‘You have to listen to your body,’ says Manoj K. Shah. ‘Sometimes it says it’s enough, but we always feel that we have to push on.’ Last year, the founder of Osho Chemical Industries suffered a stroke that paralysed his left side. He seems to be out of the woods now.
He started Osho in 1993, at 28, in Nairobi’s Industrial Area, selling chemicals to textile mills with a staff of six. Today the company employs over 500 people, whom it calls ‘Osholites’, and sells crop protection, animal health, public health and industrial chemicals in Kenya, Tanzania, Uganda, Zambia, and Malawi. When desert locusts swept the region a few years ago, Osho supplied the chemicals to fight them in Ethiopia, Djibouti, Yemen, Tanzania, Uganda, and Kenya.
Manoj built the business by pushing on, never taking his foot off the pedal, cramming into each day as many hours as it would hold. Hobbies never happened. ‘Instead of hobbies,’ he says, ‘I developed relations.’
Then he fell ill, and while he lay on his back recovering, his sons took the wheel. He had always meant to prepare them but never quite found the time. So they were thrown into the deep end. ‘The only option is to swim,’ says his son Ankush. ‘So we’re trying to swim and stay afloat.’
He is not quite done. He wants ‘to get back a bit normal and keep contributing.’ He still dreams of Osho becoming a pan-African player. Africa, he says, is a continent of agriculture. But his immediate ambition is also a handover: to see his sons take the company forward. ‘They are now ready and capable,’ he says.
For a man who spent decades making sure the business never stood still, letting it move without him may be the hardest work yet. He has built something that can outlast his own capacity to carry it. Perhaps that is the final measure of what he has made: not simply a company that grew under his watch, but one that can keep growing when he finally allows himself to rest.
You were raised in Ol Kalou. What kind of boyhood was that?
My father was truly Kenyan. He came to Kenya at a very young age and started a business in Ol Kalou. In our culture, the first child is born at the maternal grandparents’ homestead, so I was born in Nairobi but brought up in Ol Kalou. Because there were no other Indian children in Ol Kalou, all my friends were local Kikuyu boys. So naturally, my Kikuyu and my Kiswahili were fantastic. In fact, I mastered my own mother tongue much later.
Then, unfortunately, in 1969, as the Africanisation and Kenyanisation movements grew, there was political euphoria, and migrant communities such as my father’s became victims of that policy. We had to migrate to India.
East African Indians are a special breed of Asians. The way we hold each other’s hands, the way we want to encourage everybody to do well. Because after all, we are a migrant community. And we also want our children to cultivate similar values.
How old were you when you went to India?
Almost five. I came back at the age of 11.
Do you remember India?
I didn’t have a childhood. When he died, I was here in Kenya. I had to get a job. When you come from a background of no money, not many people accommodate you. So I had to work hard to make it in life, be a man of substance and help my mother get a settlement visa for the UK. For a widow, a single parent, the UK is quite good. I also had two sisters to take care of. One now lives in the UK; the other is settled in Nakuru. The good thing is I remained focused. My faith and my perseverance helped me through. Slowly, by slowly, I kept climbing from one milestone to another. In the process, I also made some good friends.
What was the impact of your dad’s passing on your life?
I didn’t have a childhood, and I was never with them. I was here all this time. The easiest thing was to get a job and help my mother get a settlement visa for the UK, because she was British. For a widow, a single parent, the UK is quite good. I had two sisters. One was in the UK, the other is settled in Nakuru. When you come from a background of no money, not many people accommodate you. So I had to work hard to make it in life, to be a man of substance. The good thing is I remained focused. My faith and my perseverance helped me through. And slowly, by slowly, I kept climbing from one milestone to the other. In the process, I also made some good friends.
How old were you when you started Osho?
I was 28.
What gave you the confidence to start a business?
When I worked at Uchumi Chemicals, I had a mentor. He was a very powerful guy. I watched him: how he conducted himself and what he did. That gave me confidence. My father also gave me confidence. He was hardworking. If he had stayed in Ol Kalou, it would have been a different place. There are so many opportunities in manufacturing, agro, whatever suits that region.
Do you believe in destiny? Do you believe this, what you have built here, was ordained?
Very much so. In my Form Four exams, I got 9 in biology, 9 in physics, 9 in chemistry. I failed. And I ended up in chemicals, with no manufacturing, financial or any other experience. I dived into the deep end. I think education matters, but attitude matters from the beginning. At Osho, we run a programme with universities, apprenticeships and job experience, where graduates stay for one or two years. You get qualified, and everybody asks, where is your experience? If you don’t create those jobs, where will they get it?
Which periods of starting and running the business were most challenging? The 90s. The government tightly controlled import licences. That was the worst period, because I chose to deal with textile mills, most of which were parastatals. Even after delivery, we were never sure the payment would come. At that time, a factory like Rivatex in Eldoret didn’t get enough foreign currency. So they couldn’t import their dyestuffs and chemicals. Luckily, I had already developed their substitutes, so I came in.
But even then, the sad part was that after doing everything, we were still not sure we’d get paid. So, for a short period, I started buying their cloth, kangas, kitenges, the drill, the shirting, and selling it to customers in Nairobi. Fortunately, liberalisation also started in the mid-90s, which improved the circulation of dollars and our import business.
So the foundation was rather weak because of the circumstances. But once we got into agro, it was beautiful, because we could develop the distributors and the stockists with a new approach, new options. Today, some of them are very good and very big businesses. And they remain loyal, and the friendship is strong.
What was your lowest moment? The El Niño of the late 90s. I had brought an insurance company into the market, and they declined to even look at my claim. My bank recalled the small loan I had. That was the lowest moment of our lives.
What have you had to sacrifice to get here?
[Long pause] A little bit on the family side, but more on my own side. I never quite took holidays with my sons and my wife. Sometimes I’d accompany them, but mostly I’d let them go while I worked. I regret that a little. That level of balance was not a priority. I also never developed any hobbies. Instead of hobbies, I developed relationships and kept busy with charitable institutions. That is where I used to derive my satisfaction.
Why is it important for you to give?
Because our basic needs are very small. Anything extra is hoarding. You can’t hold on when there are people who need help.
What lessons have you learnt about money?
Money shouldn’t ride on you. You should ride on money.
What does that mean?
Don’t get too proud. When you have money, it comes and goes. When money gets into your head, you go gambling, partying, [spend on] women, and so many things. Luckily, I could stay away from most of them.
Is pride something you’re born with, and humility something you constantly work on?
As a Kenyan, as an East African, that is an automatic thing. To be humble and not let money get into my head. That ego can finish you. So faith and perseverance are what keep me going.
Watching anything interesting? How do you fill your time now?
I watch a TV series which is spiritual. It’s called Sai Baba. That gives me a lot of satisfaction and direction.
What have you learnt from the unfortunate health event of having a stroke?
You have to listen to your body. [Pause] Listen to your body. Sometimes it says it’s enough, but we feel that we have to push on. A day has 24 hours. Eight hours you must sleep, because of your biological needs. Eight hours you must work. You must also make time for your hobbies, for exercise, for religion and spirituality. In today’s modern life, people want to substitute one with the other. If your body says you need to slow down, then you have to slow down, or it will slow you down forcefully.
What’s your dream now? What do you want?
To hand over to my next generation. To my two sons. Because they are now ready and capable.
What did you do to get them ready and capable?
I didn’t get so much of an opportunity. But when this (stroke) happened, they had to jump in at the deep end. And they have learnt, and they have enjoyed it, which is good.
ANKUSH (younger son): But as much as he’s saying he didn’t have the time to mentor us, there was a lot he did teach us over the years, which we’re applying now. Once you’re thrown in the deep end, the only option is to swim. So we’re trying to swim and stay afloat. But the main vision is to continue what he started and make his dream come true as well.
What’s the one thing you hope they never do to the business?
We have to remain honest and ethical in what we do, and build on relationships, which I was able to do very successfully for many years. When there is no money in your pocket, nobody wants to know you.