The Outsider(S) Read online

  “You mean rent a car?” responded a female voice that sounded distinctly English.

  “Rent, borrow, what is the difference?” I asked getting irritated. I didn’t miss the haughtiness in her voice.

  “You can rent a car at our place for a fee for a certain period of time. I don’t know about borrowing,” the voice on the other end said without emotion.

  “How much does it cost to rent a car?” I asked in a much calmer voice even though I was feeling mad.

  “You can find the prices online,” she responded in an indifferent voice.

  “Online?” I asked slowly, totally struggling to keep my cool.

  “Yes, the prices depend on the type of car you want and the duration,” she continued and I could hear the sound of typing in the background.

  “I should check online?” I asked again to be sure that I hadn’t missed a thing.

  “Yes,” she responded impatiently.

  “But I have called you. Doesn’t that count for something?” I asked.

  She sighed but didn’t say anything. “Well, what would you like me to do?” she asked finally in what sounded like a puzzled tone.

  “How about doing your job and giving me an overview of the prices?” I asked, and instantly felt better. Ever since I’d landed in Kenya, I had been doing nothing other than trying to be nice. But I realized then that my patience was wearing thin. The phone clicked, and for a moment I didn’t realize what had just happened. I felt fury engulfing me. She had hung up on me. Fuming, I walked into Mr. Clark’s office.

  “Whoa,” he said when he saw me.

  “These Ace people are unprofessional!” I yelled.

  “They are the best in town!” he countered.

  “There are others but I wouldn’t go there if I were you. Just take a cab and go there,” he said finally when he saw the doubts on my face.

  I walked back into my office and got my coat. The thought of being behind a steering wheel was intoxicating. It meant control. I had bid Mr. Makokha farewell earlier in the morning. We had gotten used to each other. At some level, we had become friends. I was going to miss him, but I felt confident enough to move to the next level. The car would enable me to learn more about Kenya and its people. I was planning to drive to the Masai Mara and to many other beautiful places. The thought was scary, but more than anything, it was exhilarating.

  I walked out of the offices to the taxi area, where I was bombarded by taxi drivers. “Madam, best price!” they all seemed to be saying. I stood there feeling vulnerable. The memories of the walk in Uhuru Park came back. For a moment I thought of running back into the office, but then I heard a voice.

  “That isn’t the way to treat a customer!” the voice said calmly. I looked up and saw a youthful-looking man making his way toward me. He was dressed in a black rugby shirt with the red, green, and white stripes of the Kenyan flag. The other taxi drivers stepped aside, and suddenly he was standing in front of me. “Sorry about that. We sometimes get too excited when we see a client,” he said in accent-free English.

  I nodded and smiled politely. “Where would you like to go to?” he asked. I gave him the Ace business card. “That is in the industrial area. Should I take you there?” he asked carefully. Before I responded he stretched out his hand. “I am Kioko Johansson.” I got into the taxi. Like most cars in Kenya, it was a white Toyota Corolla. I looked around the car. The car was new and furnished with all kinds of gadgets. We drove off, and for a while neither of us said anything. At the junction, we took a turn into Uhuru Highway. There was a traffic jam.

  “The president is on his way to the airport,” he said in my direction apologetically. People in Kenya, I was finding out, had vast reserves of patience. There was always something that pushed my patience; endless traffic jams, blackouts, sporadic water shortages. The list was endless. But they took it all in their stride. And, from what I could see, didn’t seem the least bit bothered.

  “Taxis in Germany are mostly Mercedes. And they are almost always cream in color,” I said in my attempt to start a conversation. I was grateful to him for saving me from those taxi drivers.

  “You come from Germany?” he asked. We got into a discussion about how expensive German cars are and the merits of automatic-driven cars.

  “I love the German Autobahns!” he said finally.

  “Have you ever been to Germany?” I asked but quickly regretted it. It was absurd to expect a simple Kenyan taxi driver to have visited Germany.

  “Yes of course,” he said. “Many times!”

  I sat upright, thinking I’d heard him wrong. But he continued:

  “My parents and I used to drive around Europe. Sometimes on holiday we drove to Bavaria.”

  “Your parents?” I asked, barely able to disguise my surprise.

  “Yes,” he said and smiled at the man who was hawking toys in between the cars stuck on the traffic jam.

  “That must have been expensive!” I said. A lot of questions flashed through my mind.

  “My parents both work. My dad is a lawyer and my mom is a dentist.” There was silence and then he added, “They can afford it.”

  I was dumbfounded. “Do they live here in Nairobi?” I asked.

  “No. They live in Stockholm,” he answered. “They are Swedish. They were visiting here in Kenya, and they adopted me when I was very small.” He burst into a broad smile. “I am a Swedish citizen,” he added in a tone that sounded sarcastic.

  “You don’t like your Swedish parents?” I asked, examining his face carefully. It wasn’t unusual for there to be friction between adoptive parents and their children. From my own experience with my mother, I knew that parental love was an overrated and rare commodity. But his response surprised me.

  “Oh, I love them! They are the best people that I know in the whole world.” I could sense pride in his voice. I looked at him, puzzled. The traffic started flowing, and for a moment there was silence.

  “I got tired,” he started.

  “Tired of what?” I asked, bursting with curiosity.

  “Of not belonging,” he said. “I belong here with these people.” He pointed to a young woman trying desperately to sell roasted maize to someone in a car with tinted windows. “No one asks me here where I come from,” he said and smiled at me.

  “I am also asked that all the time here!” I said.

  “I know,” he replied, and the smile didn’t leave his face.

  “Why is that so bad?” I prodded.

  We had reached the car-rental company. He parked the car and, still smiling, handed me his business card.

  “Don’t be late for your appointment!” he said with a chuckle.

  I alighted and watched as he drove off. I saw him wave. I held his business card carefully. Something told me that this wasn’t our last meeting.

  I walked into the building. Like most buildings in Kenya, it was more impressive from the inside than the outside. The reception was modern and elegantly furnished. There was a large glass table made in an S design. At one end of it were red and purple roses in an expensive-looking purple vase. At the other end was a laptop. In the middle lay glossy magazines neatly arranged.

  The woman seated behind the laptop stood up as soon as she saw me. She was Indian and had dark, thick hair that hung just beneath her ears. She was dressed in a blue skirt suit, but what stood out about her were her lips. They were painted red. A deep red color that was in sharp contrast to her pale skin.

  “Hello, welcome to Ace Car Rental” she said cheerfully while stretching her arm to greet me. I guessed that she was at most thirty.

  “Please have a seat!” she continued, signaling to the seat in front of her. “Would you like something to drink?”

  I could feel a nervous energy in the air. I looked around to be sure that she was the same woman
I had talked to earlier. The voice was the same and so was the accent. What had changed between the time I called her and then? I wondered silently.

  “Nice office. Do you work here alone?” I asked.

  “Yes. My colleague, Mr. Khan, is currently on vacation.”

  I smiled to myself. I often had service people in Kenya falling over themselves to serve me. I just wasn’t sure that it had anything to do with their love for me.

  “How much are your rates?” I asked.

  “To rent a BMW X5 for a day, you need three hundred fifty dollars. A Mitsubishi Lancer is sixty dollars and a Mitsubishi Pajero is two hundred thirty dollars per day.”

  “I will take the BMW X5,” I said. I was taking the advice of my Kenyan colleague Livingstone. He had mentioned that German cars were not prone to carjacking. But there was another reason; I needed to have something German. Something that reminded me of home and the efficiency of pretty much everything and everyone.

  “Please fill out the forms,” she said finally and handed me a bunch of papers. She stood up to fix me a cup of coffee. It was the instant type of coffee that was widely drunk in Kenya. “So the car will cost me three hundred fifty Kenyan dollars per day… I need it for one month,” I said, trying to figure out the exchange rate.

  “No ma’am. All price quotes are in American dollars,” she said steadily.

  “American dollars?” I asked in disbelief. “I thought it was in Kenyan dollars!” I felt myself getting mad.

  I could see pity flooding her face. “The currency in Kenya is shillings, ma’am,” she continued carefully, undeterred by my outburst. There was calmness on her face that I didn’t like one bit. “You could take a cheaper car, for example a Mitsubishi Lancer. It costs only sixty dollars.”

  I knew that that was an old sales trick. Make the customer a lesser, cheaper offer. Show your sympathy. I knew that almost 95 percent of the people insisted on taking the more expensive version. There was something about being pitied that most people couldn’t live with. “I will take the BMW X5,” I said finally, through clenched teeth.

  “Great! The price is exclusive of 16 percent VAT and insurance excess,” she said with fake enthusiasm. I smiled tightly. I couldn’t believe the daylight robbery I was being subjected to.

  “Do you have a criminal record?” she asked in a voice that kind of sounded apologetic. She didn’t raise her eyes to meet mine. I guessed that I wasn’t the first one to be shocked about the prices.

  Shortly after, I drove off. The car was perfect. In a righteous kind of way, I contemplated teaching crazy Nairobi drivers how to drive properly.

  As usual there was a traffic jam, but for once I wasn’t upset about it. I was in my own car. In my own space.

  From then on, things happened very fast. I don’t remember much of anything. I woke up in a hospital bed in Nairobi hospital, and a uniformed guard was watching over me. He was dark, so dark that one could easily have mistaken the blue-and-red outfit he was wearing for clothes hanging on air. Had he not moved, I would not have recognized that he was, in fact, a human being. I turned to look at my nails. I was nervous.

  When I raised my head, I was met by his stare. It was a surprisingly familiar stare. Once in a while I caught people watching me. The Indian woman earlier, for example. I hadn’t up to that point understood what the stare meant. It was a challenging stare. There was something both tolerant and intolerant about it. I looked up and could only afford a feeble smile. He smiled back and signaled to someone I couldn’t quite see.

  A burly black man in a white overcoat came to me. He was closely followed by a police officer. I recognized him from his blue uniform.

  “I am Dr. Tembo. How are you feeling?” he asked in a gentle voice.

  “I’m fine,” I said, and felt the dryness in my voice. From what I gathered later on, I had gotten into the roundabout on the wrong side. Kenya being a British colony had cars driving on the left side, the exact opposite of Germany or any other country in the Western world.

  “You are very lucky. We have examined you and everything seems to be fine. You were only in shock,” he continued slowly. “The officer here would like to ask you a few questions. Of course, only if you are feeling up to it!” But before I could say anything, the potbellied officer moved forward.

  “Madam, do you have a driving license?” he asked completely without emotion.

  “Yes,” I responded, feeling irritated.

  “Where and when did you get your driving license?”

  “I got it in Germany… in Stuttgart. I think in 1990.”

  “Do you have an international driving license?”

  “No. The German driving license is valid in pretty much all countries,” I responded confidently. I wanted to mention the fact that getting a German driving license was a baptism of fire of sorts. Apart from taking many driving lessons, I also had twenty years of driving experience. I looked up at him.

  “Everywhere in the world apart from Kenya,” he said flatly. It took me a few seconds to understand what he was talking about. I sat upright and felt a cold shiver.

  “We have a problem,” he said gravely.

  I stared at him evenly, hardly able to believe my ears. A Kenyan cop of all people was questioning my driving abilities. “Sir, you are aware that pretty much all Kenyan drivers are ignoring traffic lights?” I asked, desperation completely taking over.

  “That is not the point,” he continued

  “Am I going to get points then?” I asked carefully. He didn’t respond so I asked again, a bit louder than before.

  He raised his head and asked me in an indifferent tone, “Which points?”

  I wanted to explain about the Flensburg54 penalty points, but something about the way he looked at me stopped me. For a few moments none of us said anything. I stared into space.

  A few minutes later, my colleague Mr. Clark came in. He was accompanied by an Indian man in a greenish checked suit. They seemed hurried, as if they were afraid of missing out on something.

  “Stop! The lawyer is here!” Mr. Clark said firmly. It seemed exaggerated.

  “Irmtraut, this is your lawyer, Mr. Baktari,” he continued breathlessly.

  “Hello, madam” said the man in the checked suit. His voice sounded as if it were full of slime. “From now on, I am going to represent you.” He then turned to face the police officer. “All the questions will from now on be directed to me.”

  The potbellied cop made as if to protest but changed his mind. “Can we continue now?” he asked, hardly able to hide his irritation. “Your client drove without a valid driving license. She endangered lives… lives of innocent Kenyans.” He looked at me reproachfully. “Of course there is also the matter for the insurance of the car that she was driving. Since she doesn’t have a valid driving license, I suppose she will have to pay for all the damages privately.” He paused but made it quite clear that he wasn’t done with me.

  “How much is that?” Mr. Baktari asked. I knew this was the wrong question judging from the way the potbellied officer looked at him.

  “That should be the least of your worries, sir,” he started with a smirk. “These are charges that carry no less than eighteen months in prison.”

  “Prison?” I exclaimed, more in shock than anything. I looked from Mr. Clark to Mr. Baktari and back to the police officer.

  “Because you are a foreigner, we will speed up the process,” the officer said and looked me directly in the eye. I had the feeling that he expected me to show my gratitude for that favor. “You will know in no time whether you stay in prison for eighteen months or three years.” He proceeded to remove a handkerchief from his pocket.

  I looked up at him once again and was met by his gaze. It was a hard, challenging stare. I burst into tears. “I am so sorry,” started Mr. Clark. He looked worried. Very worried.


  “How can he do this?” I asked, more to myself than anyone.

  “Sorry, madam, I am only doing my job. It is the law,” he said in a tone that bordered on righteous. “Here in Kenya, we practice equality. No one is above the law,” he added, and picked up his folder. He walked to the door and stopped.

  “Madam, for now we will let you be guarded by a police officer. As soon as you are discharged, you will be transferred to Kamiti Maximum Prison.”

  “Scheiß Engländer!”55 I mumbled to myself in tears. If the British had not introduced the left-hand driving rules, I wouldn’t be here, I thought.

  “Excuse me?” The cop raised his eyebrows. I shook my head but couldn’t stop crying. Life was so unfair.

  Mr. Clark and Mr. Baktari followed him out. I was left alone in the room. Shortly after, Mr. Clark came back.

  “They are insisting on pressing charges,” he said gravely. “Not many people who go to Kenyan prisons survive,” he continued slowly, looking petrified.

  “I am not going to prison!” I screamed, but realized that he was the wrong person to yell at.

  Mr. Baktari was back, standing at the door and watching me.

  “You don’t have to go to prison,” he said with composure.

  “Really?” I asked and felt relief spreading through my soul.

  “Yes, but it is going to be expensive.”

  “How much?” I asked, just glad to know that there was a way out of that nightmare.

  He wrote something on a piece of paper and showed it to me. It was 10,000 US dollars.

  “What?” I shouted, barely able to conceal my shock. “I don’t have that kind of money.” I said. I worked hard for my money and I wasn’t going to be cowed into a bribe.

  “The file will disappear. This thing never happened. I think that your freedom and no criminal record are worth any price,” he said with finality. I felt like kicking his ass. What kind of a lawyer was he anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be on my side? But just as fast as I felt the anger, so did reason kick in. My freedom was worth anything.