In Nairobi,waiters are assumed, mistakenly, to be undereducated (though many arecollege-educated) and are routinely treated with contempt. Apparently, ourwaiter belonged to a lower socio-economic class, and our companion wanted me toconfine my affections to women of my own perceived "upper" class. Mycompanion's snobbery, I suspect, springs from her upbringing, rather than fromthe corruption of her ‘higher' education.

"These are my people," I insisted, and to rub in mydefiance, I sent two bottles of Smirnoff Ice to the shy princess in the kitchen.

When I returned to the pub the following week and inquiredabout my quarry, the female members of the kitchen crew pretended they didn'tknow the woman I was talking about.

As for my class-conscious companion, I didn't see her again;she avoided me as though I had leprosy. 

Much AdoAbout Nothing

Friday night. Veranda of a watering hole off Koinange Street.The bewigged girl, bold in her overlotioned young body, wears high heels, awhite blouse and a black transparent skirt, the upper part of which reveals theoutline of reddish panties - a meticulous assemblage of attire for a girl atwork. Understandably (the place is crowded and the waiters busy), she picks herway through the throng and makes a beeline for the bar dwarfed by her tall,elderly mzungu partner, shirt-sleeved and in faded denim jeans and trailing herclosely and somewhat timidly, aware perhaps of his conspicuous presence.

My eyes reflexively followed the odd couple, drawn as muchby the audacity of the mzungu as by the seemingly unimpeded authority of thegirl, who was leading with ease this expectant old man who looked like anAmerican tourist about to have his way with a girl about a third his age. But,to my embarrassment, it turned out that I was the only one at our all-male tablewho paid any mind to the two lovers. My companions - presumably having seenthis sort of thing a thousand times before - did not even notice the pair, forthey were too busy chatting away about passports and business opportunities in Tanzania. 

The ‘Doctor' Is In

Four-storey building off Thika Road. Shops and offices on theground floor, flats above. The big sign above the front door of one office saidCLINIC, black lettering on white board. My friend and I walked in and installedourselves on a small blue sofa near the entrance. We were the only customers.The front door faced a muddy undeveloped plot that was waiting to be filledwith yet another complex of flats. When it rains (as it did the previousnight), customers walk into the clinic with their grimy shoes, leavingunsightly smudges on the mock-tile floor.

The closed door in front of us had a pasted paper tag with amale name typed on it, but no DR before the name or MD after it. I didn't senseany activity in the room behind the door. Three women employees in anotheradjoining room suspended their conspiratorial chattering and stared at us. Theyseemed to be having trouble deciding which one of them should attend to us, butone eventually volunteered for the task. After the usual formalities, my friendwas ushered into the room where the ‘doctor' was waiting.

About ten minutes later, my friend emerged from the room,parted with about 500 shillings, and walked out with a small tube of ointmentand several big circular candy-like tablets in a bubbled packaging. It seemedlike a great bargain.

"What did the ‘doctor' say," I asked him outside as wewalked towards the car.

He laughed and said, "He looked at my rash and asked me whatit was."

"You mean he didn't know what it was? And you still hadenough faith in him to buy these medicines from him?"

He turned to me and gave me a blazing look, as if to ask,"What would YOU have done?"

The medicines didn't work. The rash grew larger by the week.People with marginal medical education who affected to know a lot about myfriend's problem kept telling us about some mysterious ointment they had heardabout that could help heal him right away. But they wanted cash up front(always a reliable sign that you're being hustled), and my friend, a universitystudent on a tight budget, having been burned once, held tightly onto hiswallet. Months passed, and the rash - which we later guessed was caused by aspider bite - gradually disappeared, apparently healed with soap and warmshowers. 

Tempting Fate

The tout donned clothes that made him look like a clown. Theivory mitumba shirt exposed the man's hairless chest through a V-shapedopening, and it reached only to his waist. I imagined the garment, in itsprevious life as a blouse, once hung in a woman's closet, perhaps in America. Thefaded, bell-bottomed blue jeans, patently feminine in their design, were twosizes too small, with the hems hanging well above his ankles. This tiny manwith a triangular face wore his old sneakers without socks.

The look was no accident - it was carefully cultivated. Theman was a performer, an entertainer, and we, the matatu passengers, were hisaudience. As we made our way from Nairobi to Kenyatta University, the matatu would stop everyfew miles to disgorge passengers and pick up new ones. During these stops, ourtout would run toward his counterpart on one particular competing matatu, lungeat him and wrestle with him playfully. Amazingly, our tout never once droppedany of the paper money that he held between the fingers of his left hand.

Sometimes the rival matatu would speed off with our toutdangling dangerously on it. His foe would then push him hard on his head orstomach until he finally dropped, feet first, onto the pavement below. Thedueling performers treated their minivans as children might treat awheelbarrow, jumping off and on at will. They kept up their antics all throughthe journey. Your heart sank every time our tout chased after his rival, andalthough his acrobatics were impressively flawless - his tiny frame always an asset- you couldn't help thinking that his luck would someday run out.