associated with Kenya’s ruling party. The high-ceilinged rooms of the club were in need of a coat of paint, the carpets threadbare. Members were notoriously lax about the payment of bills; the staff, routinely cursed and cajoled, provided mediocre service in return. While the Nairobi Club had squash and tennis courts (no golf ) and many of the same facilities as the Muthaiga Club, it remained the poor cousin. Only the Nairobi Club’s cricket field was superior; lovingly cared for by groundsmen who devoted their lives to a perfect crease and the resounding thwack of a willow bat on a leather-covered ball.
I was struck by the informality of the Nairobi Club and the fact that its members had long ago shunned the expatriate European community. The room I selected had windows looking out onto the cricket pitch. It was simple, furnished with a double bed, armchair, and small desk. The only luxury was a small bathroom with a six-foot bath, the hot water supplied by a wood-fired furnace located in a shed next to the club.
My first day at sundown, I watched as the flags overlooking the terrace were ceremoniously lowered, a signal that the tea room and the dining room required proper evening dress: jacket and tie for men and dresses for women. The club’s flag, with a yellow sun and the words “Light and Liberty” (taken from the crest of the Imperial British East Africa Company), was treated with regimental pride. Payment for food and drink was transacted on various coloured chits, an antiquated inheritance from the British, whose customs remained unquestioned by Africans long after these traditions had disappeared from Britain.
At the top of the grand, wood-panelled staircase I found a musty old library, a treasure house of seven thousand books, including African titles, many of which were long out of print. The library listed 170 members; however, not more than ten members seemed to make use of it during our two-year stay there. The full-time African librarian, Stephen Mukuna, whose love and knowledge of books on Africa was remarkable, sat reading under the lead-framed windows behind his desk. Day after day, like an aging prophet, imprisoned in shafts of sunlight and the motes of ancient dust, he devoured the written word.
The perimeter of the Nairobi Club was patrolled by askaris, or guards, who were on duty all night. These poor souls were paid less than KS 1,300 per month (approximately $250) for remaining outside shivering in the cold and the rain. The askaris were forbidden to light fires for warmth, and their clothing consisted of rags, layers of cotton or wool discards they found or stole. It gave them a wraithlike appearance in the dark.
Michael, the taxi driver, was my first friend in Nairobi. On reflection, I realize he probably adopted me as his friend. A newly arrived muzungu, or white man, in this part of the world spelled opportunity. That was fine by me. I knew few people in Nairobi, and without Krystyne I welcomed the attention. During my first week in Nairobi I agreed to employ Michael as a personal chauffeur. He was expensive by African standards at $20 a day—but for me it was a bargain.
Michael’s cab was in pretty bad shape, but, at the age of twenty-two, owning his own taxi made him a star among his envious friends. The cost of running a car with only a few customers left him chronically short of cash. His standard greeting, “Hello, Scott. Give me something,” was outrageous; however, his unabashed delight at receiving a pen or a cheap pair of sunglasses was endearing—at first. It wore thin over time. However, we remained loyal friends long after I bought my own car and no longer needed his services.
My first day in Nairobi was a Sunday and most of the Flying Doctors Service staff had the day off. I had decided to walk downtown and meet Michael in the afternoon at the Stanley Hotel, half expecting him not to show up. But Michael was there, slouching against the newsstand at the corner of the hotel, a large grin on his face. He swung his arm in a wide arc culminating in an African handshake—a clasp of hands, the holding of thumbs, followed by a second handshake. His boyish round face under a New York Yankees baseball cap advertised a warm and gentle disposition. Michael was a Kikuyu, the largest of the forty-eight tribes of Kenya. He was easygoing, perennially on the lookout for an extra shilling, particularly if it required little or no effort on his part.
“Ah, man, where you been?” he inquired with an indolent shrug.
Nairobi was teeming with people like Michael who came in from the country desperate for work. Over 55 per cent of Nairobi’s population lived in slums that occupied less than 16 per cent of the city. These slums were truly appalling, crowded, filthy, and unsanitary. Michael had a brother, Isaiah, who lived in Kibera, the largest slum, not far from Wilson Airport. Michael offered to take me there and introduce me to his brother since it was unwise for a muzungu to go unaccompanied. I wanted to see for myself what constituted an African slum, so I agreed to go.
Kibera held almost a million people, packed into tiny mud hovels. The press of humanity was suffocating to the outsider. Open sewage ran along narrow passageways with hardly enough space for people to pass. Rank smells of burning dung, garbage, and rot permeated the fetid air. We left the car and I found myself holding on to Michael’s jacket, fighting claustrophobia, pushing through the jostling throng, wading through rivers of muck and feces.
Isaiah lived with five other men, all of whom shared a hut furnished with two cots and a chair in a space no larger than a walk-in closet. Half the occupants worked the night shift, which allowed the others to rotate every two hours between a chair and two cots—four hours sleeping, one hour sitting. Isaiah made a great fuss over our arrival.
“Come in, come in, you are welcome to my home,” he said, enthusiastically. The smoke-filled hut was completely devoid of light. The smell of stale sweat and dirty feet was overpowering. Isaiah unceremoniously roused his roommates from their cots and ushered them, dazed and shuffling, out the doorway to provide space for us to sit.
“Get out, get out. Can’t you see I have guests?” he said, as they slouched uncomplaining into the blinding light of day. He then set about serving us a syrupy sweet tea in tin mugs.
“You shouldn’t have disturbed your mates,” I interjected, embarrassed at the fuss he made over our visit.
“Don’t worry about them,” Isaiah said quickly. “It’s not every day we have a muzungu visit us in Kibera.” Isaiah and Michael laughed and immediately switched to speaking Kikuyu. Michael did most of the talking, while Isaiah repeated, “Ahaa, ahaa” every few seconds.
I cast my eyes around the room, slowly adjusting to the lack of light. The mud walls were bare except for a cracked, unframed mirror and a calendar featuring a girl pulling on a pair of stockings.
I speculated absent-mindedly that Michael and Isaiah were discussing whether or not I had money. I decided it didn’t matter. I simply sat there drinking tea, trying to imagine how six full-grown men could live month after month in such restricted quarters.
Eventually, I interrupted their conversation. “What do you do for work, Isaiah?” I asked. Both brothers turned, as if surprised that I was still present.
“Oh, I’m not working at the moment, bwana. Between jobs,” Isaiah volunteered. Michael quickly added that it was very hard to find work living in Kibera. I could see the conversation was heading towards a request for money so I ignored Michael’s remark and addressed Isaiah again.
“Do you have a family?”
“Oh yes, he has a family living in Nakuru,” said Michael, determined to steer the conversation back to himself. “It’s very hard for my brother. He must send money to his family every month.”
A loud whistle from the train travelling from western Kenya to Mombasa interrupted our conversation. The train passed right through the middle of Kibera between the press of people
