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...