At the age of 25, Rehema was ambitious, with neat, crisp cornrows framing a face excited about building something of her own. She had recently started a small business selling ethanol cooking stoves and imagined where she could take it — more customers, a bigger fremu, perhaps even a few more young people working for her.
Rehema’s interest in clean cooking was also personal. A few years earlier, her aunt, who lived kijijini, had suffered from respiratory health complications. Her family believed that years of cooking with charcoal and exposure to its smoke had contributed to her condition. She eventually passed away.
So when she came across all these alternatives to charcoal years later, the timing seemed right. Tanzania’s National Clean Cooking Strategy 2024–2034 had set a target for 80 per cent of Tanzanians to use clean cooking solutions by 2034. Rehema was trying to sell exactly that — an alternative to the jiko la makaa many households still depended on.
With Rehema’s idea, instead of buying makaa, lighting charcoal and waiting for the jiko to heat up, her customers could pour ethanol into a refillable stove and light it. There was no charcoal to carry home, no ash to clean afterwards, and far less of the smoke and soot that came with traditional cooking fuels. And for households looking to move away from charcoal, gas stoves could still be a pricey alternative. Ethanol offered another option.
But it’s an unfamiliar product. People need to see it. See the flame. Understand how it works. Understand what it might cost them compared with what they’re already using. That meant that Rehema had to go out and convince the community.
Rehema had a small fremu on the edge of Kariakoo, a tiny store overlooking its busy, crowded streets. But while her location might have looked busy, it was quieter than the foot traffic she needed for her stoves.
She needed to go into the heart of hustle-Kariakoo — between its packed shopfronts, street vendors and constant stream of people — where she could advocate, educate and hope to sell her stoves.
She first hired two young sales agents, 19 and 21 years old, to walk in the thick of the market and execute her plan. These two would walk through the crowds of people brushing past one another, vendors calling out, carts squeezing through, and shoppers spilling into the streets. The goal was simple: capture the attention of just a few shoppers.
Though it included long, hot and sweaty days, it felt rewarding. People would stop, and some would listen. People were curious. They gathered around the exhibition of stoves, and some even bought one, alongside small bottles of ethanol fuel starting at Sh2,500.
A lot of the women already knew the frustrations that came with cooking with charcoal — the smoke, the soot, the time it took to light, the constant need to buy and carry makaa. So they were curious about an alternative.
Dealing with authorities
But as Rehema’s sales agents’ strategy started to work, they had to stop. An enforcement officer would approach the two, tell them they could not advertise there without a permit, and ask them to leave. They had no choice but to pack up the stoves, the bottles of ethanol, and go back to Rehema.
Rehema would listen to their experience and help her young sales agents understand that this was the game. She wasn’t dissuaded… if this was expected of her, she would comply and apply for the permit.
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She asked for advice and was directed towards the local government office — ofisi za mtaa. They directed her to the Municipality. The Municipality told her to write an official letter, gather all her business documents and present them to the City Council with her request.
The City Council then directed her to another office — which said it wasn’t responsible for it. So she was sent back to the City, which ultimately rejected her request. And, even more frustratingly, offered no reasons for the rejection.
Why couldn’t she advertise her ethanol cooking stoves? Rehema didn’t know who else to go to. If not them, then who? A few months of trying to secure the permit and getting nowhere. Rehema gave up.
She would pull on her cornrow strands — what was the point?
Owning a store in Kariakoo meant that there was the business license, service levy, garbage collection charges, taxes and the other little fees that seemed to find their way to a small business. Fees that cumulatively actually took a good chunk out of her business. Rehema was expected to pay what was asked of her.
So why, when she needed something from the same institutions collecting from her, did it feel like nobody was particularly interested in helping her?
She couldn’t help but ask the obvious question — wouldn’t her securing a permit to advertise her business, a business aligned with the national agenda for clean cooking, a business that would actually employ youth and generate more income… ultimately lead to more taxes for the City too?
So in the sweltering heat of Kariakoo, she would vent to other small business owners around her and ask for their advice — what would they do in this situation?
Shared experience
Many had gone through a similar predicament. Some didn’t even bother trying to secure a permit because they saw how cumbersome the process was for others, or they’d tried and failed. They’d say, let’s just go ahead and make our attempts at selling until they run us off. And try again tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that.
And then there was the time it all took. There always seemed to be something expected of their small businesses — a return to file, a deadline to remember, a permit to renew, another requirement to understand.
For Rehema, those were hours that could otherwise be spent building her clean cooking market, advertising her ethanol stoves and convincing people that the product might actually be better for their health, the environment and maybe even their pockets…
So much was expected of small business owners like her, and they could not even hear her out?
Rehema wondered how others managed it all. She was fairly educated, knew how to write the letters, gather the documents and ask the questions — and still, she couldn’t seem to find her way through the system.
But surely, you shouldn’t need formal education just to figure out how to comply. What about the small business owner who hadn’t had those same opportunities?
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More importantly, she wished there was just one place she could go. A one-stop shop for all the things expected of her small business — what she needed to file, what she needed to pay, which permits she needed and, most importantly, who she was supposed to ask when she didn’t know.
Not giving up
Though Rehema had “given up” on the Municipality and the City Council in Kariakoo, she didn’t really give up. Like the vendors in Kariakoo, she would find another way. She kept talking to people about her stoves — how she could advertise them, distribute them and get them into more homes.
Eventually, one of those conversations led somewhere. Someone told Rehema there was a person she should speak to and offered to introduce them. After months of trying to navigate the local government, Rehema finally found someone who might actually be able to help.
She didn’t know what to expect when she arrived, but was pleasantly surprised. The official working on clean cooking welcomed her and listened. Rehema explained the trouble she had faced trying to secure a permit and, this time, instead of being directed somewhere else, someone actually wanted to help her secure it.
But the conversation didn’t stop at the permit. The official was interested in the business itself. She told Rehema about some of the work they had already been doing to promote clean cooking and the efforts underway to reach more households.
She offered Rehema ideas too — including working through Wamama groups, which could help her distribute the stoves, gather client information and reach communities much faster.
This was the kind of support Rehema had been looking for.
How about others?
But here’s the thing — it had not been easy to find. There wasn’t even an obvious social media page or online platform where Rehema, or another young entrepreneur, could have easily found her, understood what support was available or known where to go.
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How many people like Rehema didn’t even know this kind of support existed, let alone where to go to find it?
Rehema was fortunate enough to know people who could eventually point her in the right direction. But what happens to those who don’t have those connections?
Tanzania wants cleaner cooking on a national level. Rehema is actively building a business around cleaner cooking. Somewhere in the government, there are people who want to help her do exactly that.
But why was it so difficult for them to actually find each other on the ground?
And this isn’t only about businesses that happen to align with a national strategy. Whether someone is selling clean cooking stoves, tomatoes, makeup or clothes, the larger question remains.
For years, and especially of late, Tanzanians, and particularly youth, have been told: jiajiri. And more than that, to also employ others. Start your business, create your own income, stop complaining there are no jobs. Ideate!
Perhaps we have spent too much time asking Tanzanians to jiajiri, and not enough asking what happens to them once they actually do.
Small businesses should pay their taxes and comply with reasonable regulations. But our relationship with them cannot only be about what they owe the government.
We keep telling Tanzanians, and especially young Tanzanians, wajiajiri.
It’s time we ask ourselves — wakijiajiri, tunawapokeaje?
Husnah Mad-hy is a lawyer and writer based in Tanzania. She can be reached at husnahmadhy@gmail.com. The opinions expressed here are the writer’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of The Chanzo. If you are interested in publishing in this space, please contact our editors at editor@thechanzo.com.
