NGO – Getting All Tangled Up In the Acronyms

When I started working at the NGO, it was the first time I was exposed to an actual office environment. As a cab driver, the only paper work I had was a work sheet. This as the name implies, was a single sheet of paper on which we recorded all the jobs we undertook, the time it took, the kilometres covered, and how much was paid. At the end of the shift, all we had to do was hand in the work sheet, signed vouchers, and any cash collected during the shift.

The NGO on the other hand, had mountains of different documents. These myriad documents were handled by equally many and diverse staff. Whereas I had been used to a simple organizational structure at the taxi company, it took a while to even start understanding the NGO. There were so many people most of whom had rather complex titles. They were so complex that most had been reduced to acronyms for ease of memory and also pronunciation.

As I have mentioned before, I was driver cum janitor. Consequently, I had to clean all the offices. On some days, I would get a bit overwhelmed and thus be unable to clean some of the offices properly. There was a particular time when I didn't get to clean one of the offices and my supervisor was trying to point out which one it was. She blurted out,”You didn't clean the OSMs office!” I could not immediately tell which office she was talking about and so I asked her which one she meant. “The one next to the SGSMs office!” she answered. That really complicated matters for me and I ended up more confused than before.

 
I was to later learn that OSM stood for Operations Support Manager, while SGSM was short for Sponsorship and Grants Support Manager. I also came to know that my immediate supervisor’s acronym ESC stood for Executive Support Coordinator.  The country director was simply referred to as the CD and years later when I became freer with the director, I claimed the same acronym for myself. I used to tell people that our organization had only two CDs. These were the country director, and the country driver. Fortunately for me, our then director was not an insecure type and she took the joke lightly.

The complexity of names in that organization was not restricted to job titles. It also affected the names of documents and computer software. GL stood for General Ledger while PO was short for Program Outline.

Some common documents shared acronyms and one had to specify the particular one they meant. A particularly ambiguous abbreviation was PPM. It denoted regularly used documents in two different departments. PPM stood for Programs and Projects Modules in the program department. It also stood for Personnel Policy Manual in the Human Resource department. Fortunately for us however, the programs version of PPM was referred to as PPM Ndugu, probably in honour of the Tanzanian comrade who designed it. This greatly helped us in differentiating the two.

When I joined the organization, there was constant talk of a CSP that was about to expire. I didn't know what a CSP was and so I was rather apprehensive about its anticipated expiration. I had to find out what it was so as not to be caught off-guard. I was relieved to learn that CSP simply meant Country Strategic Plan, and it ran for five years before a new one was made. The anxiety created by that particular CSP stemmed from the fact that the regional office that was supposed to approve it had been constantly rejecting it while demanding that major changes be made to it. Eventually however – And relievingly so – we got our brand new CSP.

Topping up The Condom Jar

One of the privileges I experienced working as a janitor was the free access I had to the ladies wash-room. I could walk in at any time in my official capacity as the cleaner. Our office had several wash-rooms set aside specifically for our lady colleagues – one in each wing. The ladies toilets were identical to the gent’s toilets apart from the presence of the discreet sanitary disposal units. There was one of the toilets though, which had an extra unique feature. It had a large clear glass jar in one corner on the floor. It looked like the kind of jar that is normally used to store cookies. This jar however, did not contain cookies. It had something more important than cookies. It was full of condoms – At least it was when I started working there as a janitor.

The condom jar became a bench mark for cleanliness in the office. My supervisor would pick it up and scrutinize it while looking for any signs of dust or stains. She would seemingly ignore the contents, much to my disappointment. I was so curious about that jar. It portended so many unanswered questions like; who came up with the ingenious idea? Or who brought the jar and stocked it up? And who among my colleagues were the beneficiaries of the contents? These were the questions that passed through my mind every morning as I held it against the light and carefully wiped it clean. During my first few weeks of work at that office, I concluded that nobody picked condoms from the jar. I continued with my daily ritual of cleaning and observing the jar and its contents. After some time I noticed something very strange. The level of condoms in the jar was going down slowly but very surely.

From the day I discovered that the condoms were actually being used up, I couldn't help but view the ladies in our office differently. Every time I saw one walk into the wash-room, I would wonder whether she was going to answer a call of nature or of the hormones. It’s painful that I will never know. At least I now know why many ladies carried their handbags to the wash-room and left with a smile.

Our office had an interesting culture. When people reported to the office in the morning, they would head straight to the kitchen to get their tea and bread (we used to “convert” one packet of milk into bread but it would still appear as milk in the books of accounts). Since almost everyone would be in the kitchen at the same time, some informal discussions would take place and it was often said that the most important decisions were made there. The office chatterboxes would have a field day in the kitchen and their discussion group was eventually christened ‘The Kitchen Cabinet’.   

It was during one kitchen cabinet session that I jokingly talked about the condom jar in the ladies wash room and the ‘dangerously’ low level it had reached. Many members of the kitchen cabinet were in senior management and I hoped that one of them would use his ‘influence’ to get us replenishment – hopefully for free. When I talked about the jar, I thought it would be news to the men. I was surprised to hear almost every man in the kitchen cabinet describe that jar in impeccable detail. I didn't expect them to have seen it. I was the only man allowed in the ladies wash-room so I wondered how and when they had not only seen it, but also scrutinized it closely.

Needless to say, that kitchen cabinet session ended in typical chauvinistic laughter, and no solution was arrived at to address the dwindling supply of an apparently essential commodity. I never got to satisfy my curiosity as to who among our modest colleagues were the consumers of the commodity – maybe it was the ‘unusually’ informed male members of the kitchen cabinet, or both men and women. Anyhow, all the condoms got used up and eventually even the jar disappeared. I guess one of the ladies thought it would make a nice cookie jar for her children.

Unceremoniously Locking Myself Out

On the second day at my new work place, I planned to be more organized. I passed by the kiosk on my way to the office and collected the milk. I had timed the milk boiling duration the previous day and realized that eight packets of milk took exactly fifteen minutes to boil. I set the big sufuria (pot) full of milk on the stove and put it on. The fifteen minutes were just enough to clean the ladies and gents toilets, and vacuum the reception which had a wall to wall carpet. After putting the milk in the flasks, I now had adequate time to clean three offices whose occupants usually arrived early. After about an hour of frantic work, I was ready to face the day.

When everyone had settled down for the day, I was looking forward to the main work in my job description – Driving. My then supervisor had a lot of work for me. I was to deliver some letters to all embassies and foreign missions in Nairobi. Those were a lot of letters. I however didn't have a problem in locating the places owing to my long experience as a cab driver. I arranged the letters according to route and wrote them down in that order in the delivery book in which each one of them had to be signed for. I set off with my “newly” assigned car which was an old Isuzu trooper.

With the zeal of a recently released prisoner, I got down to work and in three hours, I had delivered more than half of all the letters. I was on a roll when I went to deliver the letter for the Swedish embassy. The embassy was, and I believe still is, located in Lion place on Waiyaki way. I remember parking in the squeezed parking lot and the security guards telling me to be out in a hurry or find my car clamped. I assured them I wouldn't be long, banged the car door shut, and rushed to the lift just as the door was closing. As promised, it didn't take me long to deliver the letter and have the secretary sign my book.

Back downstairs, the impatient guards were waiting for me. They were suggesting that I give them “something small” for letting me park at the “executive” lot. Much as I would have wanted to be generous, I was not in a position to do so. The only money I had in my pocket was bus fare for going home in the evening. I politely brushed them off as I reached into my pocket for the car keys. I got that sunken feeling when I realized I didn't have them. As I tried to recall where I could have dropped the keys, I saw them. They were “safely” inserted in the ignition. That was the one place where they could never get lost. What to do now was the question. I was stuck.

When one is in any dilemma in Nairobi, people are always willing to help – at a small fee. In a few minutes, every security guard within a hundred meter radius was there to “help”. I knew I could not afford the help and yet I needed assistance. Problems do not come singly and that day was no exception. My boss called. I was needed in the office urgently and so I was supposed to drop what I was doing and head back. I tried to convince her that that was not going to be possible but when she insisted, I had to tell her the truth. She was not amused. She asked me to report on any progress with my problem.

With the office sorted out, I could now focus on the job at hand. I looked for the kindest looking guard in the big mob that had surrounded me and my car. When I saw one, I pulled him aside and asked him if he could help me with a wire hanger. He went to his small cubicle and unhooked the hanger on which he had hung his coat. I took the hanger, unclasped the coiled end, and used it to unlock the car. I was grateful to the guard and also to my time working in a garage where one of the skills I learnt was to unlock car doors with a wire.

Janitorial Orientation

The time had come to say goodbye to the colleagues and clients I had known for the four eventful years as a cab driver. I remember the last clients I ferried quite well. They were a group of workers from the British Airways cargo section who were my regular clients and I used to carry them every day to the airport and back to their homes. When I told them that that was my last assignment, they could not believe their ears. I told them that I already had a letter of appointment from my new work place and I had also handed in my resignation. I had been excited since I passed the interview but looking at my beloved clients faces now, I was not so sure. Anyhow, as soon as I dropped the last one off, I went back to base one and parked my car for the last time.

My colleagues were envious and sad at the same time. I was not so sure any more if I really wanted to leave but I put on a brave face and told myself that this was the day I had prayed for for a long time.

The following day, I wore the best trouser and shirt I could find, and finished off the look with a tie. I arrived at my new work place at 7 am. When I walked through the gate, the guard asked me harshly, “Iko wapi?” (Where is it?). I had no idea what he was asking about. He asked me where the milk was. I suddenly remembered that my new job title was Driver\Janitor. In addition to driving, I was also supposed to make tea and clean the office. It was the first time I got to know the meaning of the title, janitor. It always sounded like a highly technical job. It was alright, but not in the way I had imagined. I sullenly walked back to the nearby kiosk and picked the milk. I went back to the office and proceeded to make tea. While it boiled, I had to go and clean the offices and toilets while making sure there was enough tissue paper. On getting back to the kitchen, the milk had boiled over. Right then I realized that I had to find a practical formula or else my new job would be in jeopardy.

When the tea boiled and I poured it into the flasks ready for the staff, I observed that there were no clean cups. Instead, there was a big heap of dirty dishes at the sink. I frantically got to washing them because it suddenly dawned on me that people would not be able to take tea as soon as they came into the office. It was while I was doing the dishes that my colleague and fellow driver walked in. By virtue of me being the last one to be hired, had been transformed into the ‘senior’ driver. He didn't have to clean any more and he seemed to be enjoying that fact. He was amused by my tie and couldn't understand why I thought I needed it. He kindly advised me to remove it or risk it getting soaked in dirty dish water. Needless to say, that was the second last time I wore a tie while working at that organization. The last time was much later when I sat for an interview, but that is the story for another day.

That first day was quite tough for me but thankfully, the staff was friendly and helpful. After a few hours, there was a semblance of order in my kitchen and toilets. I was now ready for my first driving assignment. My then supervisor asked me to drop one of the lady members of staff in town. I was a bit nervous since this was my first time ever to work in an office environment. The lady was nice and talkative and we got on quite well. When we reached her meeting venue and she was about to alight, I had to consciously hold myself back from asking her to pay for the trip. It was the first time in years that I had ferried a passenger for “free”.

When I drove back to the office, I was depressed to find the heap of cups at the sink just as high as I had found it in the morning. The flasks were also empty. These office types can drink a lot of tea in a very short time. Oh well, I had asked for it. My janitorial orientation was just starting and I was getting the impression that the only beautiful thing about being a janitor was the name.

Partaking of a Prophesy

We were like vultures and could smell a potential client from miles away. When a person who had been spotted from afar off came nearer and was confirmed to be a passenger, it became a matter of fearful competition to see which driver would be the lucky one. We would jostle among ourselves and each of us had our own technique to attract passengers to our car. The technique I found most effective was by a guy by the name Robert. He used to let us rush to and crowd around the client but he would stand next to his car. As the client came closer, he would open the rear door and say in a cool voice, “Welcome”. Many of my colleagues used to claim that he used witchcraft to woo clients. I thought differently because I could tell that all he had above us was good PR.

One of the most longstanding passenger wooing techniques is the raised forefinger accompanied by the shout, “Taxi!” One group of clients that we used to like were drivers for the big NGOs. They used to drive to base in their huge four wheel drive vehicles fitted with winches and hi-lift jacks. The loudest shouter of “Taxi!” would be asked to follow the NGO driver to his office where he would park the big car and be dropped home in the taxi.

These NGO drivers were so cool and each of us held secret ambitions of one day landing a job as an NGO driver. My own ambition however, was not held so secretly. I would take every opportunity when several of us were at base, to taut my colleagues. I used to tell them that I was with them for only a short while and soon I would join a big NGO. I told them they would raise the ‘Taxi!’ Finger at me and plead with me to let them follow me as I parked my big car. They were not amused and neither did they take me seriously. They dismissed me as a day dreamer. This however did not discourage me, I continued prophesying.

I had a really nice client who I often drove around since she always asked that I be the one to pick her up. She worked for one of the International NGOs but I did not know then what position she held there. We used to have interesting discussions whenever I drove her and every trip seemed too short. One day, one of her workmates who also happened to be my friend informed me that there was an open vacancy for a driver at their organisation. He advised me to apply and try my luck. I sent my application and waited although I didn’t think much about it.

One week later, I received a call. I was being invited for an interview. I was quite nervous as I prepared for the interview since I didn’t know what to expect. The day of the interview arrived soon enough and I set off. I had been told to come in at 10 am but I thought that was just a test (All interviews are held early in the morning – or so I thought). I got to the area at 8 am and waited at a nearby bus stop shelter. At 9 am I walked in only to realize that there were 10 interviewees slotted for grilling and each of us had his own time. I had to wait again and this only helped to turn me into a bag of nerves. After what seemed like ages of nail biting anxiety, it was finally my turn and I was called in.

When I walked in, the first face I saw was of my friend. My favourite passenger was seated there in the company of two other ladies. From the look of things, she appeared to be in charge – which she was. I was to learn later that she was the Human Resource Manager. I managed to relax and the interview went well. The rest as they say is history. I passed the interview despite being failed once in the practical test. The ladies who had interviewed me demanded a second opinion and I was retested by a different person. I had gotten the job and was now no longer a taxi driver. I wondered how my ‘former’ colleagues would react once they realized that my prophesy had come true, and they would have to fight for a chance to drive me home. Only time would tell.

Search for the Elusive MAU MAU Truth

My new car, “Omega”, came at a time when being a cabbie had become completely natural to me. I didn't get lost anymore and I no longer got intimated by my passengers. Every day was exciting for me.  I looked forward to meeting new people and learning about what they do. I could get diverse information ranging from banking to astrology, for free from my clients. I also got to visit many places in Nairobi and also away in the country side. I was finally comfortable and happy with my job – new car, new places, new people, what more could I ask for? What I didn't realize then, was that I had such a limited time there.

There is an organization known as the Kenya Human Rights Commission and as the name implies, it deals with rights issues. KHRC as its known in short has a transport contract with our company. This meant that we handled a lot of their staff and visitors on many occasions. It was on one such assignment for the KHRC that I got the chance to drive the current Chief Justice Willy Mutunga. At that time he was working with the KHRC and they had a group of visitors from different. I recall them discussing the famous Kenyan detention without trial and one of the visitors asked Mutunga how long he was detained. He casually replied, “Eighteen months”. They were so shocked that somebody could be imprisoned for so long but the CJ added, “That is a short time by Kenyan standards”. Nobody had the heart for that discussion again and they started talking about easier subjects.

Around the same time, the KHRC has just completed preliminary findings that showed that the British government had violated the rights of the MAU MAU guerillas. All they needed now was some hard evidence to support their case. They got three young professionals. These were recent graduates and  were bubbling with energy. Two were ladies who had just been admitted to the bar as advocates, and the other one was a young man who was had just graduated from the school of journalism. The trio was charged with collecting  as much information as possible from as many MAU MAU war veterans as they could find. To do this they had to go to the one place in Kenya with the highest concentration of the former freedom fighters. This as it turns out, happened to be in what is in present day Nyeri county. Our company chose Omega for the assignment and it was going to be on my shift.

I was excited on the morning we left since a trip out of the congested city was always welcome. Apparently somebody had done a pre-visit and discovered dense clusters of the senior citizens in the areas of Othaya and Mukurweini. Consequently, all our forays were going to be in these two areas. We were early and by 8 am, we arrived at the first major town of Nyeri, a place known as Karatina. We took our breakfast there as we bought time, ostensibly to give the old guys time to wake up and congregate at a predetermined venue. After breakfast we drove off and an hour later we arrived at Othaya. There was already a big crowd of very old men and women gathered outside an old hall which was yet to be opened. I couldn't wait to hear their story.

Once everybody was settled inside, the video camera, voice recorder, and note books were put at the ready. It was going to be a long day since the old people talk extremely slowly. The story was long but interesting. I came to realize that some of the people were more willing to talk than others. The ones who were hesitant to talk were those who the others said had been senior-most within the MAU MAU rankings. They were the generals and they had the most to tell but they were not talking. We urgently needed to find out what was wrong. We came to learn that there is an oath of secrecy that was administered to all those who fought in the war. This oath was in levels with the highest being the sixth. Apparently, the higher the level, the deeper the secrecy. All was not gloom though because at Othaya, we got to meet the former president Kibaki's sister who had also been a MAU MAU fighter.

The next day we went to Mukurweini and the story was the same. The people who were at the heart of the action were not talking. They were acting as if they were senile and they would say things that did not make sense. We still got our story though from those who had taken less than three oaths, but getting it from the horse's mouth proved to be a tall order.

I was happy to hear the old men getting compensated some weeks ago but we shall probably never get to know the whole story of what really transpired in those dark days. Only God knows.

New Car, New Baby

I had never driven a brand new car before. I was as excited as a small boy. The company had just acquired 10 brand new Nissan Sunny N16s and I was in line for a promotion. I got a shiny new metallic green one code named “Omega”. It came complete with polythene wrappings on the seats. My partner and I decided that since the wrappings were the only proof that the car was new, we were not going to remove them – at least not just yet. After three days however, we had to remove them owing to the sweaty backs due to the hot Nairobi weather. Our clients were also not too keen to sit on polythene just to please two naive drivers.

I was handed the new car the same month that my wife was due to deliver our second child. It was a double blessing – A new car and a new baby. The rest of my colleagues who also got the new cars were very excited. We had just proved again that ours was the premier taxi company in Nairobi and by extension, the whole of the country. The cars were different from what we were used to however and despite being Japanese, they had a European convention. Their wiper control was on the right hand side of the steering column while their lights switch was on the left. This led to embarrassing moments when a driver would put on the wipers when he meant to flash the headlights in a show-off.

New car aside, I was anxious to get my new baby. I was going through the toughest time of fatherhood. It was that time in the pregnancy where everybody is at the mercy of the unborn child. Every day as I left home for work, I would wonder whether today would be the day. I did not have long to wait. The day came one week after I had been given the new car. I was at work when I got the call from home that labor pains had set in. I was informed that my wife had been taken to a nearby hospital. I was tense but optimistic that everything would turn out well. That was not to be as I received a terse call later in the evening which completely changed the mood.

Apparently, my wife had developed a condition known as cord prolapse. I was told go to the hospital immediately and transfer her to a different hospital since the one she was in did not have the required facilities. She needed an immediate caesarian section operation. I requested the manager to allow me to take the car to go and transfer my wife and he agreed. I drove off and found her writhing in pain on a bench. She was with a friend from home who assisted me to get her into the one week old car. We drove the short distance to the better equipped hospital and the doctor was called from his house nearby.

By the time the doctor arrived, I was a bag of nerves and didn't know what to expect. When the doctor was about to examine my wife, he gave me a look that made me realize why African men are not allowed in delivery rooms. He ordered me out and for once, I didn't mind another man looking under my wife's skirt. I left the room and the next person I saw was bringing me papers of indemnity to sign. In my state at the time, I could have signed anything. My wife was wheeled to the operating room and I was left to sweat the cold night away as I waited. After what seemed like eternity, but was probably about three hours, I was called to see my wife and my new daughter. My beautiful daughter Hellen was sleeping peacefully and my wife was still groggily coming back from anesthesia.

That was the most important assignment I ever carried out in that car and it was now ready to earn me some commission to buy pampers for my baby. It did not disappoint for the few months that were remaining of my life as a taxi driver. For my wife, the whole incident was an extremely close call and I almost lost her. When I look at Hellen today however, I tend to think it was worth it. She has filled our lives with so much cheer.

The Involuntary Detoxification

Many workers in Nairobi like to treat themselves to an expensive meal from time to time and we were not any different. Across the road from Babylon base, there was a restaurant which was operated by a cheerful middle-aged lady. She would always be positioned at the door welcoming the diners and shouting orders to the army of waiters. The restaurant was in a building which had been previously used as some British settler's residence. It was a lovely wooden house which was now painted brilliant white both inside and out. The restaurant did not have a name. We used to refer to it as the Mama Customer's Place. This was inspired by her popular greeting as anybody entered the restaurant – “Karibu Customer!” (meaning, Welcome Customer!)

Mama Customer's place was not particularly high class by common standards. To us however, it had five star status in comparison to the dingy joints we frequented during normal days. This was the time before illegal structures were demolished by the Nairobi City Council. The place we usually went to was an iron sheet shack constructed over a road side trench. One could look through the cracks in the wooden floor to see the huge field rats jostling for the morsels which fell through. It was one place where we encouraged each other to manage our expectations. What took us there were the pocket friendly prices. We always looked forward to the time we would go for our monthly treat (It normally happened after payday).

Due to the nature of our work, it was virtually impossible to have a meal together as when one car came back to base, another one would leave. It would be several months before we got a quorum to have a meal together. This mainly happened at night when no restaurant would be open. On this particular day however, we were in luck. Only one guy was away and so we locked our cars and crossed the road to Mama Customer's place. We were six and after the usual pleasantries, we occupied one table. We all ordered chicken since we considered it to be the single most elegant dish for humble taxi drivers who had just been paid.

As I was eating, I realized that Mama Customer's chicken did not taste as fresh as it usually did. I only ate a small piece and could not continue. I took vegetables instead. My colleagues really dug in and were done in no time at all. I was left behind as always happened to me since am a slow eater. We all went back to work and it was quite busy up till late in the evening. When we reassembled at night, each of us had embarrassing stories of impromptu diarrhea and having to leave clients in the car to attend to the loose bowels. The guy who had missed the lunch date was really enjoying the stories and probably silently thanking God for missing out on the drama. I was not so lucky as I was affected even after the few bites.

It was rather unfortunate for us that the incontinence did not end with the day. On the contrary, it progressed right through the night. One inconvenience we had was the fact that the toilets in the shopping mall were located on the first floor. In addition to this, the escalators were usually switched off at night. Using the stairs was not going to be a viable option. We pleaded with the security men to switch on the escalators for us and they were kind enough to oblige. At any one time for the rest of the night, there were two of us on the escalators – one going up, and the other going down. These were not enjoyable escalator rides and there were no acknowledging hand waves. There were only downcast faces of wonder of how soon the next ride would be.

By the time we signed off in the morning, all of us with the exception of the lucky guy, had visibly lost weight. Needless to say, we never went back to Mama Customer's place. We heard that a lot of people got sick that day from eating stale chicken. She even got a few nasty law suits, but not from us. From there it was downhill for her business. A few months later, in an unfortunate turn of events, the restaurant burnt down from a supposed electrical fault. Even after detoxifying us involuntarily, I was really sad for her.  

Paxi Tarking!

Working at Babylon base taught me the art of dealing with stubborn people. It used to be an open secret that an uncomfortably large number of people did not have much regard for taxi drivers. Sometimes we carried passengers who, it appeared, thought of drivers as mere vehicle components. They would use foul language and expect us to perform miracles when they were late for engagements or flights. That was notwithstanding the crazy Nairobi traffic.

There was a morning when I was dispatched to pick a client who used to be extra-fussy. I drove into her compound and the housekeeper came out to inform me that she would be along shortly. I ended up waiting for almost an hour - not that I minded, since I would charge for the waiting time. When she came out however, she had in her hand a steaming mug of coffee. I assumed that she wanted to gulp it down before boarding the car, but I was wrong. She got into the back seat of the car with the coffee and as if that was not enough, she informed me that she was running late.

I had previously driven in many and diverse conditions ranging from storms to dark nights with two days of skipped sleep, but I had never driven a late and moody, coffee-sipping woman. This trip was going to be the greatest test of my driving skills and patience yet. When I drove out of her gate and joined the already piled-up traffic, I was not enthusiastic anymore. This was going to be one long morning. The lady did not improve matters with her constant reminders that she was going to be late. I do not consider the fact that not a drop of coffee spilt on her a result of good driving skill. It was merely by the grace of God that I managed to drop her at her destination dry, and on time. Now all I had to do was drop her beloved mug back to her house  ready for the future torture of another driver.

I do not know whether it happens to other people but, sometimes when i'm nervous, I tend to mix up my syllables. This always happens when I am speaking English. I guess the situation is made worse by the fact that English is not my first language. It is one of those things which happen at the worst possible times leading to extreme embarrassment.

One of the things we had to constantly do at Babylon base was to request, convince, and sometimes, chase people away from the parking slots reserved for taxis. We had to do this unpleasant work everyday or risk having nowhere legitimate to conduct our business. Unfortunately for us, most of the people we had to chase away had bad attitudes which was what made them feel like they had the right to park there in the first place.

One day I was the first one to drive back to base after an assignment. I found all the slots occupied by shoppers apart from one which I took. After a few minutes, one of the cars pulled out and all I had to do was prevent somebody from taking it up. Fate had however decided that I would not have it easy. At that moment, a lady drove up and despite my frantic gestures that she does not park there, she proceeded to do exactly that. By the time I walked up to her window to explain, I was raging mad. She made me more agitated by asking why there were other cars which did not look like taxis parked there. Incidentally, my car was the only taxi there.

I had a hard time convincing her and to make matters worse, she seemed to be enjoying the useless argument. She then asked me why I thought she should move her car out. I fumed, “This is a Paxi Tarking!” (I meant Taxi Parking). She broke into a smile of victory as she backed out of the precious parking space.

P.S. I wish there was a spell check function in speech.

A Visit to the Witch Doctor

Our company used to have clients in the form of NGOs. The NGOs we dealt with were so diverse and dealt with issues ranging from poverty eradication to human rights violation interventions. Most arms of the United Nations were our faithful clients. These organizations had many interesting employees who would share a lot about what they did and we used to be very enlightened on the activities of NGOs in general. Some of these organizations used to call for cabs occasionally but some would call every day. One such organization used to assist people who had been tortured in the hands of the police. Although they only had a handful of employees, they had many of these torture victims at any one time and they used to hire cabs for them.

There is an estate in Nairobi known as Shauri Moyo. I am reliably informed that it is one of the oldest in our beautiful city and was put up by the colonialists, alongside other similar estates to house laborers employed by the railway company. Shauri Moyo comprises of blocks of buildings each of which has eight rooms whose doors lead off a dark corridor in the middle of the building. Each room is big enough to house a family but without attention to any comfort. There is a communal toilet and bathroom at the end of the corridor and all the occupants of the eight rooms have to share them. The houses have wooden windows ostensibly to remove the need of curtains and to cut cost. Despite the modesty afforded by these humble houses, many famous Kenyans were brought up here.

In one block in the heart of Shauri Moyo, there lived a slim but fussy man and his obese wife. I would never have known them had it not been for good old unpredictable fate. It happened that the couple was not very good with their neighbors. This led to frequent quarrels during which no word was out of bounds in the mouth of my small friend. One day, one of the neighbors had had enough and called in the police. When the police came and tried to arrest the man, the wife refused. She held on to the legs of her husband and told them they would have to drag her along as well. This they did but only for a few feet out of the door before she proved to be too heavy. The police had by now lost their patience and they decided to deal with her conclusively. They picked her up and raised her in the air with outstretched arms. They then let go and she came crashing down. She landed heavily on her hips and could not walk anymore.

This happened at a time when the police were reputed to inflict a lot of unjustified torture on innocent civilians. The torture victims’ organization took up the case of the big woman to see to it that she got justice and the required health care. That was the time I got to know the couple because my colleague and I were assigned to be taking them on their visits to doctors and lawyers. This was an extremely strenuous assignment and I never used to look forward to the days I would be with the couple. The problem was that she could not walk since the police incident. To make matters worse, she did not have a wheel chair and so her husband and I would have to carry her everywhere. This included getting her out of the cramped house into the car, then from the car into elevators and doctors offices, and then back again. Sometimes we used to borrow a plastic chair with arms so that we could lift her more easily since she was rather big and well-rounded and not easy to hold.

Apparently, the sad incident had not helped to change the attitude of the grumpy man. He continued to make enemies everywhere he went until the organization could not handle him anymore. He was becoming a danger to other torture victims who were also beneficiaries and was portraying the organization in bad light to its donors. The organization had no choice but to drop the case and stop assisting the crippled lady. However, nobody informed my company about the turn of events and so nobody was prepared for the decision the small man took.

One morning I reported to work and the manager called me on the radio. He asked me to go and pick my usual clients from Shauri Moyo. I did not particularly like dealing with the client but I didn’t mind the commission the work usually entailed. It normally used to be full-day hire and the organization used to pay on account so the passengers only had to sign a voucher. What I didn't know was that now the clients were paying in cash (which they had done upfront) and were not going to see a “normal” doctor.

I drove to Shauri Moyo and proceeded to help my friend load his wife into the car. Once we were settled in the car, I asked them where we were going. The man answered asked me to drive towards Thika, which is a town about 40 kilometers North of Nairobi. I didn't think much of it so I just drove to Thika. When we reached Thika town, I asked him which building we were going to. He told me that the doctor was not within the town. All this time I had been thinking we were going to see some kind of a specialist. I started wondering seriously about where we were supposed to be going. I knew the best doctors were in Nairobi so I couldn’t understand what we were going. I was losing my patience and told the man to just tell me where exactly we were going instead of giving me piecemeal directions. He then opened up and told me that this was a privately paid trip and the organization was not involved (That made sense now!). He instructed me to drive to another town known as Matuu which is 80 kilometers from Thika along the Thika – Garisa road.

We went well past Matuu and then turned off from the main road into a dust road. We arrived at a small village shopping center. By now we had been driving for almost three hours and we stopped for soda and for the man to ask for directions. We were on the right track, we were told (Where to, I could only guess!). We left the center and followed the newly given direction to go deeper into the bush. After about twenty minutes, we drove into a traditional homestead which had four grass-thatched huts. One was square shaped and was in the center and it was surrounded by round ones which were smaller. The compound was marked at the periphery with a thorn hedge and there were a few sheep and goats lying in the shades of the few acacia trees growing in the compound.

There was another car in the compound and I parked next to it. We got the lady out of the car and proceeded to take her into the square hut at the directions of a small old man who was dressed in a faded long coat and appeared to either have shorts or nothing on underneath (I was never able to find out). He had a stoop and was unexpectedly soft-spoken. My clients were Kikuyu and so he was speaking to us in Kikuyu. The previous group had been Merus and he had been conversing to them in the language. I was shocked to learn that this was the doctor we had come all the way to see. It dawned on me when I entered the hut. We placed the woman on an animal skin and when I looked around; I saw all kinds of paraphernalia. There were drums the size of large barrels placed against the wall. There was also what appeared to be the “altar” where there were small pieces of bones and strange animal teeth. A small framed mirror with a painted cross was placed on the floor against the wall.

Once the patient was settled, the “doctor” proceeded to “read the story”. This entailed telling her where she came from and what was ailing her. I found this interesting because you didn't tell the doctor anything. Instead, he told you all about yourself. He told her that there was a neighbor who was “ruining” her. After the “story” we had to wait until the following day since treatment cannot be performed on the same day. This was completely unexpected. I had not planned to spend the night and this was going to be rather inconvenient. I however assumed that the office was aware of this.

 I could not communicate with the office since it was out of range to use the radio call and in those days I did not have a mobile phone. Even if I did, I doubt if there would have been any network considering the remoteness of the area. After the session, my clients and I left the compound to go to the center and sort out where we were going to sleep and also to get something to eat. The center was small and desolate. There were no lodgings or guest houses. The only accommodation we could find was a small room without a single piece of furniture. It would have to do as there was no other option.

By now it was late afternoon and we needed to eat. The man went and bought some roast mutton. The lady refused to eat since she was Muslim and it could not be confirmed if the animal had been slaughtered by a Muslim. It took a lot of coercion by the husband for her to accept to eat and even then she did so grumblingly. When it was time to sleep, the lady had to sleep on the hard floor which thankfully was not cold since the area was extremely hot. The husband and I had the relative comfort of the car seats but he had to go check on the wife severally throughout the night. He provided washroom services for her by the use of a small plastic pail which he had to empty regularly.

Morning could not have reached sooner and I dragged my dirty sticky self (there was no bathroom and no water to bath with) to drive my clients back to the doctor’s for “treatment”. When we arrived at the doctor’s compound, we found the other patients already there. The doctor was very organized and people were “treated” on a strictly first come first served basis. I got the opportunity to witness the Meru guy and his family getting treated. He was there with his wife and two daughters who had been falling sick “too regularly”. He was asked to bring a brand new razor blade and two bottles of tusker beer. When he did, he was made to sit on a traditional stool and some small incisions were made on his toes just behind the nails. This drew some blood and some mixture was rubbed in. Next he was given the tusker and told to sip and then spray it into the air. He had to repeat this severally and all this time the doctor was chanting some undecipherable words. After this the family was declared delivered (whatever that meant).

It was now our turn to be treated. We carried the big woman into the hut and placed her on the animal skin. We were then told to bring two twenty shilling coins to be used in the treatment. Unfortunately, none of us had the coins. It was up to me to drive to the center and get change while they waited. I drove off and somewhere along the way, the radio crackled to life. A few meters on, it died again. This was interesting and I decided to back up and see whether it had been just static interference. When I went back, I was surprised to hear clear conversation from our company. I hear that in rare instances, VHF radios do transmit over longer distances than the usual 40 kilometer radius. This was one of those instances. Now that I had the chance, I decided to update the office. When the director was informed I was on the radio, he rushed to the radio room and in no uncertain terms, ordered me to drive back to Nairobi immediately. Apparently, the clients had only paid to be dropped in Thika and nothing more. Drive back is what I did against the compassion I felt for the sick woman. I never even went back to inform them that I was leaving.

Back in Nairobi, my colleagues could not get enough of my story and for a short time; I was a celebrity of sorts. I however never stopped worrying about what had become of my clients. It was the only time I had had to abandon my clients. A few months later, I got to meet the man and he was not amused to see me. He told me that they got stranded there for a whole week and it was only through the assistance of a patient who had driven there seeking treatment that they were able to get back to Nairobi. I was very sorry about it but there was nothing I could do. He further told me that the witch doctor had offered to vanquish me. He would have invoked my image on his mirror with the cross and cut on it to draw blood. This would then have meant instant death wherever I was; most likely through a tragic accident as I was speeding back to Nairobi. My client had pleaded with the witch doctor to spare me because after all I was only an employee.

About a year later, I heard that the lady had passed on due to her sickness.

Soaring High - A Cab Driver’s Story: The Turbaned One’s Beheading (Almost)

Soaring High - A Cab Driver’s Story: The Turbaned One’s Beheading (Almost): We used to have two turbaned colleagues who had been in the taxi industry for many years before I joined. One was big and the other one s...

The Turbaned One’s Beheading (Almost)

We used to have two turbaned colleagues who had been in the taxi industry for many years before I joined. One was big and the other one small. They belonged to an indigenous Christian sect found in Kenya that goes by the name of Akorino. They permanently don a white turban on their heads which I am reliably informed is a symbol of their decision to lead a life of spiritual purity. With a large number of Akorino, the turban is also an indicator of a past that they would rather forget. Probably due to their eventful lives, many of them have interesting stories of their dark pasts, and our two brothers were not any different.

The two guys had relatively different personalities and the turban was one of the few things they had in common. The smaller guy was known for his enormous appetite. He loved roast meat and the smallest quantity he could take was a full kilo. Whenever we went out after work, nobody could accept to pair-up with him. It even reached a point when he preferred to just go out on alone and order his own meat. His legendary appetite came to light one day when the management organized for us a training workshop. They booked for us a full day session at the Stanley, which is one of the most exquisite five star hotels in Kenya. We were to have lunch at the pool-side restaurant located on the second floor of the establishment.

For the majority of us, this was the first time we were going beyond the lobby of a five star hotel. It was also the first time that we were experiencing a buffet in any form. Needless to say, we were ill-prepared for the experience. The first confusion arose because the buffet was set out on a large and completely circular table. Our primitive village selves could not tell where to start or end. We could not differentiate between starters, main courses, or deserts. The large tray-sized plates did not help matters either. We queued with other guests and heaped our plates. My small turbaned friend was just in front of a lady who appeared to be an American tourist. She was observing him closely as he crammed every item in that menu on his increasingly congested plate. The last item on completing the cycle was ice cream which he scooped onto his mountain of food. As the ice cream melted and flowed down his domed assortment of food like larva from a volcano, the tourist could not help herself. She exclaimed, “Oh my God!” Everybody was curious to see if he would finish and he didn’t disappoint. He ate every last morsel (at least he was not wasteful).

In addition to their head gear, the two Akorinos had another thing in common, and that was speed. They could have passed an ambulance driving test. The speed however came at a cost. They used to have many accidents. One time, the big guy was assigned a new car. It was at the time when cars had started to arrive fitted with air bags. One day he picked the new car and sped off to pick a client who was running late. When he joined the main road, there was a small traffic pile-up. He decided to zoom down the wrong side of the road and overtake the queuing vehicles. He never noticed a car coming from the opposition. The result was a serious head-on collision. The airbag instantly inflated and encapsulated him. He was not injured but he got really traumatized. According to him, he had imagined that he died in the crash and the airbag looked like the white sheet which the angels must surely use to cover him as they ushered him into heaven.

The big guy was not always the one on the wrong in the many accidents he had. Some were caused by other drivers as well. During one such incident, a car banged into him from the rear. This happened as he was driving down a road in the Hurlingham area in the wee hours of the morning. The resulting jolt caused his turban to be thrown off his head. It did not disentangle from its tight hat-like form that he used to tie tightly around his head. It landed neatly on the dashboard and when he saw it, he thought it was his whole head which had been cut off and thrown forward. The guy who had hit him walked up to his window and in his obvious heavy drunkenness, he started punching the “headless” turbaned one. My big friend thought that unlike his previous accident, this time he had arrived in hell and was already being punished for his errant ways.

Driving a Submarine

Following the heavy EL-nino rains in the late nineties, many roads in Nairobi were badly damaged. There was almost no drainage on many of the roads. This resulted in anything from mighty puddles to outright flooding anytime there was some rain. This still happens and pedestrians get splashed by passing cars. As a driver however, the most problematic outcome of any downpour was the flooding which came with it the risk of the engine stalling midway in the water. Woe to you if you drove a car with a low mounted carburetor and an old model distributor with contact points. You would be wet to your skin by the time you managed to get out of your predicament.

One bright and sunny day suddenly decided to become rainy and gloomy as evening approached. As it usually used to happen on rainy days, it got very busy as everybody was frantic to get home. Traffic was so heavy that most roads resembled parking lots. At around 7 in the evening, I was sent to pick a client in the city center and drop him in an area known as Huruma. Although the traffic was relatively heavy, dropping him was uneventful. Coming back was a different story altogether.

There were two available routes back to town. One would be through Pangani which is now part of the new super highway. That way I knew I could get hopelessly stuck for the better part of the night. I opted for the second route which would take me through the Eastleigh estate, on the famous first avenue where you can buy anything, and on which several terrorist explosions have taken place recently. This route was a short cut in terms of distance but on that night, it turned out to be a very long cut.

When joining 1^st Avenue from Juja road, I realized there was heavier traffic than usual but it was too late to turn back. I decided to brave it and inch forward with the rest of the traffic. A couple of a hundred meters on, I found out why the road was so congested. The drains were blocked and the whole road was flooded. We had to inch our way forward at a painstakingly slow pace since some people had started to overlap the almost stationery queue.

The water was not stagnant, it was flowing like one large river and this created an interesting illusion. At one point, I though the car in front was rolling backwards towards me. I hooted in earnest to make it stop only to realize that it was the water that was moving. That was really embarrassing. Many cars sucked up water with their exhaust pipes and conked out. I had to keep the engine revved to avoid a dead engine in the middle of a flood.

After being in the water for about an hour, during which time it was still raining, the level started rising. In the end, I could open my window and easily touch the water whose surface was just below the window. That was an awful lot of water especially for older cars which were not completely water proof. I was not worried because my car was in good condition and the seals were working perfectly. I should have been very worried if I knew what was happening.

Unbeknownst to me, the door seals had started to give way. Apparently they had been designed to withstand only a little water for a limited duration  I had been literally immersed in a river and stayed there for too long. It started as slight moisture on the carpet. The next thing I knew, the whole floor pan was squishy with water. That was not even the worst, the rain water drain system appeared to have come into contact with raw sewage and you can imagine how it smelled. I was completely miserable but the level in the car kept on rising until my legs were in water up to my ankles. By the time the traffic let up and I was able to drive off, I was quite worried. One can get a myriad of infections in that kind of concoction. I managed to reach base with my sloshing load and removed the floor plugs to drain the car. It was obvious the car could not be used for any useful work until it got a thorough valet cleaning. That got me two days unpaid leave. ( and I didn't fall sick either).

Soaring High - A Cab Driver’s Story: Following the heavy EL-nino rains in the late nin...

Soaring High - A Cab Driver’s Story:
Following the heavy EL-nino rains in the late nin...: Following the heavy EL-nino rains in the late nineties, many roads in Nairobi were badly damaged. There was almost no drainage on many of...

The State House Visits

While at Babylon base, my colleagues and I used to witness a spectacle of “National Importance” every morning. The first time I saw it, I almost ran away in fright. It used to be retired President Moi’s motorcade taking him to State House to earn his pay slip. Moi never used to sleep in State House. It is claimed that he took what was then supposed to be the Vice-President’s official residence somewhere in the neighborhood of Kibera slums, and made it his own. I even understand that nobody had the guts to evict him from the house after he retired so they just let him keep it to date. That daily spectacle became something we would always marvel at. The police car with the screaming siren clearing the road ahead of the big black limousines surrounded by outriders was awe-inspiring. It always made me wonder what kind of a person the President really was. Well, I did not have long to wait.

One day I was dispatched to pick a client from a residence near Ngong road in the Kilimani area of Nairobi. When I arrived I found a softly-spoken man who appeared to be in his 50s. I ushered him into the car and asked him where he wanted to be taken to. He just told me, “State House!” I was a bit taken aback. I asked him again and he confirmed. I jokingly told him that it is not every day we get people asking to be taken to the “House on the Hill” He was a good sport about it and we really hit it off and joked about it. During the short trip, he explained that he was the President’s son in law and he was just going over to say Hi! Wow!

State House has many gates. The main one, “Gate A” is only supposed to be used by the President himself, or important visitors on official business. There is another gate leading to the grounds where outdoor functions officiated by the President are held. Then there is the one we used where the President’s private visitors go through. Like in many other places around the city, driver’s are not allowed beyond the parking lot and that is where I stayed until my new “best friend” came out (Anybody related to the President is my best friend).

After that day, the old man became my regular client and I took him to State House on many other occasions. I became quite free with him and I used to enquire from him what kind of person the president was. He told me a lot of things about the President such as the fact that he used to wake up very early, read the bible for an hour, exercise, and then take breakfast. His breakfast – and other meals as well – consisted of only traditional foods such as arrow roots and kienyeji chicken. This was a time when I like many Kenyans did not like our President that much. Talking with my friend however, made me to start viewing him a bit differently. I became curious as to what kind of person the President was. I asked my friend if he could one day take me to meet the President. After one of our State House visits, he told me that he had mentioned me to the big man and the big man had said he would be happy to meet me. I will never know how true that was because my friend passed on soon after that. Talk of an ill-timed death!

All the times I went to State House I used a side-gate. There was one of my colleagues however, who came quite close to using “Gate A”! It so happened that before he joined our company, he used to wash cars somewhere in the city center. He, like many other car wash boys, learnt how to drive by “stealing” the cars that had been left in his care and taking them for a spin. It was risky business but these guys were usually from very poor families and this was the only way they could acquire the important skill. Anyhow, after learning to drive, the guy started dropping paying “clients” in these same “stolen” cars.

One day, he was washing a relatively old car when a “client” came along. The client wanted to be dropped in the area around State House and this car wash boy-cum-taxi driver happily obliged. He was not one to refuse “easy” money. He dropped the client without incident and received his pay. On the way back however, the car stalled – just when it was positioned right across “Gate A” of State House! As fate would have it, the President arrived at that very moment. Four hefty security men rushed at the guy who was still in the driver’s seat of his ramshackle and he raised his hands in surrender. The poor guy almost peed on himself. He thought his death had arrived. The guys didn't even talk to him at all. Each positioned himself at the wheel arcs. They lifted the whole car plus the driver and threw it in the ditch just in time for the oblivious President to be driven in. 

A Cab Driver’s Story: Hosting a Prostitute

A Cab Driver’s Story: Hosting a Prostitute: During my days as a taxi driver, we used to say that the Nairobi nights belonged to three groups of people. These were security guar...

Hosting a Prostitute

During my days as a taxi driver, we used to say that the Nairobi nights belonged to three groups of people. These were security guards, taxi drivers, and prostitutes. They were the people who remained in town when everybody else went home. They were privy to a lot of activities which the rest of you only here about in the media. Earlier on in my career, I learnt to respect these fellow “people of the night”. Those who failed to know this found work and life in general, rather difficult in the city.

There is a famous place in Nairobi known as Koinange street. It is rather “innocent” in the daytime. However, at night it becomes the Kenyan red light district. The ladies of the night start streaming in from 8 p.m. when most “ordinary” people have gone home. While Koinange street is the most famous, it is by no means the only street patronised by the twilight sisters. There is Muindi Bingu street which runs parallel to Koinange, and City Hall Way which cuts across the two. I came to learn that these ladies are highly territorial and nobody dares to venture into another’s turf. I also heard that night-time Nairobi has its owners in the form of parking boys (or parking men since many are all grown up now). The ladies have to buy their spots from the parking men using the same services that they offer their clients…Eeeeel!

As I continued learning about the city, I also came to discover other roads outside of the CBD with the ladies of the night. A particularly notorious one was a road known as Westlands road within the affluent suburb of Westlands. The amazing thing was that the number of these women was constantly increasing with each passing day. This by extension increased the length of road covered by the skimpily dressed girls.

While I found all of the above places occupied by the time I came to Nairobi, there is one territory that I personally witnessed being established. When I moved to Babylon base, the area was quite “decent” even at night. One day as I was driving back to base in the dead of the night, I noticed the shiny legs in the shadows at a bus stop. At first it appeared as if it was somebody waiting for the bus, but at that hour, it was improbable. I didn’t think much of it until several days later I saw the same girl at the same spot. By now, my colleagues had noticed her too. After some weeks there was a second girl a few meters away, then a third, then a fourth. Several months later, the cooing girls lined the whole stretch between Hurlingham and Yaya center.

Since there were no restaurants open at night outside the city center, there used to be some women who served tea and bread by the roadside at night. They would bring in their kerosene stoves to keep the supply constant throughout the night. This ensured that us “creatures” of the night did not sleep cold and hungry. Initially these creatures had only been taxi drivers and security guards, but now we also had our sisters. The tea women really detested the prostitutes and they used to treat them differently from the men. For instance, they did not serve them tea in cups. Instead, they used to fashion out disposable cups from the empty milk packets. They did this because, as they put it, “You can’t tell where that mouth has been or what it has just done”.

With time, the regular girls became part of the community and on “slow” nights we would chat as we willed the hours away. These women had interesting stories on how they ended up doing what they did. Some did it out of poverty while others were in it for fun, like one who had once been married by a Japanese expatriate. Whenever he was out of the country, she always went to the street. One day he came back unexpectedly and he could not believe his eyes when he saw his wife trying to hook up with him as he was driven past in a taxi. As expected, he divorced her allowing her to get back on the street on a full time basis.

Some of the women were permanently high on drugs and would do crazy things. Like there was this one who, when business was low would charge 20 shillings for a “peek.” I remember one time when some of the crazier drivers were idle on base and wanted to be shown. None of them had the required twenty bob and so they had to do an impromptu fundraising. When the money was enough, the beautiful but heavily stoned girl stepped on the nearest car’s bumper and did her thing. It is a sad picture when I look back now.

There used to be many crack downs when the police would come and arrest the girls. They would then be put in a police cell and arraigned in court the following day. Those with rich friends would be bailed out during the night. The police would take advantage of the younger and more attractive ones making them to buy their freedom in kind. The rest would have to appear in court. During one such breakdown, one of them came running to me and tearfully begged me to let her hide in my car. I was touched and let her in. During the time that the crackdown lasted, she narrated to me how she had been forced into prostitution. She had been raped by her teacher back in the village and got pregnant. Her father kicked her out of the home and she did not know what to do until a friend induced her into the old profession. It was a very sad story.

As she left my car early in the morning, one of my colleagues remarked that I was not wise to let a “dirty person” into my car. I was offended because I was thinking; any of those women is somebody’s sister, daughter, or even mother!

The Cat that Wanted to Fly

Babylon base used to be rather peaceful especially at night. The last vehicle was usually in by 11 p.m. and there was rarely any assignment through the night. Early morning jobs were normally assigned at night and so we would sleep knowing where we would go in the morning. These advance bookings by clients were good for us because we rested easy at night.

With this assurance of a quiet night, I used to prepare to sleep in much the same way as I would do at home. The only difference was that I would be sleeping in the car. I used to remove my shoes and socks so that my sticky stinky feet could “breath”. I also used to remove my blazer and cover myself with it like a blanket. The rest of the preparation was “electronic”. It involved running the heater with the engine on idling until the car interior was warm enough to allow sleep in the chilly Nairobi nights. The last thing I would do was to reduce the radio call volume and increase that of the normal radio. My favourite programs were those of overnight preaching by people such as Joyce Meyer. One of my colleagues once complained that my volume was too high on the “Mercy Myra” preaching.

Apparently he could not tell the difference between Mercy Myra and Joyce Meyer.

One day, I woke up at 5 a.m. in the morning and went to the mall wash room to freshen up since I had an airport pickup which I had been assigned the previous evening. On coming back to the car, I saw a scraggly kitten walking shakily on the pavement. When it saw me approaching it quickly ducked under my car and crouched there. I didn’t want it to get crushed when I drove out so I tried to chase it out. It climbed onto the front wheel and now I could see its furry form under the mud guard.
By now the other drivers had started to wake up and they came to my assistance. We tried to disgorge the kitten from its perch and when we succeeded, the cat now went under the car and got on the rear wheel. I was starting to get frustrated and I now got a broom stick to pry the kitten away. I didn’t succeed; instead, all I managed was to push the cat further under the car into a squeezed space between the fuel tank and the boot floor.

Since I was running late, I decided to leave with the cat. My colleagues, in their wisdom, assured me that the kitten would fall off if I ensured that I hit all bumps and pot holes on the route at high speed. That is exactly what I did the whole way between Babylon and Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. However, the cat did not fall off. It only got really scared and with every increase in the car speed, it increased the number of “meows”. By the time I got to the airport, I was so distressed I could hardly think straight. As I was parking, the flight on which my clients were arriving also landed. I temporarily forgot about the cat and rushed in with my paging board.

The group I was picking comprised of a woman and her three daughters who appeared to range in age between their teens and twenties. The mother waved at me when she saw their name on my paging board but I had to wait a bit since they had a lot of luggage. I put the bags on a trolley and wheeled it towards the car as my passengers followed me. We got to where I had parked, I opened the boot and proceeded to pack the luggage, and then we all heard it!

My long forgotten cat started meowing in earnest now that it had heard the commotion of its would-be rescuers. I had omitted to inform my clients that I had brought a cat along but there was no hiding it now. It was so loud you could hear it from 10 metres away. The mother leaned and looked under the car but could not see anything but the sound was unmistakable. She concluded that this was the work of witchcraft and there was no way she was going to jeopardize the safety of her family by boarding a “bewitched” car driven by an agent of the devil. She was a born-again Christian and she started invoking the name of the lord. In the mean-time I was also trying to convince her that am not a devil worshipper and that in-fact, I was also saved myself. She stopped praying briefly and asked me, “If you are speaking the truth, where is the cat?” She had a point because the cat was not visible. She further said, “Show me the cat or I rightly conclude it’s a jinn”

The commotion caused by the meowing cat, the praying woman, the pleading taxi driver, and the inciting daughters attracted other taxi drivers in the vicinity. They came to the aid of the distressed client – ostensibly to convince her to take their “un-bewitched taxis”. Some however, were kind and – in the interest of taxi driver solidarity – wanted to help me. They helped cool down the now distraught lady while they sought to assist me remove the cat. We jacked up the car and removed one wheel and we were able to see the cat which we poked using a long pole until it came down.

The now famous cat wobbled away towards some thickets which are at the airport. When it was about half-way between us and the bushes, a group of about ten cats of varying sizes and colours emerged from the bushes and walked as if in a form of welcome towards our cat. Once it was safely surrounded, they turned back and got into the thicket. It was a strange sight and I asked one of the airport taxi drivers where those cats had come from. He answered that they had been brought by other drivers such as my-self. If they were there to catch a flight, then my kitten would have to join the queue but it was in good company. My clients now agreed to board my car but with a lot of apprehension.