Dreams In Mixed Tenses

10 provincial towns, 5 poor countries, 3 weeks

The driver who picked me at the airport spoke neither English nor Kiswahili. He didn’t speak French either. He was fluent in aggressive driving and muttering nothing under his breath. He is the most polite man I have ever met to date.

It was an awkward greeting. We shook hands and each one muttered his own rubbish to himself. Then walked to the car. He did not help me with my bags. He drove me aggressively to my hotel. Luckily the receptionist spoke English. She told me not to open my windows. She also told me that an English Premier league team had beaten another English Premier league team in a football match. I know nothing about soccer, so escape at high speed to my room, 605, far from the lifts thankfully.

I had seen government security chaps at the hotel’s reception. They always dress in smart cheap suits but what really what gives them away is the Gideon boots, haute couture. Now I see one has taken a room next to mine. Every time I come to this country, they confuse me for their most serious security threat. Their intelligence is poor. For one, am obviously not a threat to the government of this highly indebted poor country, HIPC. Secondly, if I can tell am being secretly trailed, then you’re doing a poor job of secretly trailing me. Thirdly, they always get my nationality wrong, that means they think am a different person every time they see me, ie they have no records. Fourthly, they spend too much government funds trying to get me drunk, then get drunk before me and start disclosing state secrets. This time they told me the big man has a Gulf Stream, twice as expensive as our man’s Fokker. 55,000 feet easily this thing.

Il vaut mieux être seul que mal accompagné.

Vraiement. My room cost 75 USD. Only one other room is taken in the whole floor, but the bar is full from 1600hrs. Its 1530hrs, so I throw my bags into the 75 dollars room, and this time I use the lift down. At the lobby, I meet my driver. I feel guilty for having kept him waiting for me for more than a minute. He spreads out his hands showing unusually white palms. He means, ‘so, what’s the plan’ in his own language. I offer him a drink in sheng (he can’t understand), “niaje, si ucome nikubuyie barley moja, speedy ni ya?’ He folds his hand as if holding a mobile phone, and lifts this imaginary phone to his ear. I think he is asking me if I have a phone, I shake my head, and mouth 'no'. He asks ‘Nairobi?’ while pointing at the ceiling, I look up, and say no, I don’t own a mobile phone. I don’t have one. The receptionist laughs loudly at this. She had been listening and watching this short local drama series silently but now gave herself a supporting role. ‘eh! no one can’t have-u a mobile-y phone-u ‘ she says. They exchange rapid African with the driver. It’s a northern dialect. Shortly the man is busy juggling 3 phones in his unusually white palms and SIM cards being thrown from one hand to another with celerity. Shortly, he hands me an expensive Korean phone. Like a ventriloquist, he gestures with his hand as the receptionist behind us talks. It’s a confusing image. A lady’s voice coming from behind me as this man gestures. In short, it’s a prize giving ceremony. The chap has made an electronic offering to welcome me to the 21st Century. He is giving me a phone. I protest by shaking my head and pocketing. He slips it into my jacket and a female voice behind me announces that Aku will be back tomorrow morning at 0830hrs. We need to start the journey early. All this time I did not know his name. Aku. I inquire, no, its not short for something, it’s the long form of his name Ak. I find that so uber. In this country, they don’t shorten words, they make them longer. Sui generic.

Aku disappears into the emptiness in very fast slow motion like Kanda King. He is muslim, he doesn’t drink alcohol, the loquacious receptionist tells me.

With my new phone and number, I walk into the bar to drink with spies. Its now 1605 and the bar is full. It has been redone since I last saw it. Ultra modern, flat panel screens, stainless steel stools, glass barrels with young Africans, 4 per table, talking on their phones. Or sending texts. An international news network shows Germans celebrating 20 years since the Berlin wall came down.

I study the bar and notice 2 new lagers in small green bottles and ask for them. This prompts the barman to give me an update of the beer industry, market intelligence on how all the brands are doing. He knows too much to be just a barman, and I add him to the list of spies. So now there are 4 in this bar. If you add me, that’s 5. But am no spy. Not in that sense. I am here to spy on the work of some people we want to work with. We suspect they are not what they say they are. And just like the other young Africans in the bar I start playing with my new phone. In foreign countries, I usually don’t drink the same drink twice, and I don’t drink anything I have drank before, until I have drunk everything I had never drank before and only then can I drink the same drink twice. Yap.

At 2010hrs, I have had enough lagers and overheard enough apocryphal tales. They’re all talking about the same thing. Their new cars and how fast they are and how they clocked 2 hours flat from the capital to the mining town. They also talk about the football that is played in England. I open the glass door and step into the street. This neo crowd is sad. They fill their loneliness with phones, alcohol and sports. I want to meet real people.

I walk the length of the longest street, looking for my favourite restaurant in this bucolic city. They serve South Indian food. For a Nairobian, walking in comfort and without fear is annoying. I am used to fear and I miss the adrenaline, the danger of walking from my desk to the toilet in Nairobi. Someone could attack you with a fundraising card. Or a grenade. Here, I walk fearlessly, with my new phone at hand. Finally, I find the hotel. I chat up the owner, he went to school in Parklands. We talk about Nairobi. This chap cooks at the restaurant, sells phones, cars, and mattresses to take care of his 4 kids and his cousin who is also his 17 year old wife. I seat on the terrace and observe the crowd. There is a theatre nearby, a group of middle aged Africans are walking out. They discuss the play they just watched animatedely with European accents and get into shining European cars.

Les fautes sont grandes quand l'amour est petit.

I order thengai sadaam, makhani chicken, diced, the chutney was made of tamarind, coconut, peanuts, dal, fenugreek seeds, and cilantro coconut & vegetable sauté, I also order a side dish of sambar and a beer. Here, unlike Kenya, all beer is served cold. Desert was palpayasam. Hot food, cool breeze, cold beer. My bliss is short lived however, a man walks to the table and asks if he may sit as he pulls a chair. I acquiesce to his request grudgingly with a polite smile. He is soon joined by a pretty plump lady in her 30s. He suddenly shouts, ‘praise the lord’ startling me, I drop my fork and puts my hands in the air, surrender. She answers a soft ‘amen’.

I catch bits of their conversation. She works in a government department, and he is a pastor, suitor and wedding consultant. He has just escaped a wedding planning meeting to meet her. He presents it with all the drama of prison break but this information doesn’t seem to impress her much. He asks her if she has been living according to the bible. She says yes. I sip my beer. He asks if there are new deals in her government department. She’ll let him know, but her new director is from another tribe, it will not be easy to do deals this time she says. Can he come to her place tonight, no, her mother is visiting. Long silence, during which he is staring at my beer as if it might turn into a highly venomous serpent and bite him. I sip again and start plotting an escape from this duo. They’re happy and sad. And lonely. Corrupt and religious. Hungry and full. I walk back to my hotel room with this sad thought in my mind. I fall asleep listening to an international news channel, and the silent noise of the Japanese air conditioner. I check the time and notice its 30 minutes to midnight, I also remember that it was my birthday today.