On a hot afternoon in Mogadishu last May, I sat at my usual table in Zaytoon Restaurant, a place that felt like my safe spot. For weeks, I’d been staying at Istanbul Hotel near Java Cafe, getting used to the city while holding onto the tastes of home. I’m from Somaliland, and even though the food here was almost like back home—just a little different, like the oil they cooked with or how much spice they used—it still made me miss my family’s cooking. Zaytoon, though, got it right. So right that I ate there twice a day, their rice and chicken tasting like my grandma’s hands had made it.
That day, though, things went wrong.
The plate came out like always, rice steaming, chicken shining. But before I could take a bite, the smell hit me—a bad, rotten stink. I leaned in, paused, then touched the meat. It wasn’t just looked bad; it felt wrong, like the cook rushed and didn’t care. For a second, I just sat there. I’d trusted this place. I’d laughed with the workers, waved at other customers, even told friends, “It’s safe, I promise.” Now here I was, staring at spoiled chicken, wondering if I’d been stupid to trust them.
I didn’t shout. I didn’t make a mess. I just walked to the counter, my feet dragging like I’d been let down. “This chicken’s bad,” I said, keeping my voice quiet. The cashier’s face changed—not sorry, but scared. They asked me to wait, to let them cook something new. But I had meetings, I told them. I paid, left the food there, and walked outside, the heat biting my skin while my stomach churned.
Later that day, my phone rang. It was the manager. He sounded worried, saying sorry like he’d hurt me himself. He offered me free dinner that night, begged to fix it. I couldn’t go—my day was packed with meetings—but his call stuck with me.
Let me tell you why that rotten chicken in Mogadishu hit me so hard.
Back then, I was working for an electronics company based in Hargeisa. They’d sent me to Mogadishu to “fix the business,” which basically meant figure out why sales were crashing. And man, what I saw was wild. We sold phones, TVs, you name it—promising customers a 2-year warranty. But here’s the crazy thing: when those devices broke (and they always broke), people would come back to our shops, and we’d just… shrug. Take the faulty gadgets, stack them in a dusty corner of the warehouse, and do nothing. No repairs. No replacements. Just empty promises.
I remember staring at that pile of broken devices one day, thinking, We’re spending a fortune on billboards and radio ads to get new customers, but we’re burning the ones we already have. Why would anyone trust us again?
Then came Zaytoon.
That day, when the manager called me over one stinky chicken, it slapped me in the face. Here was a restaurant with zero ads, packed every day, because they fixed their mistakes. They didn’t hide from a customer’s complaint—they chased it. Meanwhile, my company was out here taking people’s money, swearing on warranties, then ghosting them when things went wrong.
It’s not rocket science, right? Customers aren’t stupid. If you promise a 2-year warranty, they expect you to mean it. If you serve them rotten chicken, they expect you to care. But so many businesses act like it’s enough to smile at the sale and disappear after the cash clears.
Zaytoon taught me that trust isn’t a poster or a jingle—it’s what you do after the money’s in your pocket. That free dinner they offered me? Probably cost them $5. But you know what’s cheaper than running ads 24/7 to replace angry customers? Just… fixing the problem.
I quit that electronics job not long after. Couldn’t stomach the hypocrisy. But I’ll never forget the lesson: a warranty is worthless if you don’t honor it. A restaurant’s reputation is just empty words if they let you walk away feeling cheated.
Here’s what matters: Zaytoon is on a street full of restaurants. No big signs, no fancy ads. Just a simple place in Taleex, where every shop fights for customers. But it’s always busy. That day, I saw why.
The manager didn’t have to call. He could’ve ignored it, blamed the busy kitchen, hoped I’d never come back. But he didn’t. He tracked down a customer over one bad meal, turned a mistake into something that felt like respect. It wasn’t about free food; it was about saying, We messed up, and you matter.
I’ve thought about that day a lot. How trust isn’t about never failing, but about fixing what’s broken. How a business—any business—isn’t just selling things, but keeping promises. When I went back to Zaytoon the next day, it wasn’t just routine. It was because they’d shown me who they were, not in perfect meals, but in how they handled a mess.
Success in business isn’t just money or luck. It’s choosing to do right, even when it’s hard. Zaytoon chose right. They turned bad chicken into a lesson I’ll never forget: loyalty isn’t earned when things are easy, but when they fall apart. The best businesses aren’t perfect—they’re honest.
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