Consumerism for Kenya's As and Bs

As Kenya threatened to tear itself apart at the start of this year, one institution found itself on both sides of the country's post-election crisis. A magnet both for those on the rampage and those seeking refuge, it was not an aid agency or a diplomatic mission or a church. It was a supermarket chain, Nakumatt, which counts in its loyalty card scheme Kenyans from every corner of society.

In the run-up to the country's disputed post-Christmas poll, when trouble was predicted but not on the devastating scale on which it occurred, Nakumatt was the place where the masterminds of the violence attempted to bulk-buy Kenya's weapon of choice, the machete.

Then, as the bloodshed began, in a two-month cycle that eventually claimed more than 1,000 lives, Nakumatt became the place where moderate Kenyans - appalled to see the vitriol coursing through their country - went to hoard food and stretch their legs in a rare safe haven.

The supermarket's dual role in the most traumatic period of the country's post-colonial history, as a venue both for the angry and the fearful, is testament to the central place it has come to occupy in Kenyan society.

It started out in a different trade 40 years ago: the original name was Nakuru Mattresses. But in 1987 Atul Shah, the Kenyan-Indian son of its founder, opened the group's first supermarket in an abandoned car shed, the start of a network that now extends to 19 branches. It plans to open its first stores in Rwanda, Uganda and Tanzania in the next two years, as well as 11 more in Kenya.

The feel of its 5,000 sq m outlets would be familiar to shoppers in Europe and North America: the aisles are long and the surfaces bright; the products regimented and diverse. Nakumatt has introduced Kenyans to check-out queues, the loyalty card and 24-hour shopping; to stores that stock everything from maize flour to quad bikes; and to big box malls that loom over acres of toll-free parking.

"People have identified themselves with Nakumatt," says Thiagarajan Ramamurthy, Nakumatt's operations director and the public face of the company. "It is like a second home because it is where they spend their time on the weekends with their family."

During the two-month crisis, Nakumatt closed some stores that were near potential flashpoints on a handful of days, but it made a deliberate decision to open as many as possible even as other businesses battened down the hatches. "We were the only people taking all the risks and still providing service to the people," says Mr Ramamurthy. "Rising to the occasion and doing something for them when they go through difficulties is what makes them identify with you. It was a bold decision. But we have been successful in getting into their hearts." The company says 100,000 people visit its stores every day.

Yet in a poor east African country riven by inequalities of income and education, as well as deep-seated ethnic tensions, Nakumatt is more than a supermarket. It has become a symbol of consumption and a crossroads where conflicting attitudes to globalisation collide.

If Nakumatt's strategy mirrors that of any of its US peers, says Mr Ramamurthy, it is not Wal-Mart's emphasis on offering the lowest prices to cash-strapped consumers, thoughsome customers from slum areas shop at the supermarket to guarantee the freshness of bread and milk. Instead its model is Target's focus on encouraging people to spend a little more for what he describes as "quality, value, service, variety and lifestyle".

He is most concerned with serving the 370,000 people - 1 per cent of the population - who last year provided 70 per cent of the company's $341m (£173m) revenue. They are the "As and Bs", he says, the middle- and upper-income customers who embody the "lifestyle enhancement" and "aspirational thinking" that Nakumatt aims to satisfy with its priciest products.

Demand has been squeezed by rising fuel and food prices, but on a tour of the company's flagship Westgate store in Nairobi he points proudly to stacks of carpets from Turkey, the L'Oréal cosmetics counter, Itatiaia kitchen units from Brazil, Samsonite luggage and indoor fountains crafted in China that are adorned with the figures of miniature Masai warriors. There are no machetes on display because the company, having initially limited sales to one per person, decided later to drop them entirely.

The company has "transformed consumerism", says Wambui Mwangi, assistant professor of political science at the University of Toronto, who divides her time between Canada and Kenya. It has taught people new desires and created new rituals, she says, noting how her friends set the dinner table by simply placing a hub-and-spoke cutlery holder bought from Nakumatt in the centre of it.

"Nakumatt is where you go to show you are educated and prosperous and cognisant of larger affairs," she adds. "It's an aspirational space that appeals to everyone, especially the people who can't really afford to shop there."

Alfred Omenya, an architect, academic and managing director of Eco-Build Africa, disagrees and sees in Nakumatt the creeping segregation of Kenyan society. "The guy who navigates the city on foot would be out of place there. If you have to walk to Nakumatt it's very uncomfortable. There's no pedestrian access and you have to pass through all those cars."

A small band of anti-Nakumattistas has emerged even within the car-owning classes, including Shalini Gidoomal, director of the Kwani literary festival. In spite of the inconvenience often involved, she prefers to shop in the informal sector and says Nakumatt kills off the variety and pleasures of interacting with people in markets and small stores.

"You can bargain and develop relationships. One of the reasons I didn't like living in the UK is that it's so depersonalised and to me Nakumatt represents that," Ms Gidoomal says. But she is in a minority.

One day in January when violence flared and Nakumatt was forced to close some stores, Ms Mwangi posted a sardonic blog entry that recognised the dependence so many Kenyans now have on the new-style retailer.

"The young men dragged their tear-gassed butts back on to the street, and middle-class Nairobi could not shop. It was extremely inconvenient," she wrote. "I had to wait until the next day to buy my Pepto-Bismol and a bar of chocolate. I spent the night with a stomache ache. Meanwhile, fellow citizens died some more."

Even roadside rivals find supermarket's allure hard to resist

In common with big supermarket chains in the west, Nakumatt has been accused of killing off small businesses. Violet Undisa, who works in a poky pharmacy in Nairobi's Kibera slum, for example, complains that the supermarket sells some drugs at wholesale prices.

Kepha Ngito, who runs a community group in Kibera, says: "Young people want to associate with western things. They want to be seen around Nakumatt."

However, the company's relationship with the informal sector in Kenya is more nuanced.

Its offering of everything under one roof has undoubtedly taken trade from many of the roadside kiosks that sell cooking oil, bread, sodas and bananas - including in Kibera, where ramshackle stalls are an integral part of the landscape.

Many slum residents shop at the nearby Nakumatt to take advantage of its special offers, to purchase toiletries and cosmetics not available in the slum itself, or because they trust it not to offer products beyond their sell-by dates.

Even kiosk owners admit to using it. Ahmed Juma, who sells Big G bubble gum, says Nakumatt has become a valued supplier as well as competitor. He also points out that the flow of people around its malls has created a ready market for roaming entrepreneurs who sell bric-a-bric on the streets.

Thiagarajan Ramamurthy, Nakumatt's operations director, says the supermarket is not a threat to the informal sector and that there is room for both. The company cannot compete on price, he says, because of its high rent, salary, power and logistics costs.