The Toothless Man
“Excuse me, excuse me. I am Abraham. I’m hungry.”
Vera and I had sat down at the only available table in the hospital cafeteria at Kijabe. It happened to be next to a window. In spite of the chilly weather, the window was open.
We each had a pile of “chips” (fries), two big pieces of chicken, and a soda. When we were close to finishing our lunch, a man attempted to get my attention from outside the window.
“Excuse me, excuse me. I am Abraham. I’m hungry.”
Initially I ignored him, partly because it was difficult to understand him. Much of what he said sounded like mumbling.
Eventually, I turned and looked at him. Now, I could see why he was difficult to understand; it appeared that he didn’t have a single upper tooth. Once he had my attention, he repeated himself, “I am Abraham. I’m hungry.” Reaching his hand in through the window, he pointed at my plate of food.
I asked Vera if she thought it’d be okay if I gave him something. She hesitantly said to go ahead. We both knew that it was probably against hospital regulations. However, I decided it made more sense to help fill another soul’s stomach instead of overfilling mine!
I tore out two obituary pages from my newspaper and wrapped up a piece of chicken and my leftover chips. Vera contributed her remaining chips, as well. As I handed the package to him through the window, he mumbled that he wanted my soda, too. In spite of his bold request, I told him no. With his lunch package in his hand, he thanked me and disappeared, likely to a secluded spot to indulge.
The "Operation"
I had spent a couple of days with Karo and Jeremiah in Kayole. Now I was on my way to see my friend, Kim, at Langata. Karo walked me to the stage, where we squeezed in a few last minutes of chatting. As a mini-bus approached, the conductor (hanging out of the door) inquired with a gesture whether or not we were going. I told her I thought I’d take that one.
As I said good-bye to her, I tossed in my bag and climbed up into the cab next to the driver. I settled down in the window seat. We meandered through the crowded streets of Kayole, stopping at every stage to collect more passengers wherever we could. No one ever joined me at the seat next to me and I didn’t talk to the driver. I simply enjoyed watching all the activity from my vantage point; daily life in Kenya fascinates me.
We finally made it onto Jogoo Road and headed towards “town” (downtown Nairobi). Our driver turned into a petrol station, but bypassed the pumps. We pulled up alongside an empty matatu and parked. As the conductor got out, the driver hollered at two guys standing near the road. One turned to him and dramatically communicated something with hand motions. Another mini-bus pulled up alongside us and all the passengers got out.
Unknown to me, apparently all of the passengers on my vehicle (seated in another compartment) had also alighted.
“Excuse me,” said my driver a bit timidly. “There’s an operation. Can you get out?”
“What kind of an operation?”
“The police, they’re checking car registrations. You need to get out and find another vehicle.”
“But I haven’t paid yet. Where’s your conductor?” I still owed 20-bob (28 cents) for my ride to town.
“It’s okay. You don’t need to pay because of the operation.”
I jumped down out of the bus and bumped my way through the dozens of stranded passengers who were now looking for another vehicle to take them to town.
Deciding instead to walk, I happened past where the police were conducting the “operation”. They had pulled many vehicles over alongside the road. I followed the gaze of many by-standers into sort of a vacant field. Inside were dozens more police officers and about 30-40 vehicles they’d apparently seized. Many drivers (in blue uniforms) and conductors (in maroon uniforms) idled around.
To be sure, one can never know what the day may hold in Kenya!
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