Part 3: A mothers Journey through Entrepreneurship
When I say East African Growers was one of the best companies I ever worked for, I truly mean it. This comes from my heart.
Funny thing? The industry on the outside used to warn us: “Never work for Asian-owned companies—you’ll regret it!”
But my story was different. Peeush Mahajan (RIP) and my direct supervisor, Vijay Kumar, were two of the finest leaders I’ve ever met. They didn’t just sign my pay slips—they built me.
They noticed things in me I couldn’t yet see in myself. Peeush the MD had this calm, fatherly way of saying, “Caroline, go try it.”
Vijay the GM was the quiet strength behind him. He was the boss who never raised his voice. Somehow, he made you want to raise your standards.
They gave me room to grow. They allowed me to make mistakes. I traveled the country. I even traveled the world. I represented the company with confidence.
And I bloomed.
Becoming Myself Again
Those two years changed everything.
EAGA trusted me with high-level commercial clients.
I moved between farms in Naivasha, Thika, Mount Kenya, and Mwea—auditing, training, inspecting, learning.
Every field visit toughened me; every client meeting shaped my voice.
I’d wake before dawn, my rucksack full of checklists and my heart full of purpose. By sunset, I was dusty, sunburned, and proud.
Somewhere between the greenhouses and the packhouses, I became me again.
The shy girl from the slopes of Mount Kenya had transformed into a woman. She can negotiate with importers and exporters. She can also quote GlobalG.A.P. and other ISO standards without blinking.
But while my confidence grew, my motherhood cracked.
My daughters were four and seven—tiny, warm reminders of what really mattered.
Every time I left home for another long trip, their eyes and sometimes endless tears followed me to the gate.
I told myself, “It’s just work. They’ll understand when they’re older.”
But motherhood has its own memory, and guilt is a terrible travelling companion.
The Fog on Limuru Road
It was on one of those trips that everything changed.
I’d been away for over two weeks. I was auditing farms in Nanyuki, Nyeri, Nakuru and Naivasha with the Marks and Spencer UK team. We stayed in hotels that smelled of disinfectant and loneliness, 5 star ones nevertheless
That morning, after a very successful commercial audit, I woke up bone-tired but determined to get home. I felt too guilty to stay one more night. It was the last stretch—from Nakuru through Limuru and into Nairobi.
Anyone who’s driven through Limuru knows the fog there.
It’s not regular fog—it’s biblical.
The kind that swallows the road, the trees, and your sanity.
You drive by faith, not by sight—literally. Somewhat, it felt like my motherhood Journey right there.
I remember gripping the steering wheel of that Toyota white pickup the company had assigned me.
The wipers fought bravely against mist and drizzle.
There was a slow, lumbering lorry ahead of me—it moved at the speed of a grandmother crossing the road.
My eyelids were heavy, my sight weak.
The road hummed like a lullaby.
And somewhere between fatigue and the ache of missing my children, the road split into a dual carriageway. I missed both lanes.
The pickup jumped the curb and slammed head-on into the middle reef.
Then—impact.
The vehicle overturned.
The records were in a heavy box. Shalimar had given it to me to deliver to the airport. The box flew from the back seat and pinned me between the left door and the steering wheel.
In the distance, I hear tires skidding, people screaming.
Metal twisted like paper.
The world spun, everything a whirlwind.
Silence.
For a second, I thought I was dreaming.
Then pain exploded through my chest.
I could smell petrol.
I could taste blood—warm and metallic on my lips.
Somewhere outside, voices cut through the fog:
“Madam! Madam! You’re alive?”
I remember reaching for my laptop bag, as if clutching it would somehow prove I was still in control.
Then came the weight of realisation: I could have died.
Motherhood and Mortality
That night, the matatu crew helped turn the pickup back onto its wheels. I drove slowly toward Nairobi in that shattered car. My soul was trembling.
I called my brother. He came with his best friend. One of them would drive me the rest of the way.
Later that night, I sat on my bed and stared at my girls.
They were sleeping—one with her hand flung over her head, the other clutching a worn-out teddy bear.
Tears slid down my face.
For the first time, I admitted it:
I was chasing success but losing myself.
I was working for the future but missing the now.
And the accident felt like God whispering, “Slow down, daughter. You’re moving too fast.”
That was the night I decided something had to change.
The Conversation
I called my fiancé—George—my then-budding musician with big dreams and no safety net.
He came over, concern written all over his face.
We sat on the edge of the bed, the silence between us heavy as rain.
“I want to rebuild Farm to Fork,” I finally said.
“I want you to help me.”
He looked at me as if I’d announced I was moving to Mars.
“Caroline,” he said softly, “you have a good job. Why start something from scratch?”
I saw the fear in his eyes.
He was just starting out in music, no steady income, no backup plan.
And here I was, asking him to join me in jumping off a cliff with no parachute.
But that stubborn fire in me wouldn’t die.
For days, we went back and forth—me preaching, him worrying.
I reminded him of the parents’ days I’d missed and the school events I never attended. He spoke about how the girls’ little faces fell whenever they asked, “When is Mummy coming back?”
And I told him, “Now I can change that. I can be both—a mother and a businesswoman. I just need to try.”
The Leap
January 2008.
The air in Nairobi was heavy with post-election tension and uncertainty, but I had one focus: faith.
That month, Farm to Fork landed its very first consulting contract—four months long, paying just enough to make me brave.
I still remember walking into East African Growers to meet Peush and Vijay.
My resignation letter trembled in my hands.
I told them honestly what I was about to do.
They didn’t scold me.
They smiled—proud and a little amused.
Peeush said, “Once an auditor, always an auditor. Go and make us proud.”
Vijay added, “Remember—the same discipline you used here, carry it with you.”
I walked out of that office knowing my life had just changed course. And my girls would be reclaiming a new found mother
No backup plan. No investors. No capital.
Just a dream, a prayer, and a musician fiancé who agreed to jump with me.
I used to joke that I’d dived into a river full of crocodiles.
But it wasn’t a joke—it was the truth.
The world of consultancy was wild, unpredictable, and hungry.
But so was I.
The Early Days of Farm to Fork
We set up a small “office” in our living room.
The furniture was basic. The phone line was unreliable. The internet connection came from a prepaid modem. It took half an hour to load a single page.
Our first “board meeting” was at the kitchen table, surrounded by toys, laundry, and the smell of noodles.
That first contract took every ounce of courage I had.
I helped a training company design its first ISO 17025 system. I drafted SOPs and created food-safety manuals for new clients. I also sent out proposals.
I wrote reports deep into the night, then tucked my babies into bed before collapsing beside them.
George helped where he could—music gigs here and there, moral support everywhere.
Sometimes he’d walk in with his guitar, smile, and say, “Breathe.”
Other times, he’d have a few clients to record, turning our home into a mix of lab notes and melodies.
We were broke, scared, and exhilarated all at once.
But we were building something of our own.
Looking Back
When I look back now, I see how everything connected—the job that trained me, the bosses who believed in me, the accident that broke me, the father who gave me his last 5,000 shillings, and the faith that refused to let me settle.
East African Growers wasn’t just a workplace; it was the soil that prepared me for the harvest of purpose.
Peush Mahajan is gone now, but I still hear his voice: “Go try it, Caroline.”
And Vijay’s quiet confidence still echoes whenever I start to doubt myself.
That company gave me wings.
The accident gave me clarity.
My father gave me courage.
And Farm to Fork gave me identity.
To be continued… Part 4 coming soon.
#Resilience #Entrepreneurship #WomenInBusiness #OvercomingAdversity #FaithAndWork #FarmToFork20
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