actually farmed with the intention of selling, while most people only produced enough for family consumption.
He owned a black Mamba bicycle.
Almost every morning, he would pass by our gate carrying a water pump as he headed to his tomato farm. The moment I spotted him, I would abandon whatever I was doing, quickly put some salt in my pocket, and follow him.
The salt had a very important mission of marinating raw tomatoes. I like it raw by the way.
I would spend almost the entire day at his farm eating tomatoes straight from the field and listening to his stories.
As we worked, he would talk about his dreams. He spoke of expanding the farm, growing more crops, and making farming a real business. I was fascinated.
But there was one thing that always confused me.
Why was this man, who worked so hard and talked so big about farming, wearing torn clothes and riding the same old bicycle year after year?
As a child, I promised myself that if I ever became a farmer, I would try as much as possible to modernize the farm, make work easier, and at least look clean while doing it.
Today, many years later, I am still growing up.
The difference is that the little boy who followed Mr. Kiongo carrying salt in his pocket for raw tomatoes now owns a tomato farm in Tujereng, The Gambia.
And thankfully, I'm no longer wearing torn clothes.
Mr kiongo ,say hae to your last born daughter.
~Village-based investor (VBI)
