I had been warned about them just the day before.
My Nairobi friends had said to me, do not resist, do not talk back, do not get angry and above all, do not run… because they are everywhere. Should you have the misfortune of having to deal with them, just use your Canadian charm, they suggested. And know that They are ruthless and often they aren’t who they say they are.
Who exactly are They, you ask?
They are Nairobi City Council. Many of them are spies, thugs and con men. They are like Gollum, wretched and not to be trusted. And they are a solemn reminder that you’re definitely not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. So when they approached me on a busy downtown Nairobi street, I knew I was in for a world of pain if I did not remain calm and be the nicest Canadian that I could be, right away. That, and Coca-Cola.

But first, a short history lesson.
Osama Bin Laden. Remember him? In 1998, back before he was the international superstar of terrorism, Osama came to the public spotlight via the United States Embassy bombing in Nairobi, in which 212 people died and 4,000 were injured. As a result, the Nairobi City Council granted far-reaching powers to it’s street team of plain-clothes spies, initially on the look-out for potential terrorists in the Central Business District–basically the only area of downtown that looks like a clean, modern city. Fair enough, we need to feel safe, whether we’re visitors to Nairobi, or its residents.

But flash forward to 2010 and these same spies now have the authority to interrogate, humiliate, fine and imprison anyone, including foreigners, for so much as dropping a toothpick on the sidewalk. That’s right, a toothpick. Feel like chatting on your cell phone while crossing a street in the CBD? The city council spies/thugs are on you, grabbing you by the back of your pants, giving you a wedgie and escorting you in this humiliating manner to their paddy wagons.

Or in the case of yours truly? My heinous crime was giving two beggars 100 Shillings–the equivalent of about a dollar thirty. A few blocks later a man with crooked teeth and dressed in khaki trousers and a black dress shirt, slithers up to the right of me. His energy reminds me of if Gollum was real, and a lot taller. He immediately tells me he’s with City Council and I immediately pucker my anus and feel my knees go weak. Fuck, is what I say with my inside voice. I say it loudly. The City Council thug informs me, as he looks around suspiciously, that I didn’t give money to a couple of beggars but in fact to Zimbabwean terrorists instead.
My heart sinks, the adrenalin begins to pump and I find myself in survival mode, repeating a silent mantra of, oh shit.

Is that so? I say to him, trying to sound calm.

Yes, yes, a very bad crime here in Nairobi, he replies.

I guess now they can go buy a loaf of bread with that buck thirty I gave them for that warhead they’re surely working on in the 4 foot by 4 foot shack they live in in one of the many over-crowded slums. . . is what I want to say to him.
How was I supposed to know he’s a terrorist? I manage to timidly ask instead.

Then short Gollum appears to my left. His teeth are also crooked in a face that is too narrow, as though it was squished on purpose at birth. He wears an oversize purple dress coat (yes, purple) and black trousers. He flashes his City Council badge and tells me we’re going for a walk. He wants to talk to me, he says.
Oh fuck, I say in my head, again very loudly. I look around. The streets are crowded. As if these guys can run as fast as I can? I think. Don’t be foolish. Remain calm, I remind myself. Fuck. Okay, breathe.
I wait for short Gollum’s gnarled hand to reach down the back of my pants, yank upwards and parade me down the street like a trophy, but instead he motions forward and leads me down an alley. Tall Gollum walks behind me. I spot a bench in the open and suggest that we sit there to have our “talk”.

No, no, he says. Come, just a little further, he points forward.
The three of us walk a half block and step into a small restaurant where he motions for me to sit at a table. I sit. I look around for an escape route but there is none. They’ve chosen this cafe well. I feel trapped and as my initial burst of adrenalin recedes, fear fully sets in. I pucker my anus even more.

Outside is parked the city council paddy wagon–a very recognizable fixture of Nairobi’s streets–it’s every window wrapped in protective steel mesh. So because I’ve heard stories about city council spies I know that if I don’t cooperate I’m in store for a long ride in their truck, a night in jail and a hearing before a corrupt judge, in which I’d be forced to hemorrhage money, then be asked to leave the country. Or worse. And because I like Kenya, I like not hemorrhaging money, I like not spending nights in jail, I like things not getting worse, I make the decision to make these men like me. Even if just a little.
As I’m sitting there explaining to the Gollums that I’ve been in Kenya for a month, more of them appear around me and at other tables in the restaurant. They too have sets of crooked teeth. Their sudden appearance makes me feel it necessary to turn up the charm. Way up. So I pepper my discussions with Swahili, tell them the truth, that I’m working for an NGO (Non-Governmental Organization) from Canada, in Nairobi’s slums.

An NGO? They ask.

Yes, based in Canada, I tell them.

Ah, Canada, they nod their heads in unison. Kenya has good relations with Canada, tall Gollum says.

They deflate in their seats a little.

Jackpot, I think to myself.

Yes, yes, Canadians love Kenya, I enthuse. That’s why we come here in droves to help the poor people in the slums of Mathare and Makadera and Kibera. I’m working with youth groups, helping them make money from recycling plastics. It gives them hope. . . I raise my eyebrows when I say “hope” and look at the men around me directly in their eyes. But that’s just the preamble to the kicker.
We help them to earn an. . . honest living, I say with polite conviction.

All of the men look away. Some of them snicker. I can see their hand-wringing stop.
I can’t blame them for wanting to steal my money, I remind myself. After all I managed to make it to Africa, all the way from Canada. They, on the other hand, will likely never have the opportunity to leave Kenya.
I notice the men begin to get agitated at the fact that I’m actually a good guy, with good intentions, helping people in the impoverished communities, the slums that they themselves call home, and where they have families to feed. They shuffle in their seats, unable to figure out quite what to do with me. Perhaps somewhere inside they understand that what they do is not really the best way to earn a living. But who am I to say really. I’ve never had to live on less than $500 a year in an inhumanely over-crowded and polluted slum, that lacks, among so many other things, running water and sewage systems–the first in a list of basic needs that allow for a sense of dignity.

As the men continue to shuffle in their seats I begin to feel in control again. And just when I think I have them where I want them, they motion for a larger, tougher Gollum to have a crack at me. Their chief. I had seen this guy the second I stepped into the cafe, he is larger than the others, a little better dressed. I initially ignored him, hoping he wasn’t part of the plan. But he is part of the plan, and now he sits next to me, leaning into my face. I can almost touch his facial scruff with my nose. I catch him sniffing me, as if trying to smell the sulphuric odour of fear that I’m surely wafting. I turn and face him. His eyes are close-set. And you guessed it, his teeth are crooked. Stained brown too.
What do I do, what I do? I wonder, beginning to panic again.

While long-absent thoughts of decency seem to have reentered the brains of his underlings, Chief Gollum’s synapses do not appear to be firing in the same way. But then it hits me. Of course, I think to myself in a eureka moment. What’s the most recognizable and cheapest possible way to bribe/make friends with someone in a developing country, especially if you’re a non-smoker like myself? You buy a round of Cokes. . . which I do and which serves to all but halt their attempts at intimidation. Except for Chief Gollum, they thank me. I glance at him staring me down, sipping his Coke through a straw.

Stop lying to us, he says with hot, fetid breath. How much money did you give the terrorists?

Like I said, 100 Shillings.

Impossible, Chief Gollum motions with a wag of his finger. We found 12,000 counterfeit Shillings on them.

Look, I gave two beggars 100 Shillings, I say calmly. We do this all the time in Canada. We give the less fortunate money. Had I known it was an offence I would not have done it. Rest assured, it will not happen again.

Let me see your bank card, Chief Gollum demands.

I bring out my wallet and show them that I only have ID and 500 shillings. I tell them that I don’t have a bank card and that I only ever come to town with a maximum of 1000 Shillings. In case of incidents just like this one, I say.
The Chief cracks a wry smile and mull over with his underlings what their response will be. They talk hurriedly in Swahili. Then, to my surprise, they get up and quickly leave. Except for little Gollum with the squished face. He still sits across from me, motions for the 500 Shillings. I hesitate for a moment, then give it to him.

How do I get back home now? I ask him. You have all my money.

He sucks down the last of his Coke then sits and thinks for a moment.

Well Mr NGO from Canada, he says, we can’t leave you stranded, can we?
He returns 50 shillings, walks me outside and points me towards the Hilton Hotel.
Take the number 46, he says. That will get you home. What’s your name Mr. NGO?

Robert, I tell him.

He takes my hand, shakes it and says, now we are friends Mr. Robert. Then he slithers away.

No short Gollum, City Council spy, government employee, we are certainly not friends, I mutter to myself as I walk-run to the Hilton. You give Africa a bad name. And as much as I understand that you steal because those above you have stolen, because those above them have stolen, and so on, it doesn’t absolve you of the fact that you are part of the cycle of why so, so many of your countrymen live in abject poverty.

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 25th, 2010 at 5:35 am and is filed under Notes From The Jungle, Stranger Than Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.