A night out in Nairobi

My first night out in Nairobi since my arrival week. The occasion, celebrating the end of a arduous week filled with obstacles. Monday morning's commute was ominous of the week to come. Much like the body's circulatory system we travel the main artery out of the heart of Nairobi as vehicle queues build on the vein into the city. Monday morning our car flowed freely out Upper Kibete as the inbound lanes posed deeper queues than normal. Our conversation, comes to an abrupt halt....there is a large bus screaming the wrong way down the middle of the expressway coming straight for us. Our driver, old Charles, (there are three Charles who work for our car service and he is uncharacteristically abrasive for a Kenyan)calmly veers and shakes his head with only slight disappointment as though he had anticipated the ongoing bus. Our heads whip around to make sense of what just happened as we watch the bus barreling down the expressway weaving through oncoming traffic....this wouldn't be the worst of our week.



Fast forward to 11pm on Friday, finally the cession of our work week. At the minimum we need to capitalize on the fact that we officially do not have to do anything Saturday morning. The destination, Havanna's, an ex-pat enclave, like many of the establishments in Westlands, Nairobi, and the site of my first Nairobian encounter of the third kind (this is where I was bit by a Kenyan woman my first week in Kenya and I wrote about in one of my first blogs...or did I). The motley crew; three Americans (including me), two Dutch dames, a Brit lass, two Kenyans and a posse of Indians living in Singapore visiting a coworker. The night would be filled with African anthems and would only get more bizarre.

The anthem of the the World Cup,'Wavin' Flag', would ring through out the night "when I get older I will be stronger...just like a wavin'flag, a wavin' flag", uniting African and ex-pats alike. While dancing and waving my hands in the air I had an epiphany, the key to a good anthem is having a melodic interlude where everyone, no matter language or nationality, can sing along and throw their hands up in the air "Ooh ooh ooh, ooOooOoooH". The other African anthem that received an equal amount of play time was Shakira's Waka Waka (this time for Africa) blaring from numerous establishments. The Nairobian night life never ends and cultivates several subcultures.

First, all night drinking is a staple in the lives of many Nairobians. Usiku (night) goes until 7am when the sun rises from the African plains and only at that point do all the club goers switch from habari za usiku (how is your night) to habari za asubuhi or good morning.

Another subculture are the harems of female escorts. Young, attractive and expertly dressed, Kenyan women target wazungu ('whites') males. It is not uncommon to see old white men entertaining young and attractive Kenyan women. I don't believe it is the stimulating conversation that attracts these polar opposites.

Petty crime. Passing into the Red Tape, that was the name of the club adjacent to the ex-pat-ified Black Diamond, the scene was much more local. Again, African's united on the dance floor to 'Wavin' Flag'. Unable to locate my friends who told me to meet them at 'Red Tape' I throw my arms into the humid air and wave them like a flag. Upon conclusion I keyed an SMS to one of my friends informing him of my presence on the dance floor. I returned to my shuffling and within the next chorus I spotted, from across the dance floor, a faction of our group. I reach for my phone in anticipation of the SMS that one of them seemed diligently typing in response to my message. I check all my pockets but to my surprise and dismay my mobile has disappeared. In a matter of one chorus, my mobile was no longer in my possession but rather a product already being introduced into the informal economy. I had been officially christened into Nairobian culture. Fortunately mobiles are only about 1900 bob (about $23). This was the first of two encounters with Nairobi's pirates. On our way home one of our Dutch friends was phoning her driver when a guy grabbed her phone right off her ear. Luckily he dropped it and the attention caused him to flee.

Finally, rackets of children being exploited and forced to panhandle. It is common at most intersections and in front of many busy establishment to see and be solicited by children ages ranging from four to ten. My guess is that whomever is orchestrating this racket realizes that younger children get more money. Like marketing they play on peoples compassion and sense of obligation.

My colleague Nick and I, upon leaving a full and still filling club after 3am, (I know what am I doing out that late but like I said it was out of pure entitlement that I had nothing to do saturday morning) are enjoying a recap of the night's bizarre activities when two, now very familiar, short haired girls approach us. They recognized me and shoot a familiar smirk. I have repeatedly internalized how to address this seemingly blatant need while not supporting the racket exploiting these children and yet leaving the children with something. My method; I always begin by introducing myself and then asking them their names. This is an immediate shock to them and most, for a moment, forget why they are standing before me with their hand out and palm up.

The two girls, sisters, the eldest a well spoken 10 or 11 year old named Fiona walking shoe less through the dirty streets of Nairobi and the younger one, Margaret (5 or 6), a shy tom boyish looking girl with her chin tucked into the neck of her rainbow sweater and her hands hidden in the sleeves. I ask them if they remember my name, they can't, I can't remember their names either. Nick and I begin by asking them topical questions like "what subject do they like in school?". Both answer "math". At times the eldest, Fiona, has to translate for her younger sister. As they stay stride for stride with us I begin to quiz them math equations and Margaret, the youngest one, quickly answers each one.

We continue walking along the dark, lonely and uncharacteristically quiet route back to our apartment complex. We then begin to ask deeper questions like "why are you out here at 330am?" and "where are your parents?" and "who is making you do this?". Margaret, walks solemnly as Fiona, teary eyed at times, provides only bits and pieces of their situation. Nick and I are filled with compassion for these children who are obviously being exploited. I tell them I will give them food to eat, some sandals to shod Fiona's feet and just enough money to get home on a matatu. I ask her how much is the matatu ride, knowing full well how much it is. She answers 50 bob each. We have a good laugh because I tell her I am good at math too and I know how much it is to take a matatu to where she is headed and it is more like 20 bob.

Nick and I run to our apartments to collect things that can help the two needy children. We return to two little girls waiting patiently on the pavement in the dark night. We give them bread and peanut butter. For Fiona some men's sandals to protect her feet and for Margaret my favorite pair of hipster black and white shades. I inform her that those shades have traveled to India, Japan, Dubai and beyond and that she should find those places on the map. Our final instructions; go home and if we see you again we want to see Margaret with the shades and Fiona with the sandals and we want to know how school is going. We depart ways, Nick and I share confused reflections on what just happened....did we do enough...