My Somali Looks Nearly Send me to Jail Over Christmas

I nearly spent Boxing Day behind bars courtesy of an innocent morning walk. As soon as my feet touched the cold floor, I knew I had to go for a walk  in spite of my limited knowledge of the geography of the neighborhood in which I had spent the night. The reality of the consequences of being indiscriminately fed by relatives and friends and my inability to resist the delicious dishes was beginning to have a toll on me. When I stepped out of bed, my knees complained with a dull ache. I thanked God I had not seen any weighing scales in my chosen resort. I am willing to call it a resort because it looks like one. Perhaps its the  effect of the environment conscious gazeebo whose design involves no concrete except a few recyled pieces of wood. The rest is live plants growing out of recycled bottles, cups, pots, Coca-Cola cases, and even a water dispenser all so professionally organised round a real tree. When the light comes on at night, you will be forgiven for thinking you are being treated to a bush dinner. This environment must have done things to my already voracious appetite. I was willing to bet the scales would have tipped two kilos in the wrong direction.  I resisted the temptation to look for one. I was not yet ready to confront the results of two weeks of indolence and over indulgence.

By some not so strange coincidences relatives had been inviting me to their homes left, right and centre.  Everyone had a goat to offer. My father-in-law had to be perusaded in passionate pleas to spare a choice bull. You cannot just turn down such invitations of honour just because you are terrified of weighing scales. Relatives would find this a weak-kneed lie and you could easily become the butt of jokes to be shared in family gatherings for a good part of the new year. It might not even be beyond some of them to publicly reckon that you might have become a witch. I am neither averse to goat ribs, mūtura, ndūndīro or goathead soup nor committed enough to watching my waistline as to risk being called a witch. So I had been indulging liberally and my knees were responding appropriately.

Memories of the previous two nights hazily obtruded into my consciousness as I lazily stared into space trying to rouse my system into some action.  On the 24th of Dec, what had been scheduled as a dinner date with my brother’s family had turned into a late night dinner. My daughter’s body had chosen just about lunch hour to summon its feminine powers to attack her with the most monstrous cramps.

“ I can see St Peter’”she joked with a painful look on her face.

 “Stop looking at him”,  I stole a line from one of  Tyra Perry’s dramas trying to distract her. 

She tried a smile but I could see colour had drained from her face. We had to take her to Nairobi hospital. We spent inordinately lengthy periods of time just filling forms and shuttling from one desk to another to sign this or that commitment. Jubilee Insurance’s failure to have updated our records did not help. 

We eventually found ourselves in the consultation room with a young, amiable and professional male clinical officer. My daughter had to have pain killers injected intravenously for quick pain relief, he said. They would also have to draw blood to check for infection and blood count as she was complaining of feeling faint and nauseous. She was put into a clean cubicle, a tourniquet was strapped around her biceps and a needle pushed through one of her veins just above the inside of her elbow. Blood was drawn and a pain killer injected. The results of the blood test would take 1.5 hours,  the nurses nonchalantly explained to us.  They were relaxed. They had no where to go and no deadlines to keep. They took their sweet time on just about anything that came their way. The pleas in my eyes went unnoticed. It was now getting to 6pm and our Christmas eve dinner was looking pretty much ruined. I walked up and down the hospital corridors trying to make time pass quickly. It didn’t work.

 At about 8pm, my phone vibrated. There was a message from the lab saying the results were ready. We showed the message to one of the nurses. She had no clue. After a  brief consultation with her colleagues over the phone, she confirmed it and promised to link us to the next available doctor. I wanted to ask for the amiable clinical officer but fearing pro-longing our stay at the hospital, I held my horses. It was a lovely lady whose rank was not indicated on her badge who finally came to see my daughter. She smiled and explained that everything was normal safe for an indication of mild viral infection for which no medication would be required. She was only going to give painkillers for the cramps. 

With a prescription in hand, we headed to the Chemist.

“Please have a sit and wait for your turn. We will call you” I was told.  My heart sank. This, for me,  was code for "brace yourself for an excruciatingly long wait ". I grit my teeth and meekly took my seat . After what appeared like eternity, I could stand it no longer. 

“Is there a problem with my prescription”, I was back at the counter. 

“What is the name sir”, asked the lady behind the counter as if she was talking to no one in particular. She typed the particulars without once looking at me as I gave them to her. I guess silence and avoiding eye contact is their way of discouraging personal engagement or relationship. I heard something printing in an adjacent room.

 “Please take this to the payments counter for stamping”,  someone had mechanically dropped the print out on her desk and she was conveying it to me while looking at her screen. 

“Wow!” I muttered under my breath cynically. It took every ounce of restraint I could gather not to click and curse loudly.  I wanted to ask what the heavens she had been waiting for and why I had to visit the payments counter if the insurance details were in the system.  I held my tongue and swallowed the lump in my throat. I just wanted to get out of this place. My brother had been calling incessantly worried that we would be unable to beat the 10.00pm curfew.

 A few minutes past 9.00pm I  picked the painkillers. They cost ksh 380. We had spent nearly 6 hours to pick pain killers you can buy over the counter at less than three US dollars. I wasn’t complaining though. I was happy to leave the hospital knowing there really was nothing wrong with my daughter. It felt like escaping the hangman’s noose.  Traffic was heavy especially at Utawala on the Eastern Bypass. The spirit of recklessness seemed to have descended  with fury on drivers on that route. Over wrapping and driving on wrong lanes was slowly bringing the impatient drivers to a halt. "This is a recipe for disaster" I voiced my frustration and fears under my breath to no one in particular. We snaked our way through the confusion. Curfew beaten, we were rapturously welcomed into my brother’s Kamulu home by the entire family including three lovely dogs in spite of their apparent rancorous barking. There was also a neighbor. He was looking deceptively older than the 44 years age he declared. They said his name was Kamau. He was here to make sure the barbecue was in tip-top shape. He did not disappoint.

By the number of beer cans and bottles of different brands of spirits, I did not rack my brains as to the source of mirth floating around. Kamau was especially in his elements. His clean shaven head made it difficult to determine where his face begun. The shape and size of his ears reminded me of Barack Obama. The ears seemed to get taut and elongate upwards like those of a rabbit in deep concentration. He appeared to think with  everything above his kneck. Lips would shape ready to pronounce words, eyes narrowed with concentration and the forehead seemed to tighten before he gathered sufficient details from his memory. He gave the impression of a stammerer in an internal struggle before articulating his thoughts.  However , Kamau is no stammerer. Once he got going, there was no stopping him. He followed his train of thought to the very end without any due regard to whatever anyone said or did in between. He was at pains to prove he was from Gatanga in Mūrang’a where most Kikuyu musicians hail from. The man, who claimed he was irresistibly seduced by a beautiful lady and hence  discontinued his priestly training as a catholic father, regaled us with drunken delivery of lyrics from Gatanga’s greats interspersed with religious hymns. He seemed to know most of the lyrics by heart and was not embarrassed even when  he missed a key or two. We did not notice the passage of time till 4am when we crawled into our beds. 

Half of Christmas Day was spent stretching and turning sleeplessly in bed. We probably should have rested the whole day but being true sons and daughters of the soil from the slopes of the Aberdare ranges, we had to look around for possible land deals. We spent the afternoon driving around swathes of land in Joska area where it appears the Nairobi middle class has invaded with a vengeance. We gawked at massive houses seemingly making up for location limitations with spectacular architectural designs. An intricate Murram road network soon put us in a spin. We were here to locate a piece of land I had bought years ago and only once visited before. I was sure I could find it when I suggested we visit but after numerous random turns, I knew I had no clue where this object of pride lay. Nevertheless I kept driving. The huge water tanks on reinforced steel structures  and numerous boreholes confirmed the plainly obvious. If you settle here, you have to deal with water challenges. The car was getting quiet. 

'‘Nevertheless we have had the chance to see what investments Kenyans are putting up in this part of the city. Nairobi has extended to here as you can see",  I tried to lighten the moment and distract my hostages from the fact that we were lost and I had no clue how to sort out the problem. I was given polite grunts. I drove on. Sometimes I would declare we had gone too far and turn back. In silence my victims acquiesced with the exception of a few polite and consolation remarks about the therapeutics of an afternoon drive in the fresh air of an  upcoming settlement. Suddenly my brother had a light bulb moment. 

“There”, he said.

“What?” We asked almost in unison. 

“That is Ngeruro’s house”,  he exclaimed. 

“What?”, “for real?”, “you are kidding” multiple voices responded. 

Incredulous. We had, without design, found ourselves right next to my immediate elder brother’s new house still under construction. We couldn’t believe it. We had to confirm. Calls were made.  In a short while, we were being given a tour of the incomplete house by a caretaker who was somehow summoned from a shopping center nearby for this purpose. We did eventually find my piece of gold but the highlight of the drive remained the accidental locating of our brother’s project.  Somehow that wiped away my sins and mirth returned to the car .

****

By the time we had had dinner and told tall stories about the heroics of  our childhood  days to our enthralled children and their friends, it was way beyond midnight. The dogs started acting up and barking. We corked our ears. It was now Boxing Day and we were not expecting visitors. The  door bell rang and a man I only know as chief staggered into the compound. He really is a chief. A government officer. He was clearly in no shape to perform any government functions. He was looking hammered. He moved silently though he shaped his mouth as if he was about to say something funny. I suspect that in his head , he was hearing voices. He hugged everyone.  With twinkling eyes, his wide smile never left his face for once. Each time before he hugged someone he would point at them, stagger back as if that helped him view them better and then wobble  towards them smiling and arms wide open  ready for a bear hug. In his tow was another man  I had never seen before.  This one later turned out to be a different kettle of fish altogether. His claim to be a wine maker was validated by chief but he made rather wild claims also. His vast  grape farms  in South Africa, for example,  and even more bizarrely that all Uganda’s fruits can be traced to his singular effort. I stared with as much a blank face as possible. I was not ready for a mid-night brawl with an unhinged drunk.  I suspected the stories mainly had a semblance of truth but had more than their share of spice. I kept the thoughts to myself. If you want drunks to go to sleep , don't engage them. It worked. Before long Chief had conked out and his friend had to take him home.

******

When I  hit the road an Boxing Day I wasn’t exactly feeling on top of the world but neither was I grumpy. This was the first time in a long time that I was in Nairobi with no agenda, no deadlines, no speeches and no hands on responsibilities. I felt free. No one was asking me to wear a mask and as I was as going to walk in the open I saw no need to wear one. It felt great to take a whiff of natural smells. I unbuttoned my African patterned shirt to reveal a white vest inside. I felt like Nick Slaughter, the lead character of the action comedy series Tropical Heat. As I walked and the morning breeze hit my face, the theme song played back in my head but only the chorus was precise “ Anyway the wind blows, it blows right back to me, little one”.  I was in a good mood so I said hello to anyone who deigned to look me in the eye, and most did. In hindsight, I guess they all knew I did not belong and wondered where I had dropped from walking around with an open shirt in the morning. 

For fun and to make sure I would find my way back home, I read and memorized the names of streets, pubs, estates, churches and anything I thought could help locate me if I needed to explain where I had been. Other than my mobile phone, I had nothing else on me. No money, no wallet, no identity cards or anything I could use to proof who I was. My battery was running low but I still had some power. After a few attempts to memorize signs, streets and other locators, something struck me as bizarre. Why, nearly sixty years after independence, was none of the names of streets, signs, adverts,  or estates in local languages. Had colonialism been this effective. Ngūgī Thiong’o's Decolonizing the Mind” begun assuming greater significance in my mind. I started taking pictures. Perhaps I could study them later and try and find the genesis of the names. Jerusalem court. Denver Academy, Sunrise Estate, Summer Rock School, Drumvale Drive, Emmanuel Road. I was struggling to find something in a local language. Then I found one with a curios name: Roga Roga Foods and Butchery.  I took a picture. "Roga Roga" used to be Fred Machoka's signature call phrase for his rather popular radio shows. This could not be his joint, could it? I wondered.

“We have noticed you took a picture of my premise. Why?”  

I was startled. I had not noticed that there were two rugged looking men sitting on a stone right behind me across the road. Their shirts looked old and unwashed. Their feet were bare. Their trousers were so brown with dirt it was difficult to determine their original color. They squinted at me as if they had been chewing kat or smoking something illegal. It was  difficult to believe that  any one of them could be the owner of anything, let alone the rather dilapidated “restaurant” that clearly had seen better days.

“I want to be able to remember this place to bring my family for Christmas celebrations”, I replied placatingly and walked on.  Their eyes menacingly followed me up clearly indicating they were unconvinced. Without rising on their feet, their stares sent me a chilling message: “get out of here”. I looked back after some paces away from them. Their stares had not left. I walked on with a feigned self-assurance. I was a bit more relieved when I turned a corner out of their sight. I continued taking pictures. I tried to blend but the occasional  quizzical eyes suggested they knew I did not belong. I began feeling like a marked man. I have to go back home” I told myself. Perhaps I had become too much engrossed taking pictures to take note of my turns. I could not not find my way back. I however knew the direction to Kangundo Road and I knew once I got there, I could find my way home. 

I was sweaty and thirsty when I finally got  home at about 10.30 in the morning. My feet felt better. I felt some sense of achievement after a warm shower.  At the gazebo, breakfast fit for a king was on the table. I was ready. I wasn’t going to let my hosts down. I was about to get cracking when our nephew came running. He looked scared witless. “Kuna masoldiers wawili kwa gate", he declared. “Two soldiers at the gate?” I sought to confirm from the young man. He was tongue tied. He just pointed to the gate. “They came in a land rover. It’s parked outside”, he continued breathless and conspiratorially. 

”Why would two soldiers pay us a visit so early in the morning”, my brother asked with concern in his voice. 

“Have we been accused of breaching the peace last night”, his wife asked. 

We looked at each other. Had we been heard singing boisterously late into the night and had a neighbour complained?  My brother walked to the gate. We waited with baited breath. What had we done and did the police want to arrest us? Away from us, my brother and the police talked in undertones. We could not hear their conversation. 

“Ask baba twins to come”,  I heard my brother instruct our nephew. I was being summoned to join the police. They call me Baba Twins here courtesy of my two sets of twins. What had I done? As I walked towards them, I could feel the eyes of the policemen poring over me head to toe. 

“We have been alerted that a Somali looking man fitting your description has been walking around the estate wearing khaki shorts and taking pictures. He entered into this compound, Was that you?” The policeman wasted no time. 

“Yes I was out there wearing khaki shorts and taking some pictures. Is there a problem”, I was trying my best to sound confident and innocent. 

“Why were you taking pictures and where is the camera you were using to take the pictures”, the tone of the voice was both a request and a command. I knew he wanted evidence and he was not going to ease on it. At the corner of my eye I saw two familiar faces. I paid attention. They were staring at me intently. As if waiting for me to make a wrong move.

“Did I not meet you this morning? Were you not the ones who asked why I was taking pictures of your premise?", I asked.

They looked at me ambiguously as if unsure if they should confirm the fact or not . The policeman eyed us as if we were two scientific specimens.  I took out my phone and flipped through my pictures. I showed the policeman.

 "These are the pictures I took. I was interested in the names of streets", I said pleadingly .  He looked at me unconvinced . 

"Come with me", I told him as I walked towards my car. "This is my car", I said pointing at what must have appeared to everyone else a strange number plate . "Does it tell you something ?", I asked hopefully. It paid off. 

"Yes, it does", he replied. 

The two familiar faces had followed us. They were now looking impressed.

 "We are sorry gentlemen but we are extra vigilant this festive season. We are not taking chances", said the police man. 

"You are doing brilliant work, its impressive to be honest ", I said genuinely.   "And you too gentlemen, thanks for being vigilant", I said to the familiar faces. "You too did not take chances", I added while wondering how they had followed me all through without my being aware I was being monitored. I was glad to have been spared a trip to the police station in the government landrover.