What really is "Middle-Class?"

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This weekend, while catching up on my news, I discovered a few facts to ponder about Nairobi, courtesy of a twitter search.

Nairobi has a population of about 3.1M people. That’s about ½ the population of New York City including its surrounding boroughs.

According to a 2005-2006 survey conducted by the Kenyan Government, 22% of people living in this nation’s capital live under the poverty line. (This survey uses the number: 3,100 KSH = the ubiquitous dollar a day.)

That means, that 1 out of every 5 people live under that line.

I contextualize those figures in my daily life.

I live in an apartment that rents for $650/month and is within walking distance of prospective neighbors that live below the poverty line.

The neighborhood that I live in was once considered the most prestigious Nairobi suburb. Now, it is 2^nd, next to Runda (area where the UN and U.S. Embassy are situated).

My apartment is modest, but spacious (3-bedrooms). Some have told me it's a good deal considering that there are lots of upmarket apartments/houses (which are furnished) which rent for $1,000-$3500+ per month and I am nearby most amenities.

One cannot dispute the role of the international community. It is the regional hub of the United Nations and the U.S. government has a large presence here, along with other diplomatic missions. The financial support for these outfits is not paltry. The programmatic funding is substantive and so is the daily living expenses which bolter the local economy.

In the development and expat circles, Nairobi is sometimes jokingly referred to the “Paris of Africa.”

It has posh shopping malls that have authorized Apple resellers (an iPhone4 sells for $700 USD) or Rado wristwatches (luxury Swiss imports which sell for $2,000+ USD).

Public schools are out of the question for most of the affluent. They enroll their children in reputable private schools which follow the American or British education system. Those high school graduates compete academically on the global stage – some even sit for AP exams which are administered locally. The tuition varies widely, but one in my neighborhood cost $11,000 USD per year.

Nairobi is digitally connected. Internet is relatively inexpensive. Safaricom sells 100MB data bundles for smartphones for 250KSH (~$3.00 USD). Wireless internet can be installed by technicians deployed to your home within 48-hours, and the majority of the time, it’s online.

There are pricey Italian, Lebanese and Japanese restaurants (to name a few) that cater to an well-to-do community. Sitting in their dining rooms, one can observe that their clientele are a mix of foreigners and local Kenyans. A typical bill for two would cost $25-50 USD.

Except for some occasional outages, the lights and electricity are on.

People who have lived elsewhere in Africa say that it’s easy to live in “this bubble” once you meet that income threshold.

Even the local newspaper recently wrote about the emerging middle class. But, I tend to think that the person featured in this article is not middle, but elite:

Daily Nation: "The Rise & Rise of Kenya's Middle Class" - (Oct 2012)

Don't Cry over Curdled Cheese...

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… at least when you’re in Kenya, one shouldn’t.

Last week, as usual, I did my weekly grocery shopping at the nearby up-scale shopping complex. There’s one store, called “Zucchini,” that sells fresh produce, freshly squeezed juices and recently, they added imported cheese to their stocks.

Wow—French brie! I haven’t had that since I moved to Africa earlier this year! What a decadent treat. Its definitely not normally on my weekly shopping list. The European delicacy is pricey.

But, if it’s imported from the land of savory, freshly-baked baguettes and aged, divine wine, it must be good, I thought to myself peering inside the assortment of fromage sitting in the refrigerated display case.

Why not splurge once in a while? I thought.

“I’ll take 100g,” I said, when the perky clerk suggested I try it.

My mouth watered as I watched her work behind the counter to slice into the huge hunk and wrap my piece.

This will go splendidly with a fresh loaf of bread that I can purchase at another nearby shop, I contemplated…

Now, Let’s fast forward to 20 minutes later when I’m inside my kitchen unpacking groceries. From the bag containing the wrapped cheese, I get a whiff of a rancid smell.

“C’est domage! Quel horreur!” (It’s a shame, What horror = en francais.) My cheese smells spoiled. The cheese’s rind is soggy, but the inside might be salvageable.

Maybe, it can be saved if I remove the rind and store it in a tupperware. It looked so delicious at the store!

A few hours later when dinner-time arrives, I open the fridge and take out the cheese. Cutting a small wedge, a morsel tips my tongue.

“Yuck! I spit it out and attempt to chase it down with several gulps of water. This cheese is officially inedible.

Under normal circumstances, one would march right back to the store with spoiled sample and receipt in hand, demanding a refund or exchange. But it’s evening, it's 100g (the smallest amount one can purchase) and its very inconvenient to return to the produce store at this hour.

I toss the cheese into the garbage and try to forget the whole thing ever happened.  For the next few days, the smell pervades the pantry with increasing pungency before it’s successfully thrown away in weekly trash disposal.

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Exactly seven days later, I return to Zucchini Grocery store as per my customary shopping routine. As I pass by the cheese counter, the friendly, perky saleswoman greets me. I respectfully tell her about the rotten purchase. She sympathizes and says maybe we can “work something out,” but that I first need to consult with the manager.

I respect protocol. My first job was working in a grocery store very similar to this one.

Solomon is the store manager working the front-end. He is a burly, middle-aged Kenyan. He listens, half-interestedly confusing my “brie cheese” with “bleu cheese” in the pre-packaged refrigerated cases. I am not impressed with his professionalism. But hope that maybe he might care about providing the best future customer experience.

Solomon mutters that a previous customer also complained about the cheese last week.  He said he will also talk to the cheese woman so that she’s also aware. I presumed that he meant he would contact the vendor about this mishap.

Instead, we walk back to the cheese counter. He flips his wrist marshaling the saleswoman to the counter.

What happens next surprises me.

Exercising his authority, in a condescending tone, he tells her that she needs to be more careful in selling the cheese to customers. She needs to smell the cheese each time and inspect it thoroughly before wrapping it up for the customers.

Then he turns to me and lectures me in the same tone. 

“You also need to ensure that the cheese is fresh before approaching the check-out counter,” he says sharply.

I smiled and laughed nervously, glancing at the embarrassed employee. I told Solomon that I would be happy to share this information with the rest of my friends whom he presumes are wealthy clientele.

I will be sure to inform them that should do their own inspections because they can’t be certain that they are buying quality product from this establishment.

How does Solomon’s behavior solve anything? How does embarrassing an employee in front of her colleagues or lecturing a polite customer equate to good customer service?

The price of the cheese was less than 500KSH.

Who knows how the cheese got spoiled, but to belittle both an employee and customer are not appropriate.

I guess this is a story that has two lessons: Solomon, may need to learn a thing or two about appropriate customer service, and its more than just wasted cheese that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Sokoni (Swahilli translation: “At the Market”)

I live within walking distance to one of the 3 largest slums in Nairobi called “Kawangware.” A few months ago, I was introduced to the market where most natives buy their produce. It’s significantly cheaper than the upscale supermarkets at the strip malls, so I use this as an opportunity try to venture out my comfortable expat bubble and practice my rudimentary Swahilli.

Fresh food is cheapest on Tuesdays and Fridays when the produce is transported from around the country to Nairobi for sale. Any of the other days, one can expect the market prices to rise at least 10 -20 KSH (.12-.25 USD) for each item.

There is always a chance that I could be robbed so I plan accordingly. I only bring what is only essential –my wristwatch/jewelry and cell phone stay at home, and I only carry a backpack, small amounts of cash stashed in different pockets, and my keys. Then I’m on my way…

The market is about a 20-minute roadside walk to reach its center. Along the way, I stroll by open-sewers (which aren’t the most pleasant smelling with their garbage floating in brownish-black stagnant water). Nairobi is under an el-Nino forecast and there is concern that the increased water will cause flooding and water-borne diseases.

Unsuspecting free-range goats munch on the curbside trash. Cute, grinning, pre-school age children hop around shouting “mzungu! Mzungu!” to get my attention. I wave back and smile.

As I continue along the route, public buses pass within inches of my body. I feel their heat as sooty exhaust hits my calves and dust kicks up from the wheels and envelopes my face. The particles make my eyelids itch.

Lots of tin-roof shacks sit not too far from the road. The landscape is peppered with more sturdy cement block structures. There are small “dukas” (Swahilli for shop), grocery stores, MPESA (mobile money transfer) kiosks, women’s hair salons, etc.

The bright, mid-day sun shines down on the men minding their carpentry businesses. Wood shavings shoot in every direction as they sand 2x4’s with their electric machines. They wipe beads of sweat off their unmasked faces. I also pass flying sparks as welders fuse metal rods.

A few elderly men sit roadside watching their neighbors scoot along and gossip amongst themselves.

The majority just watch me pace past, while a few brazen, youthful men might ask me if I’m interested in having a Kenyan boyfriend or would fancy taking their hand in marriage.

Others shout “habari (the common Swahilli greeting – “what’s your news?”), city girl.” My response is “salama” (peaceful).

Their eyes widen with my unexpected reply in Swahilli, instead of English.

When I finally reach the market, its mid-morning and bustling with activity.

There is a huge second-hand market in Africa.

Vendors sell everything from previously-worn baby clothes, girls multi-patterned tights, men’s navy socks and polo shirts, second-hand Nike and New Balance shoes, fake hair extensions (those I hope aren’t already used, but I’m not sure), children’s stuffed teddy bears and knock-off Louis Vuitton and Carolina Herrera women’s handbags.

Besides fresh produce, one can also find sun-dried sardines by the bushel (the fish are caught on Lake Victoria), basic metal cookware and pots, live chickens, pirated DVDs,  and sacks of assorted beans (black, lentils, maize, etc).

With the recent rains, the path between each stall is quite muddy. I roll up my jean pant-legs, but my white sneakers get spattered with mud. I try not to loose my balance and slip.

Within a few minutes, a youth approaches me to ask if I can give him a small job to carry my bag while I shop. Kenyans are resourceful and are opportunity-seekers. The unemployment rate is exceptionally high in the slums and manual labor can be the easiest type of short-term work to find.

I politely decline. 

Within 30-minutes, I’ve visited 6 or 7 stalls and bought my weekly fruits and veggies:

Bunch of Parsley = 5 KSH (.06 USD)

12 small, red Roma Tomatoes = 30 KSH (.36 USD)

1 medium Pineapple = 70 KSH (.82 USD)

2-lb green Watermelon = 150 KSH ($1.75 USD)

bunch of Carrots (8 medium) = 10 KSH (.12USD)

3 medium Green Bell Peppers = 20 KHS (.24 USD)

5 eggs = 60 KSH (.71 USD)

1-lb of French green beans = 40 KSH (.48 USD)

6 small red onions = 20 KSH (.24 USD)

3 large ripe bananas = 25KSH (.30 USD)

1 pint of strawberries = 80 KSH (.95 USD)

Total: ~ 600 KSH ($7.00 USD)

On my shopping excursions, my backpack is the most useful tool. I can pack a full week’s worth of groceries inside and not feel sluggish carrying everything back to the house.

An episode of malarkey

Throughout this semester, when I finish class, I take the transport bus provided by the college for students and staff. While I generally keep to myself on my 2-hour commute to and from work, I take this time to enjoy sitting and thinking quietly. But, if I notice a student whom is enrolled in one of my classes, I will take a moment to chit-chat with him/her about how their semester is going, etc.

Five months ago when I first signed my contract, the administration gave me the tip that it’s important for students to “like me” and for me to be “friends with my students.” I assumed that meant that I should be positive and sociable on-campus and nothing more.

Normally, my commutes are uneventful, but sometimes on a rare occasion a Kenyan will briefly socialize with me on the public buses. I am often the only foreigner on the 60-seater bus. I oblige, but always remain wary of my personal privacy with strangers.

This is my first job as a professor and I recognize several indisputable facts. I am young—one of the youngest on faculty (if not the youngest) and happen to be female. Secondly, I recognize that I am a foreigner. I don’t want any blurry miscommunication. On the infrequent occasion that a student emails or calls me, it is strictly focused on assignments or other classroom-related problems. Thirdly, from blind student feedback surveys, my pupils say that I am approachable, knowledgeable, but firm.

This particular evening, I sat next to a male Master’s of International Relations student from Rwanda. He began chatting with me as we left campus.  We coincidentally lived in the same area of town, so the conversation continued the full journey as we traveled to our final destinations. Just another simple conversation, I thought.

Then the following day he called me—followed by the next day, and then the next. Looking through my call and text log---he has attempted to communicate with me daily. Each day for the last two weeks – even on weekends. Morning and night.

His texts have requested that I meet with him so he could “take [me] out 4 a walk becose [he] saw tat [I] needed time out of work 2 referesh [my] mind.”

“Plz do not deny me this chance. Give m e a chance 2 prove how useful i can be,” he said.

I continued to ignore the texts. No reply. No interaction. Simply silence. After seven days of no communication, I assumed he’d get the message. Stop trying.

The following week he continued his daily calls and texts. The messages evolved. “i hv seen u on compus. Plz do not leave before we talk. “ 

The that evening he sends, “where did i go wrong? if i hurt u 4gv me plz!”

Again, I fail to provide any response. Maybe he will stop. This man is a pest… and his latest antics have made himself look purely ridiculous and delusional.

Finally, I sent a terse response: “I am faculty and take my job very seriously and do not socialize with students outside the academic environment. I hope that you understand and respect my position. Pleasant evening.”

Immediately he responded: “I happen to be a student at [college]. Understand me, i will do everything 2 protect ur reputation as long as ur in my life! Ur shame is my shame and I can do nothing 2 bring shame 2 miself. I shll do whtver is in my capabilities 2 protect and make u happy!”

Today, it’s been 48-hours since my lone text, only to awake to another message early this morning: “ur silency wll realy affect me negatively in mi mid-terms. bcose wht is happiness, joy, or success 4 me: if is not being with u? talk 2 me!”

Throughout a few conversations with my Kenyan and expat friends, I identified many things:

1)     Apparently, he missed my comment about having a “boyfriend” and wants to assiduously try his luck.

2)    
Not long ago, the lines of courtship were blurred. Oftentimes, women would say “no” but they really meant “yes.” A culture of dominance and persistence were acceptable and the chase was on.

3)     Unfortunately, life is nebulous and stereotypes persist. Word on the street is that: “Mzungus (swahilli for white person) = money.” I  cringe even to even mention that, but I’ve heard this all too common phrase, “Mzungu (white) women marry for love, their Kenyan lovers marry for prosperity.”

4)     A male Kenyan friend says I need to be more direct as he’s seen me in multiple social situations. He says I am too polite.

I attribute that to my upbringing. My courtesy has garnered me compliments. Clearly, I need to change my perspective and become more comfortable with a blunt, direct approach in circumstances like these.
 

5)     When is the soonest that the el-nino rains desist so that I can walk to the nearest Safaricom kiosk to get a quick tutorial on blocking numbers?

6)     Lastly, I hope I have not made my parents worry that a prospective stalker is lurking in the shadows.

Thankfully, he does not know my last name (to look me up on the university roster) or locate my living compound to randomly appear at my doorstep. 

When I showed one of my other male Kenyan friends his digital behavior, he also laughed at this man’s ridiculousness.

After he and I deliberated if silence was the best policy, He said that culturally, it would be a deep blow to his ego. Perhaps, in the future if we crossed paths on campus, he wouldn’t dare to even talk to me.

After all these shenanigans, that may be precisely what I want.

Book Reaction: “In My Father’s Country: An Afghan Woman Defies Her Fate” by Saima Wahab

Now that this semester’s classroom lesson plan prep work is under control and I now have more free time to catch up on some reading, I’ve decided to peruse the New York Times best-seller book list. I’m a fan of non-fiction and decided on a whim to download this kindle e-book from my local library. (Yeah! For technology! Who knew that despite living in Africa, I can still check-out digital books from my local neighborhood library back in the Midwest.)

It was such a captivating story that I finished this novel in a day.

This book is written by a Afghani (Pashtun) Muslim woman who was born in Afghanistan, but moves to the U.S. West Coast when she was a pre-teen. Later, she becomes a U.S. citizen.

Early in the book (in the 1970s), when she and her two siblings were all under the age of 5, her father mysteriously disappeared by the KGB, never to be seen again. In Afghani patriarchal culture, her mother moved the family to her grandfather’s house where they all lived until she and her siblings immigrated to Oregon as refugees.

While her mother remained in Afghanistan, they were raised by two uncles who maintained a strict household — imparting Afghani traditional roles and double-standards between her brothers and she and her sister. When she completed her university education and began her first job in her early-twenties, she moved out of their house and became estranged from her uncles.

Throughout her life and the book, she is a fiercely independent woman despite her firm understanding of how stark her life would have been if she remained in Afghanistan. She says she would have likely been an illiterate wife with many, many children in a rural village. As that person, she would have hoped that she had a kind husband who didn’t beat her and strictly view her as property. Recognizing how her current life was vastly different that other possible reality, those conflicting emotions both haunt and guide her in her decisions.

It wasn’t until her late 20s that she decides to try a new adventure by becoming a civilian contractor with the U.S. military in Afghanistan. It would be her first time back to the war-torn country since she was a child and she vividly shares her experiences traveling to various villages with the military around the country trying to forge deeper understandings between both cultures.

What hit me about this book was how outstandingly well the author explores cultural nuances and roles between men and women. She shares her interesting anecdotes about cultural conflict and gender identities between her new American lifestyle and her traditional Afghani culture.

For example, due to the high child mortality rate, it’s common that mothers won’t bond or give a name to their child until they reach the age of 7, when the family will know that the child has avoided death from diseases.  If the child does die before that time, it’s easier to grieve if the young person was not individualized.  

In her work, the author really tries to help soldiers (and her readers) understand the multi-dynamic culture. To truly appreciate a culture it not only a firm foundation linguistics, but also have the historical and cultural idiosyncrasies needed to complete the picture.

I learned a lot about Pashtun culture and also new details about American culture. It’s an admirable, interesting story and recommend that you read it, if you the time too.

Once Upon A Time, There was a Conman Carpenter...

 Since I moved to Kenya 6 months ago, I have been waiting for 1 piece of furniture to arrive in my house to make my apartment complete. It's been a couch which I ordered to be custom-made from a carpenter who was hired by my landlord in March while doing some other handywork.

To make a long story short, after patiently waiting to come to an agreement, I felt that I had no other choice but to explore contacting the police. I didn't want to be taken-advantage of for being a foreigner and felt that my trust had jeopardized.

Earlier this week,  I finally organized the police to arrest the conman carpenter after spending all of September chasing various avenues.

Last week was the end of the month and I had been in touch with the carpenter to meet me on Sunday. It's a time when workers are paid and travel and have extra money to do whatever.

After conversations and texts throughout the weekend, he and I agreed that he'd be coming to the apartment on Sunday afternoon. My texts and phone conversations were clear-- come to my house and we'll go to the workshop to see the furniture.

On Sunday afternoon, after organizing with the police to arrive in civilian clothes, they waited outside while I waited upstairs for the carpenter to come. 1:30pm came and went. I tried to call him, all 3 telephone lines were off... even hours later into the evening, his phone was still off.

Finally, 5 hours after our failed meeting I sent him a text: "I have always believed that you were a trustworthy, reliable person and don't understand this behavior from someone of your age and stature. Lets sit and talk like mature, responsible adults that we are. I waited all week for your return so that we could see the furniture today. I've been a very patient person praying everyday and look forward to this afternoon all week. This is important to met and expected your understanding and help. Can you try to imagine how extremely hurt and disappointed? We need to reschedule so that we can complete this job kabisa ("completely" in swahilli). Call me - my phone is open and will pick your call."

No response. No text reply. No telephone call.

Monday came and my swahilli teacher and I decided to call him. He picked up my call and I asked him what happened yesterday (Sunday). In a rude tone, told me that I he tried to organize someone to come to my house and I could sort the remaining $100 dollars to complete the job, but that I had refused. Then my swahilli teacher jumped in and put on the pressure and a swahilli conversation ensued.

The carpenter has stood us up multiple times--- and the same status of my furniture today was the same status it was 6-weeks ago. We were finally hard and gave him an ultimatum that he could choose-- come meet us or we will organize the authorities to come get you in the small town that you're working.

Finally, he said he would travel 3-hrs to Nairobi (from where he said he was working), and meet us. He arrived around 9pm, called me to tell me he arrived and wanted me and we decided on meeting at 11:30am.

At 11:30, a few minutes later, a taxi pulled up with 2 plain-clothed police officers, and we all met in my house. I told the carpenter, "I'm sorry, but you have given me no choice but to contact the police and you are now being arrested."

Then the 4 of us traveled to the police station and sat in a tattered interrogation room. The excuses spewed from his lips. He was finger-printed and taken to a cell. I told him that we were beyond negotiation and that he has disrespected me and I can no longer trust what he says.

In Kenyan law, a person can only be held for 24-hours and then they either go to court (which could imprison him for up to 1-year since he has technically conned me.) or we can come to an agreement with the state that he pay back slowly with installments.

After leaving the police station yesterday afternoon, I called my Kenyan friend who has lived in the UK. We share a similar background in Communications and journalism and he could sympathize.

This weekend when we met up to watch football, I told him about my predicament. He could sympathize and told me that he wished I had told him sooner about this problem. He would have called the carpenter and would have ruffled him months ago. 

Yesterday after returning from the police station, I told him about the latest developments. He suggested that I settle instead of pressing charges and going to court.  Whatever "little money the carpenter could raise would go to the state and you would never see any of it. You am making a bigger deal out of little money. At least if you get 1/2, you will have received something, and do you really want a long drawn-out deal with the courts?" he said when I asked him for his advice.

This situation was a complex dilemma for me-- to fight this issue hard and have the carpenter receive punishment for his actions on the basis of pure principle? Or do I show compassion and attempt to negotiate?

It's a delicate scenario because the issues have required me to think about my own values and morals, personal views of poverty and wealth, personal desperation, local cultural norms of what is acceptable behavior (or even status in a patriarchal society), and individual respect.
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Just before my evening class, there was a break in my case. I received a voicemail from a woman at the police station. Her  message was articulate and she sounded like she was a fellow foreigner. She asked me to call her back and that she was at the station to help the carpenter and wanted to come to an agreement.

She said that she had been called by the carpenter to intervene and she wanted to know what I was negotiating.

I explained to her my experience with him over the last 6 months and how he has failed to deliver on our agreement. I was left with no other option but to try to solve this matter via this route. But, in showing compassion towards his wife and children, I will accept 1/2 the value and we discuss a repayment option and we can meet later to sit and discuss.

This morning at 8am, the guarantor and I met informally chatted in the parking lot of the police station while we were waiting the meet with the officer in charge or the sergeant assigned to my case. The guarantor appeared to be in her late 30s or early 40s, with blackberry in hand, her car outfitted with diplomatic license plates, wearing black heels, gold jewelry to compliment her work attire, she hoped to settle this issue early before proceeding to work where she works in HR for an NGO. She lived in Kenya for 7-years was originally West African.

As we waited for the sergeant handling the case to arrive from court to the police station, we talked for about 40 minutes exchanging versions of the carpenter's story and corroborating information. She had met the carpenter in 2006 when he was hired to do some work in her house (sounds familiar?) and he approached her to consider employing his wife to care for her children. After a short vetting process, the carpenter's wife was hired and has been caring for her 3 children ever since.

She told me that sometimes, on the rare occasion, when she goes out of town for work, she will consult the carpenter (since he is the head of household) if his wife can stay overnight with her children. He always agrees and the carpenter and his wife find other accommodation for their own kids.

The guarantor became involved because she felt compassion for the carpenter's wife and their 5 children. Last evening, the guarantor said that she had discussed this situation with her husband and they are supportive in wanting to avoid this going to court since they recognize the dramatic and adverse impact it would have on the carpenter's family.

Over the years that the carpenter's wife has been employed, the guarantor says that she has had absolutely no issues with the carpenter or his wife. When he's called to the guarantor's house to complete some work, he always comes and completes the job fully. He has even made furniture which sits in their home.

The guarantor then proceeded to tell me that the carpenter's wife is the 'bread-winner" of the house and, at times, when he has been unemployed searching for work, it has put tension on their relationship. She says she knew that he had been in and out of work for the last 12-16 months and just recently got a new job in a small town, 3-hrs by car from Nairobi. At least it is steady work, and he can remit his salary 2x per month when he is paid on the 15th and 30th.

The guarantor has said that the wife has wished that her husband did not associate with unreliable people (my furniture was outsourced to an unreliable workshop to do my order) and this might now finally be a lesson for him. Apparently, his children know about his arrest and some are shaken. The carpenter's wife has told him many times that he should not go back to them hoping that their behavior and outcome will change. The guarantor and his wife hope he has now learned his lesson. This was the first time that this 47-year-old had been detained.

Originally, I hoped to be repaid in a month, but based on his 15,000 monthly salary ($175), that would be unrealistic. The carpenter suggested a 6-month repayment plan, but I refused. I wanted something more substantive and shorter.  We finally agreed on 3 installments to be delivered to the police station on the 8th of Nov, Dec & January.

I still remain unconvinced that he has accepted accountability for his actions which was the key objective of both the guarantor and myself.

If he fails to come up with this money, the guarantor will pay on his behalf on the 8th. We all signed the agreement and a copy has been retained for his file.

The matter appears to be resolved on paper, but the coming months will demonstrate a full outcome and it will be interesting to see what decisions he chooses which could jeopardize his wife's steady employment?

But before I could leave, the sergeant pulled me aside for one last conversation. She asked for what Kenyans refer to as "chai money." A request for another tip for appreciating her help...

This whole lengthy encounter reminds me of what many of my local friends say, "This is Kenya."