The Best Business Is Sometimes the Simplest One
Then there are places you go out of your way to visit.
For me, one of those places is a modest meat joint in Mitheru along the Embu–Meru Highway.
Whenever my work takes me through that route, I almost always find myself pulling over. It has become part of the journey.
If you saw the place for the first time, you might wonder why it attracts so many people. There is nothing particularly remarkable about it. No flashy signboards. No polished décor. No carefully crafted ambience.
Just smoke rising from the kitchen area, the smell of meat in the air, and a steady stream of customers.
Their way of doing business is as straightforward as it gets.
You walk to the kitchen and tell the cook what you want.
"One kilogram of chemsha and ugali."
He tells you the price and that part is done. There is no printed menu or complicated ordering process. You then make payment through M-Pesa withdrawal, take a seat, and before long, your meal is served.
That's it.
The meat is always fresh. The portions are generous. The service is quick. Everyone seems to know exactly what they are supposed to do.
Every time I sit there, I find myself watching people come and go. Families, travellers, lorry drivers, business people—there is a constant flow.
I've often wondered how many goats they sell in a day. Looking around, I wouldn't be surprised if the number was somewhere between fifty and a hundred.
Whether that estimate is right isn't what matters.
What matters is that this small business has found something that works—and they have resisted the temptation to complicate it.
As I continue with my journey towards Meru, I often ask myself another question.
Why haven't I seen this model replicated everywhere else?
The highway is lined with restaurants. Some are bigger. Some are newer. Some have larger menus and nicer buildings.
Yet this simple place in Mitheru keeps drawing people back.
Perhaps because, somewhere along the way, many of us started believing that success comes from doing more.
More products.
More choices.
More systems.
More everything.
But the older I get, the more I notice that life often rewards those who do the ordinary things exceptionally well.
The same lesson appears in farming. The farmer who faithfully prepares the soil, plants on time, and cares for the crop season after season usually harvests more than the one constantly chasing the next miracle crop.
I've seen it in construction too. The projects that finish well are rarely the ones with the fanciest drawings. They are usually the ones where the basics are done consistently—good planning, quality workmanship, timely procurement, and attention to detail.
Simple things.
Done well.
Done every day.
Perhaps that is why this little meat joint has stayed in my mind long after the meals are forgotten.
It reminds me that excellence doesn't always announce itself with noise.
Sometimes it hides behind a smoky grill in a small town called Mitheru, quietly serving travellers one plate at a time.
And perhaps that's a lesson worth carrying long after the journey continues.
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