Michael Logan

Novelist, Journalist and other things ending in -ist

Things I love about Kenya 3 – nobody understands me

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On the face of it, being completely incomprehensible to the people of the country you live in is a bad thing. But it can also be useful, and fun.

If I want to be understood, I can easily speak slowly and clearly. But if I revert to my normal speed and pronunciation, which is understandable only to anyone who lives within a 40-mile radius of Glasgow, I can say whatever I like. This is handy if you are having a frustrating encounter. You can call the person you are talking to all the names under the sun, while smiling sweetly, and they are none the wiser.

Kenyan guards in particular have a habit of nodding their heads and responding “yah” to anything I say.

When I roll up to a gate, I often shake the guard’s hand, smile and say: “I’m going to see x and y to steal everything from their apartment. Is that ok?”

Or: “I’m planning on beating everyone in the compound to death, and then burning down the apartment block. Are you fine with that?”

The guards invariably nod and wave me in.

Part of the reason for this is that security guards, upon seeing a white face, will let you into virtually any compound in town. This seems to stem from an assumption that white people won’t steal anything.

WRONG!

I am from Glasgow. Everywhere else in the world, they assume I will steal everything.

I honestly believe a gang of white criminals could clean up in Nairobi before anybody actually realised that wazungu were blagging things. You could drive up to an ATM with a JCB and dig it out of the wall, make up some bullshit story about taking it for repairs, and then drive off unmolested. When the witnesses said the gang was white, the cops would shake their heads in disbelief and assume it was the Mungiki in disguise. Even when white folk are caught killing people, like a certain landed gent descended from British aristocracy was (twice), they get off with it.

Okay, I am now very off topic. But that’s okay. Just imagine I’ve said all the above in a Glaswegian accent, and you can hear whatever you want to hear anyway.

Things I love about Kenya 2 – the slow-motion run

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You’re driving (again), weaving through traffic, looking for a gap to squeeze through to undertake the doddery old mhindi guy clutching the wheel of a shit-brown, black-fume-belching Peugeot 306. At last a space opens up and you accelerate toward it as fast as possible, since you’ve been holding your breath for the last two minutes and are about to pass out.

Then you notice a pedestrian sauntering across, checking his mobile phone or just staring into space. You honk your horn, and he sees you. But instead of hurrying to avoid being splattered all over your bonnet, he launches into the slow-motion run.

There are two versions of the run: in the first, the pedestrian lifts his knees high into the air like a footballer warming up and simultaneously throws his fists up toward the sky, giving you an intense look that says: “See, I’m moving fast.” The second, and rarer, version of the run is even more bizarre: the pedestrian leans forward, holds arms and legs rigidly straight, and scissors both sets of limbs, like a vaudeville performer exiting stage left.

To the uninitiated, it is unclear what is happening. Is he doing a dance? Having a fit? Being attacked by wasps? Ah, no. He’s running. Very. Very. Slowly.

Both versions of the run are slower than the stroll, so you slam on your brakes and screech to a halt. Unfazed by the fact he nearly did a somersault over your bumper and ended up with his face embedded in your windshield, the pedestrian continues his slow-motion run to the pavement/gutter/dirt verge.

There, he accelerates to walking pace.

I think this is why there are no successful Kenyan sprinters. The fastest time clocked for the 100 metres would be 5 minutes 33 seconds.

Things I love about Kenya 1 – Everyone is a traffic cop

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You are stuck at a junction in Nairobi – an all too-common occurrence in a city where everybody drives as though they have metal spikes bristling from their wheel rims and a turbo-boost button hidden under the dashboard.

Maybe it has been raining, and a matatu (commuter minibus) that tried to undertake on the muddy verge has overturned and is blocking half the road. Perhaps there has been a prang and the car owners are leaning on their bonnets, patiently waiting for the police to arrive. More likely, eight drivers have simultaneously decided they have right of way and are now snuggled up tightly in the middle of the junction, all staring at each other.

There isn’t a cop in sight, you have a meeting in 15 minutes and you’re wondering if it would be quicker to abandon your car and walk to your destination, all the while cursing the city.

Then, out of nowhere, a citizen traffic cop appears. The self-appointed traffic director beckons and waves, prods and slaps at bonnets, brandishes a newspaper, has a screaming match with a driver, stops to pick his or her nose (unless that too is a signal). Slowly, the traffic begins to move, and you are free. At least until the next junction.

Behind you, the traffic cop blends back into the crowd, seeking no reward. Nobody really knows who this person is: a matatu tout, a security guard, a garage attendant, a cleaner, a teacher. But it is irrelevant.

All that matters is that they are out there. And they are ready.

Angry mobs in Kenya

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Sometimes I love Kenya, a country where an angry mob can form at any second for no other reason than it is fun to wave a ripped-off tree branch at the cops or form a roadblock from stones and burning tyres.

I was heading back from a city centre press conference this morning to catch a bus at the big stop near the GPO when I heard the unmistakable rumble of a mob voice. I couldn’t really see what the commotion was about, as the usual massive crowd of wananchi had formed to stare, laugh and slap their thighs merrily. I was thinking maybe a thief, anti-government protest, possible some internally displaced demanding their rights.

Then a tow truck emerged from the crowd, pulling your typical Kenyan taxi driver white saloon car behind it. Pursuing the truck, armed with big sticks, were about 30 blokes, some of them in suits, screaming and shouting and trying to stop the towing. The cops were waving their big sticks back – fortunately none of the coppers had a gun, or there would have been shots fired. Off they went up the road, the angry mob chasing the car, the cops backing off in front of them, and the wananchi, literally hundreds of them, all pissing themselves laughing.

I don’t know if they got the car back, but I was thinking it is exactly thist kind of thing I will miss when I eventually leave Kenya. I would love to see a mob of motorists chasing a traffic warden or tow truck up the street in the UK, but I don’t see it happening.

Angry mobs in Kenya

by

Sometimes I love Kenya, a country where an angry mob can form at any second for no other reason than it is fun to wave a ripped-off tree branch at the cops or form a roadblock from stones and burning tyres.

I was heading back from a city centre press conference this morning to catch a bus at the big stop near the GPO when I heard the unmistakable rumble of a mob voice. I couldn’t really see what the commotion was about, as the usual massive crowd of wananchi had formed to stare, laugh and slap their thighs merrily. I was thinking maybe a thief, anti-government protest, possible some internally displaced demanding their rights.

Then a tow truck emerged from the crowd, pulling your typical Kenyan taxi driver white saloon car behind it. Pursuing the truck, armed with big sticks, were about 30 blokes, some of them in suits, screaming and shouting and trying to stop the towing. The cops were waving their big sticks back – fortunately none of the coppers had a gun, or there would have been shots fired. Off they went up the road, the angry mob chasing the car, the cops backing off in front of them, and the wananchi, literally hundreds of them, all pissing themselves laughing.

I don’t know if they got the car back, but I was thinking it is exactly thist kind of thing I will miss when I eventually leave Kenya. I would love to see a mob of motorists chasing a traffic warden or tow truck up the street in the UK, but I don’t see it happening.

Coldplay and Kenyan “rock” bands

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We were at a battle of the bands in Qatika t’other week, and I heard at least four Coldplay cover versions. There may have been more, but after the fourth song I stuck knitting needles through my ear drums and was bleeding in blissful silence in the corner.

Kenyan rock bands: Coldplay are fucking turgid. Stop doing cover versions of their dull, whiny songs. There are many other great bands out there you can cover. If you want to do whiny, at least cover some Radiohead songs – they do it with style and musical excellence.

Kenyan rock fans: Coldplay don’t even qualify as rock, so stop giving it the sign of the horns when bands are playing their meandering, tuneless dirges. You may as well headbang to Celine Dion. You have permission to give the horns only when you hear bands such as Led Zep, Black Sabbath, AC/DC.

Coldplay: Just stop. Please. You’re setting a bad example to impressionable Kenyan youngsters.

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