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.

Establishing Babylon – Using Smoky London-Look Taxis

I drove Lima-Lima for a relatively short time before I got promoted again. The company was growing really fast by now and we were in for a treat. We would be getting brand new cars (well, not completely brand new but another company had bought more than they needed and they needed to get rid of the extra ones). They were fourteen of them and I got one “piece”. Mine was a lovely metallic green in colour and I fell instantly in love with it. Our company had acquired so many other cars recently prior to that and seemed to have run out of names to give the new cars. They were given numbers instead and mine was “083”.

Around the same time, the London-look taxis which had taken the city of Nairobi by storm a few years earlier had started to show signs of age. They had not been new when they arrived. In fact they had been very old and it is only because of the good old British meticulous tradition of maintenance and restoration that they had arrived in relatively good shape. Most of them later developed problems with the engines which were of an old diesel powered design. The engines performed relatively well – it was starting them that was a challenge, especially on cold mornings.

A short distance away from Bosnia (Base 2), there was a shopping mall. It was one of the first ones to be built in Nairobi and it was (and still is) known as the Yaya Centre. The Yaya Centre had a taxi rank (which is a special parking for taxis) to serve the clients of the centre. This rank had five slots which were shared by nine London taxis. Of all the nine, only three could be started with a key in the morning. The rest would have to be towed by the three – usually into the basement parking of the mall – in order to be coerced to start. The result was a smoky basement with zero visibility every morning in addition to dirty oil drips all over the place. In order to avert a looming fire risk in the centre, the Yaya management conducted an inspection of all nine London taxis. I can guess the first test was starting the engine with a key without any assistance – in the morning. Only three passed and the rest were kicked out of the centre.

Our company management was approached with a proposal. They would get two parking slots on condition that there would always be a presentable car at any one time. “083” and the sisters had just gotten their future cut out for them. That way, Bosnia eventually shifted entirely to the Yaya centre. It was a good move because there was more business there since this was a very busy shopping mall. There were lots of people walking in and out and asking for cabs. We were further favoured by our “new” cars which most clients preferred to the old London taxis. We were on a roll.

It was my opportunity to study the famed London-look cabs at close range. They were big cars which were either grey or black in colour. Some owners had changed to other colours and one of the three we had at Yaya was actually white. The cars had impeccable interiors with lots of space for sitting and for placing luggage. The main rear passenger seat was really comfortable but the rest of the seats were of the hard fold-down types. The driver’s cabin was rather cramped – possibly to create more room for the “fare-paying” passengers.

During that name giving “drought”, a newly hired control guy named the new base “Babylon”. I may never know what his motivation was in coming up with such a name but that was the name which stuck. This was in funny contrast to the slang name given to London look taxis in Nairobi then. They used to be referred to as “mũnyua maaĩ” which is Kikuyu for a serious drinker of water. I suspect this was because of the way these big cars consumed a lot of water when they overheated, and that was often. I hear they could “drink” up to 20 litres in a single session.

Roger that, Base One! – The Radio Call can be a Lot of Fun

I still remember with nostalgia how the radio call was proven time and again to be the lifeline of a cab driver. We would use it to get work, give out work, get directions, and – perhaps most importantly – share a joke or two. Earlier on when I joined, there was even a guy (who we used to call Pastor) who would conduct early morning prayers over the radio call. On many occasions, drivers who dropped a client within the city centre at night would be sent for chips and chicken on the radio. We had a code name for everything. Chips was “Kinangop” while chicken was simply referd to as “Kenchic”. A chicken drumstick was “Pande ya kukanyaga” while the wing was “Pande ya kuruka”.

Radio language was fun especially because ours was not as strict as that of the police. It was more like a normal telephone conversation with interjections of call signs. Most communication was in Swahili owing to the fact that most taxi drivers of my time were not comfortable talking English – Don’t ask me how they communicated with foreign clients. In fact, for some strange reason, the least literate drivers seemed to get the most clients. What the management made sure of was that all new joiners learnt the most critical components of radio communication.

We were taught to press the button on the microphone for two seconds before starting to speak into it. We were also advised to repeat the first words of a sentence twice. Calling base would sound like this, “Base One, Base One, do you read?” Base one would respond by saying, “Go ahead Lima Lima” The rest of that interchange would then continue in Swahili. When I was new I would press the button and speak at the same time, cutting off the first part of the conversation. I learnt but some didn’t. They continued to cut off their sentences until it became a trade mark. Like there was this guy whose call sign was “Computer”. He always said, “Puter” and said “Ngware” when he meant to say “Kawangware”.

Whenever anybody pressed the talk button, everybody else got cut off and had to listen to the guy with the pressed mic. One day the “pastor”, who was also overweight, took a heavy supper of large “Kinangop” and half “Kenchic”. When he retired into his car for the night, he fell into heavy sleep. He was snoring heavily and “breaking wind” regularly for the better part of the night. You may wonder how I and everyone else got to know this. Well, the guy used to drive a very small car for his size and during the night, some part of his massive body depressed the talk button on his radio. We were treated to a playback of every single sound that was made in that small car by that big guy. Am glad I was not in the car because with the amount and efficacy of the gases he released, I don’t think I would have lived to tell the tale.

The radio room at the office was a really small affair. There was barely enough room for the telephone sets, radio equipment, and the thick books in which every trip was recorded (This was before computers became popular). All these were placed on a narrow table which was more of a shelf. The control person had a small chair which occupied the remaining small space in the room.

Like the drivers, the control people used to sleep at night but they had to do it in their chair which I am sure was not particularly comfortable. However, I guess, after getting used, those guys could sleep and even dream in that chair which is what happened one early morning. The phone rang, and the guy woke with a start and picked the radio. He bellowed, “Taxi Cabs, good morning!” thinking he was talking to the client. This woke all of us and when we realized his hilarious error, we decided to taut him. Everybody started to respond, “Good morning Base One, so kind of you to ask, and how are you?” Somebody at Kososvo said, “Here at Kosovo we are fine, and how is Base One and Bosnia?” A Bosnian responded and said, “We are okay at Bosnia, you should be greeting us every morning, we really appreciate” This went on for a good fifteen minutes and “Alpha Three”, for that was the control guy’s call sign, was not very amused.

The Rude Awakening

When I shifted base to Kosovo, it did not take me long to get into the flow of things. Work in this base was more or less regular and rather predictable. We got to pick up and drop off the same clients at the same places and at the same time literally every day. We were therefore not as edgy as the drivers I had left in Base one. At Base 2 we could finish our stories and even get time to nap. It was a refreshing change from what I had known before and I really started enjoying the work.

After some weeks, I realized that I was almost always free every day between 7 and 8 p.m.  Gradually, this became the window of opportunity to grab my daily nap. It was so regular that I usually started dozing right on cue at 7 every evening. The nap was useful because after that it usually became busy until midnight when work slumped until early morning. My daily nap continued for many weeks until it became a habit – hard to break. It was undisturbed for so long and that led me to take it as my right – until one day!

At 7 p.m. sharp, the radio crackled to life. I was on the verge of shutting down for my daily wink so I answered groggily. The control guy joked about me sounding sleepy but I laughingly dismissed him. I assured him I was good to go. The client I was to pick was not far from Base and I was in his compound in less than ten minutes. He was not one of our regulars. It was actually the first time he was using our company. The place I was picking him up from was his office – the kind that is set up in a residential building. I reached the place and parked. I then got out of the car, walked up to the door and knocked. He answered the door and told me to wait in the car and he would be out in a little while. I went and sat in the car, and dozed off – from where I had left off.

I woke up with a start when the guy opened the passenger door, got in and closed it with a bang. I don’t know how long I had slept but when I awoke, I was very confused. I looked at the man and I could not place him. The compound in which I was parked was not familiar either. I could not remember where I was and I obviously did not know who I was with. In spite of my confusion, I didn't want to ask the client all these questions. I realized that I was looking at the man with shock on my face. I probably looked like a carjack victim. My client just said, “Let’s go”. That jolted me back to reality – although I still didn't know where I was, or who he was.

I bought my time by being very calculated in my movements. I started the car and then backed up slowly. That time my mind was on over-drive, trying to jog my memory. Thankfully, by the time I had aligned the car with the gate (which I had had a problem locating), I had fully woken up and got my bearings back. It was with renewed confidence, as I drove out the gate, that I asked my passenger, “Where would you like to go?”    

Moving to Kosovo – and Speaking Japanese

When I was promoted to drive Lima Lima, I had not thought about the fact that it was supposed to operate from a different site. The company I worked for had 3 sites or bases as we used to refer to them. The main one – which I had been working from until then – was at a place called Westlands. It was referred to as Base 1. The next one was on Ngong road and this was Base 2. This was around the time when there was a war going on in Bosnia and so the third base which was located at the Village Market shopping mall was christened Bosnia. By extension, Base 2 came to be known as Kosovo – in honor of that country which was also at war and was always on the news.

The morning after I had come back from Lake Nakuru, I confidently came and parked at Base 1 just like I had been used to before. The manager found me there and sent me packing to Kosovo since that was Lima Lima’s base. I was not comfortable to move although I had no option but to comply. I was worried about having to get new clients and learn new routes. However, I need not have worried. The clients in Kosovo were different from those I had known at Base 1. They were fewer but they often travelled further – meaning they paid more. We mainly served the affluent suburbs of Karen, Kilimani, and Lavington. Despite carrying the name of a war zone, Kosovo did not portend any difficulties for us – apart from the occasional difficult Kibera assignment. Please note, the difficulty was not in the client but in the areas we had to drive through as they were not particularly safe.

When I was in college, we had a lecturer who studied in Japan and was fluent in the language. One time he brought a visitor from Japan to our class. She was a young lady and she was very excited to visit – and she only spoke Japanese. She wanted to learn so many things especially about the national language – Kiswahili. Our teacher was kind enough to translate. She learnt so many words especially considering that she was there for only one morning. When time came for her to leave she really wept. Apparently she had fallen in love with all of us. One of the noisier guys said that she should also teach us some words in Japanese so that we could also have something to remember her by. She taught us how to say good morning – “Ohayo Goizamasu”, complete with a bow.

When I became a taxi driver, I met people of many races and nationalities, including Japanese. However, for a long time, I never met a Japanese person in the morning. I therefore never got the chance to use the two Japanese words I knew – that is until I moved to Kosovo. The moment I went to pick that client and saw that he was Japanese, I was elated. I couldn’t wait for him to get in the car so that I could speak Japanese for the first time. He got into the back seat and smiled warmly. I smiled back and, with all the “Japaneseness” I could muster, I bowed and greeted him, “Ohayo Goizamasu”. I believe I must have said it rather well because he was a bit taken aback. He answered back in the same words and further added (in Swahili), much to my surprise, “Unajua Kijapani?” which means, “You mean you know Japanese?” It was at that point I wished I had taken time to learn a few more words in Japanese. That would have been an interesting conversation, me speaking Japanese and my new best friend speaking Swahili. That however was not going to happen. This was Kosovo.

Driving into Trouble – With the Law

I started driving a cab at a time when most operators did not comply with legal requirements of the business. This led us to be engaged in constant hide and seek games with the police. Our radio calls were not used for business alone. There were also handy in giving warnings to fellow drivers as to when and where police were conducting crackdowns on taxi-cabs. These spots would be avoided at all costs but if not, the driver would have to part with “something small” (bribe) or risk arrest. We learned to sweet-talk police in much the same way that boys woo girls.

Like I have mentioned before, our company was always striving to improve its image. Part of this involved fulfilling statutory requirements. However, due to the large number of vehicles it had accumulated this compliance could not be completed at once. It had to be done progressively (one car at a time). This had an interesting effect on the police. If they stopped a few of the company cars and found them compliant, they assumed the whole fleet also was. For some strange supernatural reason, they only pulled over the compliant vehicles – at least initially.

While the company worked on bringing all the cars to compliance, we the drivers were given a one month deadline by which we were to get our individual papers in order. First, we had to have valid driving licenses. Additionally we were required to get certificates of good conduct from the criminal investigation department of the Kenya Police. These two documents would further be used to get passenger service vehicle (PSV) driving licenses from the Kenya Revenue Authority. Needless to say, it was a hectic exercise more so for those of us brought up in the village as we were not familiar with the bureaucracies involved in getting the papers. Quite a good number of us were defrauded by our wittier colleagues who claimed to be able help us though somebody they knew and who knew somebody in authority.

For two long weeks, I moved from one long queue to the next in different offices. Every long shift at work culminated in another seemingly endless process. I persisted because I didn’t want to lose my job (that was the threat we had been given for failure to have the documents by the deadline). Many tiring mornings – and afternoons, and several thousands of shillings later, I was fully compliant with the Government of Kenya as a taxi driver. Unfortunately for me, my car (Romeo One) was one of the decoys and so was not compliant. I was however optimistic that I would be lucky enough not to be stopped at a check point until Romeo One got her papers.

I was lucky for some time – and then my luck ran out. I was driving on James Gichuru road in the Nairobi suburb of Lavington with a client. Apparently none of my colleagues had passed there and so there was no radio warning of the police crackdown. I obliviously drove into it as I was animatedly chatting with my client. I noticed many cars pulled over on the side of the road but I didn’t think much of them. The policeman flagged me down at the last possible moment before I could make a run for it. There was nothing to do but stop. Like a wizard, he went straight to the windscreen where the missing sticker was supposed to be and my heart skipped a beat.

The police man was kind enough to give me a chance to call another cab to pick my client. He further advised me to tell the other driver to stop at a safe distance or risk arrest like me. The other car came, I bid my client goodbye as she walked to where the car was “hidden”, and I turned to listen to the verdict of the police man. He checked my personal papers and confirmed that they were in order. The car papers were not proper and the car was “under arrest”. I would therefore be required to drive it to the Kilimani Police Station failure to which it would be towed – at company cost. I agreed to drive it there accompanied by the police man. I parked at the police station and gave the police man the keys after locking the car. He told me to tell my boss to go pick up the car with the necessary documents and required fine. I had just earned myself an unexpected day off.