mzeiya
Elder Lister
Seen a comment by @Field Marshal on this funny thread (Welcome back by the way, Guka) relating to the late Amario and dug up this article.
I have memories of the man as shared by some Starehe Boys alumni in my circles as well as the memorable TV adverts for his alcoholic drinks. Man was truly a legend but had a very dark side to him.
Driving to Naivasha a few weeks back, I noticed his property is still in tact (minus the brewery of course) just before you get to the Moi SouthRoad junction inbound. Anywei, someni hii from the Daily Nation.
_______________________
Eccentric wine maker followed his dream to make a veritable fortune
Flamboyant, eccentric, unrepentant, daring, and a crackpot. Fai Omar Amario, who was buried according to his wishes, was that, and then some.
The maverick Naivasha businessman captured the imagination of Kenyans with his unrestrained and lavish lifestyle that bordered on the fantastic.
Amario’s often outlandish, colourful personality and sense of entitlement invited all manner of banquets and barbs — especially barbs.
He had a ready retort: “When you are different, people call you crazy… It doesn’t mean I’m sick and should be hospitalised… I’m just different!”
And different, no doubt, he was. The man wasn’t a Muslim, but insisted on the prefix Al-Hajj before his name.
On his own admission in 2002, his myriad business ventures coined a Sh150 million fortune.
That isn’t a lot of money, compared to the prime financial empires achieved by some of Kenya’s robber barons, until you go back to the beginning.
Birthday
In April 1954, martial arts actor Jackie Chan and comedian Jerry Seinfield were born in Victoria Peak, Hong Kong, and Brooklyn, USA, respectively. In Banana, Kenya, on the 10th of that month, Fai Amario made his entry as Peter Gilbert Njoroge Ng’ang’a, an only child.
He later changed the name he considered “too mundane” to Fai Omar Amario. Fai, are the initials for a “chemical formula of a Spanish wine,” while Amario means “a vast, barren vineyard.”
Amario was born with a wooden spoon in his mouth. His mother, who closed her gate in 1998, was a labourer at Mbiyu Koinange’s farm in Kiambaa, Kiambu. Koinange, the first Kenyan to earn a doctorate, was a minister of State in Mzee Jomo Kenyatta’s government. Amario’s father, who lived in Mirera, a few kilometres from Amario’s Naivasha winery, was a loader in one of Njenga Karume’s businesses. Karume is a former minister for Special Programmes and Kiambaa Member of Parliament.
“Fai was a church going, obedient child,” Samson Kuria Ng’ang’a, his step-brother, recalled in an interview in October, 2005.
And from his humble beginnings, Amario went on to compensate for a lack of distinguished birth with a relentless, industrial zeal that enabled him to coin a seven-figure fortune on the back of staggering Kenyans in alternative alcohol — his wines and “sherries.” And so precocious was he as a student at Thimbigwa Primary School in Kiambaa that he skipped from Class Two to Four, and from Four to Class Six until he cleared and joined Starehe Boys’ Centre in 1969 — the year politician Tom Mboya was assassinated.
But so tiny was he that he was nicknamed “Zakayo” and the “French Scientist” for his fluency in the language and for his aptitude in mathematics and chemistry.
The late Yusuf King’ala, then Starehe’s deputy director and Amario’s former classmate, recalled in 2004: “He wasn’t a loud mouth, but had the potential to be slippery and mischievous. He was also reserved and did things his way.” Students at Starehe have sponsors. And when Amario was asked what he wanted for a Christmas gift, he requested for books on wines and wine making.
He left Starehe in the Class of ’75, but later graced Starehe’s annual Founder’s Day celebrations, like the one he attended in 2000. He was seated at the main VIP dais, where Mr Kalonzo Musyoka, the guest of honour, and Dr Geoffrey Griffin, the director and school founder, sat.
One couldn’t help noticing his dressing: His trademark black farmer’s cap, white Chinese collar shirt with gold trimming at the button fold, shiny black shoes, and broken suit. Ng’ang’a, his step-brother, recounted of his sartorial elegance: “Right from childhood, Fai was not only noticeably smart, but had a taste for the finer things in life.”
When asked about his former student, Griffin, who died in early 2005, said he couldn’t remember him, although from the stories he was reading about him at the time, Amario couldn’t have been said “to be a true representative of a Starehean Old Boy.” Dr Griffin was referring to Amario’s conviction for the capital offence of robbery with violence.
From Starehe, Amario was admitted to the University of Nairobi to study pharmacy. But considering what was being taught a “waste of time,” he dropped out after only one semester.
He then secured a job at Kiwi Home Products (now SaraLee), and while rising through the ranks as quality controller to factory manager, Amario became a shylock, lending money at a profit to rock-bottom broke workmates. His superiors were not amused. After three years, the “resident banker” had to go.
Robert Heller, in The Age of the Common Millionaire, informs us that “The millionaire earns his title by selling, or being able to sell, some property, some product, some service, some idea for more than cost. The wider the gulf between cost and realised value, the nearer the player gets closer to his reward.”
And with his experience, Amario ventured into manufacturing his own Dush Shoe Polish, earning himself another nickname -— “Dush.” Dush had poor sales (he was making and marketing the product solo), and figuring that shoe polish “moved” exponentially at the beginning of the school term, Amario closed shop in between venturing into the candle and ink-making businesses.
And although Ng’ang’a recalled that “Njoroge never showed any business acumen in childhood, he was, and still is, a very creative, industrious, and innovative workaholic who often forgot to take lunch as he tinkered with shoe polish cans.”
And as Heller contends further: “The foresight of the rich is their prime justification.”
At Starehe, students are nurtured to live out the school motto “Natulenge Juu” (Aim High) — coined by Kenya’s founding President Jomo Kenyatta. And Amario “aimed high.” Heller notes that “The soaring stroke of genius lies in spotting a demand, latent or blatant, and simultaneously knowing how that demand can be satisfied at the necessarily premium over the cost of supply.”
After finding out that Kenyan brewing companies were minting a fortune out of alcohol, meaning that there was a demand, Amario founded his winery from dreams he distilled while a student at “Starch”, as Starehe is nicknamed. “The newcomer,” writes Heller “enters a new market free of misconceptions, prejudices, received ideas, and general stupidities. The outsider is not blinded by the knowledge that things can’t be done in the way they want.”
And with his aptitude for chemistry (and the books on making wines sent to him), Amario acquired a plot in Banana and set up a distillery.
But shortly afterwards, residents complained about the stench, forcing the local chief to crack the whip. Amario shifted base to Mukara, still in Banana.
He wasn’t lucky there either. Apparently, his distillery was consuming all the water from the communal borehole.
He was tossed out. In 1981, when Sh10 could buy a bottle of beer and packet of cigarettes, Amario moved to Naivasha — and changed his name.
Heller tells us that “the transplanted” (Amario was an ‘immigrant’) start with nothing and have a burning desire to achieve economic security.”
And something can be said, firing the desire even further.
In 1988, Bishop Joseph Wambugu told Amario something that would “revolutionise” his life and business irrevocably.
“I told him that a hero is one who swims against the currents. “When the waters drown everyone downwards, the hero goes upstream,” the bishop told mourners during Amario’s funeral service. What that “sermon” did to Amario is a matter of conjecture, but from then on his business fortunes nosed northwards.
But after 12 years of producing Rumlika, (derived from rum and liquor), a pineapple-based wine, Amario closed his distillery, Amarillo Wineries.
To gain more knowledge, Amario enrolled at the Israel Wine Institute in Rehevot, nine kilometres from Tel Aviv.
He returned, and with a 200-strong workforce, began distilling brands such as Amario’s Sherry, Pooler, Medusa, Uhuru 2000, Kata Pingu, Mahewa, and Cantata, which were distributed via his depots in Meru, Murang’a, Thika, and Naivasha. Among the marketing gimmicks for his “fiery” wines was a picture of his hand-cuffed self in a farmer’s cap (what is called “Jaramogi” in some quarters), on the sticker of the plastic bottles. It read: “Drink Amario’s Sherry and know why birds fly.”
But birds of misfortune later built nests on the crest of what was a rags-to-riches story.
I have memories of the man as shared by some Starehe Boys alumni in my circles as well as the memorable TV adverts for his alcoholic drinks. Man was truly a legend but had a very dark side to him.
Driving to Naivasha a few weeks back, I noticed his property is still in tact (minus the brewery of course) just before you get to the Moi SouthRoad junction inbound. Anywei, someni hii from the Daily Nation.
_______________________
Eccentric wine maker followed his dream to make a veritable fortune
Flamboyant, eccentric, unrepentant, daring, and a crackpot. Fai Omar Amario, who was buried according to his wishes, was that, and then some.
The maverick Naivasha businessman captured the imagination of Kenyans with his unrestrained and lavish lifestyle that bordered on the fantastic.
Amario’s often outlandish, colourful personality and sense of entitlement invited all manner of banquets and barbs — especially barbs.
He had a ready retort: “When you are different, people call you crazy… It doesn’t mean I’m sick and should be hospitalised… I’m just different!”
And different, no doubt, he was. The man wasn’t a Muslim, but insisted on the prefix Al-Hajj before his name.
On his own admission in 2002, his myriad business ventures coined a Sh150 million fortune.
That isn’t a lot of money, compared to the prime financial empires achieved by some of Kenya’s robber barons, until you go back to the beginning.
Birthday
In April 1954, martial arts actor Jackie Chan and comedian Jerry Seinfield were born in Victoria Peak, Hong Kong, and Brooklyn, USA, respectively. In Banana, Kenya, on the 10th of that month, Fai Amario made his entry as Peter Gilbert Njoroge Ng’ang’a, an only child.
He later changed the name he considered “too mundane” to Fai Omar Amario. Fai, are the initials for a “chemical formula of a Spanish wine,” while Amario means “a vast, barren vineyard.”
Amario was born with a wooden spoon in his mouth. His mother, who closed her gate in 1998, was a labourer at Mbiyu Koinange’s farm in Kiambaa, Kiambu. Koinange, the first Kenyan to earn a doctorate, was a minister of State in Mzee Jomo Kenyatta’s government. Amario’s father, who lived in Mirera, a few kilometres from Amario’s Naivasha winery, was a loader in one of Njenga Karume’s businesses. Karume is a former minister for Special Programmes and Kiambaa Member of Parliament.
“Fai was a church going, obedient child,” Samson Kuria Ng’ang’a, his step-brother, recalled in an interview in October, 2005.
And from his humble beginnings, Amario went on to compensate for a lack of distinguished birth with a relentless, industrial zeal that enabled him to coin a seven-figure fortune on the back of staggering Kenyans in alternative alcohol — his wines and “sherries.” And so precocious was he as a student at Thimbigwa Primary School in Kiambaa that he skipped from Class Two to Four, and from Four to Class Six until he cleared and joined Starehe Boys’ Centre in 1969 — the year politician Tom Mboya was assassinated.
But so tiny was he that he was nicknamed “Zakayo” and the “French Scientist” for his fluency in the language and for his aptitude in mathematics and chemistry.
The late Yusuf King’ala, then Starehe’s deputy director and Amario’s former classmate, recalled in 2004: “He wasn’t a loud mouth, but had the potential to be slippery and mischievous. He was also reserved and did things his way.” Students at Starehe have sponsors. And when Amario was asked what he wanted for a Christmas gift, he requested for books on wines and wine making.
He left Starehe in the Class of ’75, but later graced Starehe’s annual Founder’s Day celebrations, like the one he attended in 2000. He was seated at the main VIP dais, where Mr Kalonzo Musyoka, the guest of honour, and Dr Geoffrey Griffin, the director and school founder, sat.
One couldn’t help noticing his dressing: His trademark black farmer’s cap, white Chinese collar shirt with gold trimming at the button fold, shiny black shoes, and broken suit. Ng’ang’a, his step-brother, recounted of his sartorial elegance: “Right from childhood, Fai was not only noticeably smart, but had a taste for the finer things in life.”
When asked about his former student, Griffin, who died in early 2005, said he couldn’t remember him, although from the stories he was reading about him at the time, Amario couldn’t have been said “to be a true representative of a Starehean Old Boy.” Dr Griffin was referring to Amario’s conviction for the capital offence of robbery with violence.
From Starehe, Amario was admitted to the University of Nairobi to study pharmacy. But considering what was being taught a “waste of time,” he dropped out after only one semester.
He then secured a job at Kiwi Home Products (now SaraLee), and while rising through the ranks as quality controller to factory manager, Amario became a shylock, lending money at a profit to rock-bottom broke workmates. His superiors were not amused. After three years, the “resident banker” had to go.
Robert Heller, in The Age of the Common Millionaire, informs us that “The millionaire earns his title by selling, or being able to sell, some property, some product, some service, some idea for more than cost. The wider the gulf between cost and realised value, the nearer the player gets closer to his reward.”
And with his experience, Amario ventured into manufacturing his own Dush Shoe Polish, earning himself another nickname -— “Dush.” Dush had poor sales (he was making and marketing the product solo), and figuring that shoe polish “moved” exponentially at the beginning of the school term, Amario closed shop in between venturing into the candle and ink-making businesses.
And although Ng’ang’a recalled that “Njoroge never showed any business acumen in childhood, he was, and still is, a very creative, industrious, and innovative workaholic who often forgot to take lunch as he tinkered with shoe polish cans.”
And as Heller contends further: “The foresight of the rich is their prime justification.”
At Starehe, students are nurtured to live out the school motto “Natulenge Juu” (Aim High) — coined by Kenya’s founding President Jomo Kenyatta. And Amario “aimed high.” Heller notes that “The soaring stroke of genius lies in spotting a demand, latent or blatant, and simultaneously knowing how that demand can be satisfied at the necessarily premium over the cost of supply.”
After finding out that Kenyan brewing companies were minting a fortune out of alcohol, meaning that there was a demand, Amario founded his winery from dreams he distilled while a student at “Starch”, as Starehe is nicknamed. “The newcomer,” writes Heller “enters a new market free of misconceptions, prejudices, received ideas, and general stupidities. The outsider is not blinded by the knowledge that things can’t be done in the way they want.”
And with his aptitude for chemistry (and the books on making wines sent to him), Amario acquired a plot in Banana and set up a distillery.
But shortly afterwards, residents complained about the stench, forcing the local chief to crack the whip. Amario shifted base to Mukara, still in Banana.
He wasn’t lucky there either. Apparently, his distillery was consuming all the water from the communal borehole.
He was tossed out. In 1981, when Sh10 could buy a bottle of beer and packet of cigarettes, Amario moved to Naivasha — and changed his name.
Heller tells us that “the transplanted” (Amario was an ‘immigrant’) start with nothing and have a burning desire to achieve economic security.”
And something can be said, firing the desire even further.
In 1988, Bishop Joseph Wambugu told Amario something that would “revolutionise” his life and business irrevocably.
“I told him that a hero is one who swims against the currents. “When the waters drown everyone downwards, the hero goes upstream,” the bishop told mourners during Amario’s funeral service. What that “sermon” did to Amario is a matter of conjecture, but from then on his business fortunes nosed northwards.
But after 12 years of producing Rumlika, (derived from rum and liquor), a pineapple-based wine, Amario closed his distillery, Amarillo Wineries.
To gain more knowledge, Amario enrolled at the Israel Wine Institute in Rehevot, nine kilometres from Tel Aviv.
He returned, and with a 200-strong workforce, began distilling brands such as Amario’s Sherry, Pooler, Medusa, Uhuru 2000, Kata Pingu, Mahewa, and Cantata, which were distributed via his depots in Meru, Murang’a, Thika, and Naivasha. Among the marketing gimmicks for his “fiery” wines was a picture of his hand-cuffed self in a farmer’s cap (what is called “Jaramogi” in some quarters), on the sticker of the plastic bottles. It read: “Drink Amario’s Sherry and know why birds fly.”
But birds of misfortune later built nests on the crest of what was a rags-to-riches story.
