Garissa Road

Perhaps there’s a deranged infatuation with things unforgiving like with bad relationships or flirting with death. For me, it’s deserts – the simplicity of being in the wild and a wild that cares little about you.

So I am always excited when I am sent somewhere remote and when I am to meet with people who consider themselves forgotten.

Last week, I went to Garissa.

The last time I was on that road was about ten years ago but only to go as far as Mwingi, to spend time with the mother of my father’s friend. He liked to do that, my father, to send me to remote places to remind me of the privileged life I lived. And then, there was only a long dirt road that stretched beyond the eye could see which only 4x4 cars could survive. And the one that I was in had two fuel tanks to boot. It was the type of place, where if you stopped for lunch and ordered chicken, and asked after it an hour later, they would tell you, nonchalantly that they have just caught the chicken.

But the road is good now, thanks to Mzee Kibaki, all the way to Garissa and beyond.

The landscape changes from buildings to villages and from villages to barrenness, from semi-arid to arid, from cows to camels and from Kamba to Somali country.

Reaching Garissa town is like finding an oasis, a town that blooms and is given life from the River Tana. And the people I meet are friendly and accommodating. And we go about our meetings without problem.

Before I know it, we are on my way back to Nairobi.

It’s 11:30am and we are expecting to reach Nairobi in five hours.

We stop at one check point. And then we stop at another. At the third, I wish I had notified someone that I was on my way back and was being stopped. Because a bad-boy looking KDF officer – yes, he had wrapped a scarf around his head like a durag, sported sunglasses, and swaggered his way toward me and ordered me to get out of the car. Where is your ID? He barks. I hand it over to him. Where is your passport? I didn’t bring it. Why not? I didn’t know I should be carrying it. You should! He chastises.

Ok, sorry. I didn’t know. Next time, I will bring.

You think this is enough? This is not enough. How do I know how you entered the country?

Yeye ni Mkenya, (she is Kenyan) my colleague offers.

Hata Al Shabaab ni Wakenya (even Al Shabaab are Kenyan).

Alikuwa hapa kitambo, (she has been here a long time) my colleague continues.

Hata Al Shabaab walikuwa hapa kitambo! (even Al Shabaab has been here a long time)

He returns to me, You have laptops?

Yes.

Bring them.

We bring them.

Enter the passwords.

We enter our passwords.

They snoop.

At this point I am trying to remember my legal rights. With police, they come quite easily, I even think of methods of redress lest I am more than harassed. But with KDF? My mind draws a blank. This is what we had wanted right? For our authorities to have all the powers they require to do all that is necessary to curb terrorism. And for the moment, Bad Boy has decided that I am worthy of suspicion and is exercising his powers to “investigate” my terrorist-ness.

What are you doing in Garissa?

I was meeting with water actors.

You are a water expert?

No, I am a citizen engagement expert. We try to promote citizen engagement in water issues.

Mhmm. Do you know this ID is not enough?

No, I didn’t know. But I now I know. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.

You know we can keep you for questioning?! He threatens.

Ah! My colleague, sighs, msemehe, (forgive her) he pleads.

Yah! He balloons with power, we can keep her! The rest of you can go. But this one, we shall keep.

It is hot. The sun burns us like it has burnt everything around us. There is nothing on this road but us and power-wielding KDF soldiers. I imagine myself on this road for hours, watching them stop car after car, bus after bus, returning every so often to harass me. I imagine my colleague just helplessly waiting for them to be done with me. But I also imagine the worst – disappearing and how much more likely that would be were I evidently Muslim.  

We stand – eye to eye – the full force of his uniform plus rifle versus civilian me. I try to convey as much cooperation as you possibly can in a stare.

And then he says, ok, this time I’ll let you go. But next time? Aaah... this ID won’t be enough.

Ok thank you, I humble myself, next time, I will always carry it, thank you again.

We return to the car as fast as possible before he changes his mind but not hastily enough that it looks like we are running away.

We climb into the car, hold our breaths until we have at least set off before we can properly exhale. We text people back home to tell them that we are on our way and that we have been stopped severally by KDF and that if we do not make it home this evening, that they can look for us on the Nairobi-Garissa road.

There is little company on the road beyond the odd bus-full of passengers from Eastleigh and the random Probox with uncomfortable chickens banded to the roof of the car.

My colleague might have exhaled as soon as we got into the car. But I only really did when we reached the Ukasi police station and it felt like we were back in “Kenya” again and under police instead of KDF “protection”. He joked about preferring to meet with thugs than police or in this case, Al Shabaab than KDF and I mused at the irony.