Sandeep Main: KPMG Africa executive on healing from bankruptcy trauma, one Excel cell at a time

Born and raised in Mombasa, Mr Main’s early years were marked by the collapse of his family’s business—a reversal that left a deep imprint on his financial philosophy.

“We were very wealthy back then, my dad with this construction company, then things went south really fast. We were auctioned off one day. The lifestyle we were used to just vanished. That’s what probably drove me to tax and accounting. We handle family business governance and structures,” he says.

This experience also shaped his relationship with money.

“I had an Excel spreadsheet, I tracked everything. When we got married, my wife found it tough. Any time she spent our money, I’d ask for the receipt so I could update the budget. It worked for me, but it wasn’t easy for her. Over time, I’ve evolved. I don’t do those spreadsheets any more, but that bankruptcy shaped me. Now I spend, but mindfully. I’ve learned the difference between a need and a want,” he says.

Today, he speaks of wealth not in terms of accumulation but stewardship. He quotes from ‘Conversations with God’ by Neale Donald Walsch, and keeps a mental catalogue of moments when he believes the universe nudged him in the right direction.

Who taught you to tie the turban?

[Chuckle] I was taught by my dad. Like him and most Sikhs would, I wear starched turbans, more like hats. I tie mine every day in the morning as a practice, you know, it’s not something I just remove and put back on.

I don’t suppose there is a turban tailor.

[Laughs] A turban is just a piece of cloth, five metres long, that you can buy locally. It’s mostly cotton or nylon, which you can cut and fashion into a turban. It’s fairly simple to make.

Are the Sikh so closely knit that everyone knows one another?

Actually, in Mombasa, we all knew each other because it’s not a big community, and it’s a much smaller town with only a couple of temples. But Nairobi has dozens and dozens of temples and many Sikhs, so it’s impossible to all know each other.

But when you run into another Sikh here in Nairobi, you look at each other and nod, at least.

[Laughs] Uhm, not always…no…[laughs].

Many people work hard, pray, wake up early and make their beds, yet they 've not made it to this office. You did. What is your edge?

I started my career very young in a mid-tier audit firm in Mombasa, where I grew up. I did audit for about four years before shifting to tax. I think a mix of discipline, patience, and innovation eventually brought me to this office two years ago.

I’m very ambitious, but my anchor has always been family and spirituality. My parents played a big role in shaping me, and now my wife and our two young ones keep me grounded.

It hasn’t been an easy journey—there were many points where I felt like giving up. People see the title today and assume it was smooth, but it’s been full of ups and downs.

I’m a big believer in the universe. Conversations with God is a book I often return to; it taught me that it’s not just about asking for guidance but being alert to the signs that follow.

I have those conversations, and I place my problems before the universe and seek guidance. But I guess—and this is really important—you can seek guidance, but if you do not see the signs, and there are many signs that come after you put a prayer, then that’s on you. Those signs, whether in work or life, have helped me navigate difficult moments that have led me here.

When did you learn to see, and not look at, signs?

Everyone has the ability to see signs—it just comes down to interpretation. Sometimes you recognise them only in hindsight. For me, I’ve learned to open myself to the universe.

If something is meant to work out, the universe will conspire to make it happen. Take the Mt Kilimanjaro summit I mentioned earlier—so much went sideways along the way.

But I had visualised myself at the top, and that vision kept me steady through the ups and downs. That’s really how I see it: signs are everywhere, but visualisation gives you the compass.

And for me, prayer is part of that process too. It’s not about asking for miracles, but about grounding myself, placing my questions before the universe, and then being alert enough to notice the answers when they come.

What kind of a boy were you growing up?

If you ask me, I was a great, obedient child. If you ask my parents, well—I’m the middle child, so they’d probably say I was a troublemaker.

My childhood was happy and carefree. My dad, now retired, was a contractor, and I loved tagging along to his sites, pretending to drive his pickup, playing outdoors with sand and cement.

We grew up in a big joint household, as is common in Indian culture. My dad and his brothers shared a large seven-bedroom house.

Between my older sister, younger brother, and three cousins, there were six of us under one roof—plenty of company, plenty of fun. Looking back, I’d say it was a very good childhood, full of lessons and laughter.

How many people live in your house currently?

Oh, now it’s just my wife and my two children.

When you compare the household situations then and now, what do you see?

It is hard, parenting is hard. My mom sometimes comes from Mombasa to stay with us, and I always tell her, “These children are driving me mad. How did you manage three?” She laughs and says that back then, in the big communal home, you barely noticed. We were always with uncles, aunts, or grandparents, so it felt lighter.

Now it’s just my wife and I. She runs a small business, but she is mostly at home with the children. And when I get back from work, the children want all my attention—it’s “Dad and us” time. It can be hectic.

What’s the hardest bit of being married for 11 years?

People keep evolving. That’s the unfair bit. [Laughs] When we got married, she was very polite, almost passive-aggressive when she wanted something. Not so much now. [Laughs]. There are these small discoveries you only make when you live together. Compromise is everything. The real work is learning what matters to the other person and what matters to you, then figuring out how to make it work.

And yes, fights happen. Sometimes over the smallest, silliest things. In the beginning, an argument could stretch for a whole week. Once the children came, we decided: we don’t go to bed angry.

Whatever the fight, it has to be resolved that day. That decision has kept us sane. Compromise is not weakness. It’s survival. Compromise is how marriage works, how life works.

And what’s the hardest part of being 42?

[Pause] That’s a tough one. Maybe I saw myself further ahead, both spiritually and financially. I always tell myself I need to wake up earlier in the day to pray, but I don’t always manage. And financially—I mean, I still rent. Sometimes I feel like by now I should already have a house.

What I’m learning is gratitude. Am I grateful? Yes, absolutely—for health, for what I have. But as humans, we’re never fully satisfied. I struggle with that. Why can’t I just be happy with what I have? Why do I keep asking myself, “Is this enough?”

My dad, now retired, does a lot of work through the Lions Club. I look at him and think, “This man has reached self-actualisation. He’s genuinely content.” And I ask myself, how do I get there? He once told me, “You do a lot for family, but you need to do something beyond family.” That’s what I’m working on now. Finding that contentment through giving. It’s doing wonders for me.

What roads have you gone down that you wish you hadn’t, in hindsight?

[Pause] I don’t know if this is fit for public consumption, but maybe, you know, what most young people seek: intoxication? That’s all I will say. [Laughs]. But a funny story: I never used to drink before I moved to Nairobi.

Even when I was interviewing for this job, they asked, “Do you drink?” and I said, “Don’t even touch it.” Then came our first retreat. Oh my God—who was that guy? [Chuckles] I was on the dance floor, grinding, no clue how I ended up in my bed. Someone must have carried me.

The next morning, people were like, “You said you don’t drink, but you looked like a pro.” [Laughs] Yeah, not good. After that, I pulled back.

These days, I’ll have a glass of wine occasionally. Only once did I really fall off. I went for a wine-tasting. You know how fresh wine tastes like grape juice? You keep drinking, thinking, this is not hitting me. By the end, oh God. I came home so drunk I couldn’t climb the stairs. I went straight to the laundry room and threw up.

In the morning, I found a stern five-page letter from my wife. She packed up and went to her dad’s house. I was fine with it because it gave me a chance to sleep off the hangover. [Laughs].

Of course, when I woke up, bought flowers and gifts and went to fetch her. So yes, those are roads I won’t go down again. But still—life is about experiences, right? You try, you fail, you learn.

What’s been your biggest crisis in life?

The worst was back in my childhood, when the bankruptcy happened. We were very wealthy back then, my dad with his construction company, then things went south really fast.

We were auctioned off one day. I watched everything disappear right before my eyes. We had a fleet of pickups, cars, lorries—gone one by one.

Recovering from that was a real crisis for me. I was about 14 or 15 years old, and it left a mark. Suddenly, we had to downscale. The lifestyle we were used to just vanished.

And probably that’s what drove me to what I do today in terms of tax and accounting. We handle a lot of family business governance and structures, because the reason we went that direction was governance structures.

Did that experience shape your relationship with money?

Of course. My wife struggled with it at first. Before we got married, I had an Excel spreadsheet where I tracked everything. When we got married, my wife found it tough.

Any time she spent our money—our money—I’d ask for the receipt so I could update the budget. It worked for me, but it wasn’t easy for her. Over time, I’ve evolved. I don’t do those spreadsheets anymore, but that bankruptcy shaped me. Now I spend, but mindfully.

I’ve learned the difference between a need and a want. And I’m very proactive about investing, about growing wealth—not just keeping money in the bank to spend.

In closing, the turban...again. Do you have several turbans that you match with your suits?

Ideally, no—we don’t have strict rules. Of course, we don’t cut our hair. Now, yes, there are Sikhs who are more fashionable than I am, and they’ll wear different turbans. My brother, for example, has multicoloured ones—pink, red, blue, black, white. You can wear any colour you want.

The reason we wear the turban is identification. We can’t hide. You can’t do something wrong and then hide—you must be seen. That’s the primary reason. And of course, we don’t cut our hair.

It goes back to the story of Samson and Delilah: the strength of an individual is in the hair. That’s what we believe—this is your true self.

Traditionally, older Sikhs will wear white. White signifies spirituality, purity. That’s why you’ll often see aged Sikhs in white turbans. I wear black because I’m more tuned to it—and black goes with anything.

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