The Economics and Common Sense of Living with a Roommate in Nairobi - Money and Me

I had always heard that sharing a space, even with your sibling, was a near-impossible feat. But growing up, that wasn’t my reality. I only had one younger brother, and apart from the occasional tussle over the coveted ugali crust, we got along pretty well. I loved my little bro, and I like to think the feeling was mutual.

So, when people said sharing a house with someone was a nightmare, I couldn’t relate. Still, life has a way of humbling you. After my first semester at Kenyatta University, reality hit hard. Living solo in a Ksh7,000 bedsitter in Kahawa Wendani wasn’t very sustainable. As a self-sponsored student, I wasn’t eligible for on-campus hostels. The only logical solution? A roommate.

That’s where Loise came in. She was my coursemate, walking buddy, and a fellow Para student from Western Kenya. We had bonded over our mutual hatred of 8 a.m. lectures, school gossip and our shared love for Githu thrift hauls. By the end of the semester, we were close enough to consider the unthinkable: becoming roommates.

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How We Made It Work

From the get-go, we knew survival depended on structure. We came up with house rules to keep things sane. No unannounced guests, no hogging the bathroom during peak hours, and definitely no borrowing clothes without asking. Simple stuff, but it made a huge difference in keeping the peace.

We also understood the importance of personal space. In a bedsitter, privacy is practically non-existent, but we respected each other’s corners. If one of us needed alone time, the other would plug in earphones or step out for a while.

Chores were another potential minefield, but we handled them like pros. Loise loved doing laundry (yes, really), while I preferred cleaning and organizing. Every Sunday, we’d tackle the room together, making sure everything was spotless for the week ahead.

As full-time campus students, money was tight, so we had to be smart about it. Rent was split down the middle, and we took turns paying for utilities like water and electricity. For groceries, we teamed up to get the best deals. Every Saturday, we’d head to Githurai market, haggling our way through the sea of people, tuk-tuks and motorbikes. It became our little tradition, and we’d always come back with bags full of fresh produce to last us the whole week without breaking the bank.

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Respect was the heart of everything. We knew we were different. I mean, Loise could eat ugali every single day, while I couldn’t go a week without my beloved githeri or mchele njeri—A mixture of rice and potatoes cooked in one pot. And don’t get me started on Omena. The smell alone made me gag, but for Loise, it was a delicacy. 

Living together wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. We had our moments, of course, but nothing too serious. If things ever got tense, we’d talk it out and move on. There were days when our differences drove us up the wall. But we learned to laugh about it and even made jokes about each other’s “weird” food choices.

People often said we were lucky to have such a smooth living arrangement, but I believe it was more about effort and understanding. We communicated openly, planned our finances wisely, and stayed focused on our shared goal: making life as students manageable.

Even after graduating, we stuck together for a while. Loise eventually got a job in her hometown, and we had to part ways. But the bond we built during those years remains one of the strongest in my life.

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