Life after trauma: The suspicious carjacker

Last night I left work late and made my way to the bus stop with a friend.


We got into a bus that was filling up fast, but finding no joint vacant seats, our plans to seat together were foiled. I sat at the rear of the bus, in the second-last seat, next to a slender guy in a charcoal-gray shirt and gray pinstripe pants with a swelling at the crotch.


The jovial men on the back seat were chatting animatedly, and deciding that they didn’t “look suspicious”, I turned to the pair of seats on my right. On the aisle seat was a petite girl, while the window seat was filled by a heavy, pot-bellied man. They exchanged knowing glances furtively, looking forward to the night ahead.


Satisfied that they also didn’t “look suspicious” I relaxed some more and sunk back into my seat. The bus had tinted windows and a luggage carrier above the seats that made it too dark for my liking, but the blue light from a long, thin bulb on the right side of the bus offered some comfort. But not enough to forget the guy in the seat beside me.


I trained my eyes on my seatmate. He was breathing suspiciously. Short, fast breaths, as if his heart was racing with excitement and his veins flowing with a rush of adrenaline fueled by what he was about to do. He formed a mean, angry scowl that forecast ill-intent. Was he angry at the world and itching to avenge himself for all the ways it had failed him? His eyes darted back and forth and in and out of the bus.


I was overcome with a sense of foreboding, and it didn’t help that the bus was hurtling down the clear road, as if on steroids. I suspected that it was fueled by the muzzle of a gun sticking into the driver’s side, held by the man sitting next to him in the cabin – my seatmate’s accomplice.


Resigned to my fate, I wished that I had carried pepper spray. Then I decided that whatever my seatmate was up to, he would not catch me unawares. I would stare at him brazenly, taking in his entire being and imprinting his photograph in the fore of my mind. I wanted him to know that I knew what he was up to. My eyes followed his every move. I watched him clench and unclench his fidgety hands, noticed when he clasped and unclasped them, and took in the folding and unfolding. Then he slid his right hand down and reached into his pocket.


Was this it?


I watched intently as he drew out a thin, dark object.


It was a phone! A mulika mwizi with a neon green backlight.


I sighed.


He looked at the screen and typed something on the keypad.


Now, this must be it. It was time and he was sending a signal to his accomplices.


My friend alighted.


I was tempted to alight with her and take a taxi home, but I wasn’t sure I would get one … and the price would probably be inflated. I thought of moving seats. Moving to the empty seat that my friend had just vacated, but as I toyed with my thoughts, someone else sunk into it. I was stuck.


The bus was still hurtling down the road suspiciously. We flew past two black spots and then a police road block. Maybe there was nothing there. Maybe I was just being paranoid.


I wanted to fish out my phone, to send a message to the world that I was scared. But that might work against me. It was best not to use it. I remembered the valuables in my bag and tried to figure out how I would hide them.


I thought about how my seatmate would brandish a gun and ask for my bag. How I would hesitate to buy time, enough time to hide my treasures. But where would I hide them? Maybe I could talk some sense into him ...


If anything happened, this guy would kill me. I had studied him too closely, so blatantly. I imagined him sinking a knife into my neck; the blood gushing out as I reached for his neck to strangle him in return.


I had nowhere to hide. A wistful smile formed on my lips. I should have alighted when I first noticed he was suspicious. I should have alighted with my friend. I should have taken a cab home. But here I was. Maybe I was being paranoid, but who could blame me?


Suddenly he moved. I made way for him to pass.


Was this it? Was he finally taking position before he struck?


I watched as he made his way to the front of the bus. I was ready. I had been waiting for this moment all night.


The bus stopped.


He alighted, throwing me off with this twist in the tale.


As the bus swung back onto the road, I looked at my (former) seatmate one last time, glad that he was now outside. He still had that mean scowl on his face, angry at the world and full of ill-intent.


It didn’t matter anymore. I was home and my imaginary carjacker was gone.

What you need to know about WhatsApp import groups

By MJC

If you have been on Facebook for a while, you may have noticed an influx of WhatsApp import groups. These groups are formed to get many people together to import few pieces of merchandise each collectively, so as to attain minimum order quantity (MOQ). Coming together to import goods in this manner has helped a lot of people who are starting out with little capital, and who can’t meet the MOQ by themselves.

However, having been a member of many such groups, there are a few negative aspects I have noted as explained below: 

1. The buying price and/or shipping charges might be slightly or grossly inflated. The founders/admins of these groups are more often than not, doing it to make money. This is not necessarily a bad thing, but most act like they are doing it from the goodness of their heart, when in fact they are there to make money out of it. They make money by slightly or grossly inflating the buying price as well as the shipping charges. Not forgetting pesa ya kutoa that you will add as you send the money via Mpesa.

2. Quality is not guaranteed. Most of the admins of these groups do not first get samples of the items to check quality. So sometimes you will get very poor quality items and you the member, will just have to take the loss –  a huge one if you dared make a large order.

3. There might be no compensation for items lost before they get to you. If an item is lost whether at the point of being packed by the supplier, in transit or at arrival shauri yako! There may be no compensation for you. And if compensated it either takes a long time to get the compensation or you are compensated with something totally different from what you wanted.

4. Dishonesty. Like I said most people who come up with these groups (the admins) are there to make money, which they won't tell you. The intense kind of work that's needed when putting together these group orders simply cannot be done for free. You will pay for it in one way or another. Some will combine different shipments and charge the group for the whole shipment yet the group’s merchandise was only a part of the shipment. Some will use the money you pay them for something else and then pay for your items much later. This means your items will arrive months late because the money for your items was diverted to other things. Which is not so bad if you are buying for personal consumption, but detrimental if you are buying for business because by the time you get your items, the market will likely be saturated with the “unique” item that your WhatsApp group ordered.

5. Poor customer service. In some groups you will be treated very poorly. If you question anything you feel is off you will be berated, sometimes even insulted. Some admins don't even answer your questions within the group or if you contact them directly.

6. Con men. There are a few con men and women who have managed to swindle people out of their money using these import groups. I have seen it in two groups.

7. Undisclosed storage fees. Some of the admins  of the import groups don't have shops in town (Nairobi CBD) which means they have to store items in other people's shops who then charge you daily storage fees. The longer you take to pick your items, the higher the storage fee you pay. So, if you take several days to pick your consignment you may end up having paid retail prices for the items after including storage fees in the mark-up, which means you can’t sell your items at a competitive price. Often you are given a day or two to pick your items before storage charges start to apply, but in some cases, the charges apply from the first day.

8. Herd mentality that makes you buy worthless or hard-to-sell products. It's normal human behaviour to gravitate towards things that seem to be popular. But take your time to actually research about that popular product, check if there is a market for it before you order several pieces that you will be stuck with.

 I did encounter a group where the admin was very honest, was kind enough to teach us the process of importing for ourselves, did not inflate prices, made sure everyone got their order,  so there is still hope you may yet find a group that's a good fit. (Unfortunately she quit group orders after a couple of times. I told you the work involved is too intense to be free).

In conclusion, WhatsApp import groups can be of great help, but you have to go in with your eyes wide open. Be ready for all the things I've listed.

• Demand for accountability and better customer care because contrary to what the admins of these groups want you to believe, it is a business and you are their customer.
• Research and know the wholesale prices for the items you want. This is easy especially if you are importing from China. Go to Alibaba and contact a few suppliers and they will give you quotations that you can use to compare with what your WhatsApp import group admin is offering.

Diary of a retrenched woman

"Are you happy?" I asked myself.

"I know I'm not sad, but what is happiness?" I answered pensively.

Happiness is a feeling of contentment, resilience (knowing that you can bounce back), hope and optimism, came the answer from deep in the bowels of my heart.

With this in mind, I was no longer unsure about my happiness or lack thereof.

"Yes, I am happy!" I beamed.

And this is my mantra for 2017. 

Last year's mantra was: 

"There is only one success - to be able to spend your life in your own way." ~ Christopher Morley 

And I'm keeping it close this year because it still rings true and will continue to do so for the rest of my life.


Photo | Pixabay

Being fired/retrenched doesn't define me. 

I have always been a hardworking and passionate employee. My work ethic is admirable. I have always done my best and given my all in everything I do. Everything I do is well-thought-out and that won't change because I was fired. It is who I am and I can't do less. 

Being retrenched/jobless doesn't define me. My work appraisals have always been in the very good to excellent category. That won't change just because I'm jobless at the moment. Being kicked out of work doesn't mean I have nothing to offer; in fact, it has opened my eyes to the many things I actually have to offer, things that I couldn't quite see before when my eyes were stuck on my job, and they are much more than I can count. As one of my friends reminded me, the world is my oyster and I have so many options to choose from. 

I am not as young as I used to be, but there is a decade or two before I get to the official retirement age of 60, and slow down to enjoy the fruits of my lifelong labour, so I'm not old either. Obviously, I can't stay idle for decades, unless I choose to remain idle, so I'll find something useful to do. I just pray for humility because pride can be a major impediment to progress. 

I hope to remember to shut out any whispers from people who say all sorts of unsupportive/unhelpful things which can either take my eyes off the goal or bring me down completely. I pray for humility, strength and courage to get in the trenches and do the dirty work even though people laugh and say that what I'm doing is beneath what a "person of my stature" should be doing. I really do pray for humility because it is one of the first stepping stones of success, whatever I define it to be. 

Obviously being jobless changes a lot of things. Some relationships dissipate because the only thing that was holding you together (work) is gone. 

I remember Bitange Ndemo talking about the loneliness that followed the end of his stint as a Permanent Secretary. A phone that was always ringing off the hook, now remained silent for days on end. People no longer had reason to call him. 

I understand that a lot of things might change, but as my friend Lillian keeps telling me, don't take it personally. I'm listening, so no matter what happens or changes for the worse or the better, I won't take it personally. I'm not taking the job loss personally, and I won't take all the things that happened before this and those that will happen after this personally. 

The initial shock has worn off. My family and friends have been very helpful and supportive offline and online, and so has been my doctor, a psychiatrist, (whom I can no longer afford). They have helped me keep things in perspective and offered very useful advice in the midst of the initial confusion. I see a very bright future ahead, and I'm glad that I have so many things to do despite the fact that I am not going to anyone's formal office anymore.

27th January.

Why pharmacists are not good people

The other day I went to buy a prescription-only drug at one of the "cheapest" or rather, most affordable/cost-effective pharmacies in the city. I happened to have been in town early enough, and I decided to pop in, while mentally bracing myself for the long queues filled with bargain-hunters like myself, that are a permanent feature of this particular drug store and its sister stores.

With pleasure I noted that there was just a handful of clients, looking bored and impatient as they idled on the rather insufficient seat at the waiting bay of the cramped chemist. I made my way to the counter where I ordered a prescription-only anti-depressant, while simultaneously fumbling through my handbag for the prescription. Before I could fish it out, the attendant on the other side of the meshed counter had completed my order complete with a discount, without ever asking to see my prescription. He directed me to join the other clients/patients who were waiting impatiently on the bench, as a different pharmacist worked on filling my prescription and completing my order. A few minutes later, I was out and about with my prescription-only anti-depressant without having to show any prescription chit from a doctor.

In my years as a person suffering from depression, I have been to many pharmacies, but only a few ever insisted on a prescription before dispensing the prescription-only drugs I asked for. Musing about this later, a thought crossed my mind that pharmacists are not "good" people.

A pharmacist will never tell you, "You look/sound awfully sick or you've been coming here to get pills to relieve these symptoms for too long, don't you think you should see a doctor to get to the root of your symptoms?"

Instead, a pharmacist will ask  for your symptoms and give you something to relieve them. I guess the first rule of pharmacy is to take the money, always; never turn away a customer ( patient). Yet sometimes those seemingly little but niggling problems belie a serious underlying illness, that needs urgent attention, but a pharmacist will be happy to take your money and prescribe something to relieve the symptoms, even as the illness simmers and festers beneath the surface.

Banned drugs

I've seen pharmacists push anti-malarials on people who've not had their blood passed through a Malaria Rapid Diagnostic Test. A pharmacist will sell you the absolute prescription-only abortion pill without a prescription. A pharmacist will sell you morning after pills without throwing in a cautionary “you should consider ‘regular’ contraceptives or even the possibility of HIV.” A pharmacist will sell you the one-tenth dose of antibiotics that you asked for as long as you slip the money across the counter, never mind that the world is grappling with the effects of misuse of anti-biotics in the form of drug-resistant bugs.

I once had a person standing behind the pharmacy counter prescribe Metakelfin (long after it had been banned alongside other sulfa-based anti-malarials such as Fansidar) as a way to prevent malaria just before I traveled to a malaria-prone region. It made me feel so sick, I had to go to a doctor, who informed me that that taking anti-malarials as a preventive measure before traveling to a malaria hot-spot was no longer recommended, not forgetting that I had ingested a banned drug and one I was allergic to too (I'm allergic to sulfa drugs).

Maybe I require too much from pharmacists, much more than they are cut out to be. Maybe they didn't take the Hippocratic Oath or any oath on patient safety and public health interest being paramount. Maybe those attendants who man pharmacy counters are not even real pharmacists, not even pharm-techs. Maybe they're just salespersons, placed there complete with sales targets. Maybe pharmacists are taught that the interests of the bottom line come above everything else.

Lastly, the self-medicating customer is also a fool who is easily parted with her/his money at the pharmacy and later in the hospital which s/he thought s/he'd dodged by bypassing the doctor and going straight to the pharmacy, after consulting Dr Google and/or a couple of strangers and friends.

Still, pharmacists are part of our health problems.

On having an abortion

Say you missed your period. You didn't even notice, either because your cycle is so irregular, or because you were too busy chasing paper, beating deadlines, being social and generally living life. So about two months into your last period, it hits you that something went missing from your life.

 

"Could I be pregnant!?" You gasp.

 

You grab the calendar, but you can't even remember when you last had your period. Damn! You should have downloaded one of those period-tracker apps, but it's rather late for that now.

 

It is a lazy, slow and idle Saturday, so you rush to the chemist and buy a home pregnancy kit, making sure that no one sees you doing it. You rush back to the house, banging all doors on your way. You lock yourself up in the loo, sigh heavily, grimace, then hold your breath as you pee on the test stick and cross your fingers and toes and every possible part of your body. You wait the longest three minutes of your life. Finally, two pink lines appear ...

 

"No! No! No! No! It can't be! I just can't deal with this... Lord, what will I do...?" You’re biting your nails furiously.

 

Yes, you are old enough for a baby. In fact, people have been telling you that if you won't settle down in marriage, at least have a baby. A legacy. Something to graduate you into full womanhood...

 

"But I just can't... a baby will turn my life upside down. I won't even be able to do the things I want freely, because there will be a baby to consider first. Where will I even get the money for a baby? Damn! What will I do? Damn! Why did I put myself in this situation? Why didn’t I take the E-pill? Oh, wait, I took it within the stipulated 72 hours after intercourse. Why didn’t it work? Could it be because I had already taken 10 of those this year, and it is only September? Why oh why?” You ask yourself over and over, but you have no answers. Nevertheless, there are decisions to be made.

 

"Should I have ... an ... a-bor-tion?" Who knew you would ever have to ask yourself this question? Damn! Why oh why? You wail.

 

"Should I tell the boyfriend?" 

 

“Wait, he is not even a boyfriend; just a fuck-buddy I've been fooling around with. Oh Lord, are these the consequences of fornication? Oh Lord, please save me from this situation...”

 

You are going crazy. You don't know who to tell about this. You can't trust anyone, but you need a referral to a good abortionist. One of those clean decent ones; a trained and experienced gynaecologist. You'll even take a Sacco loan to foot the bill if need be. 

 

"Oh, Lord, the consequences of fornication... I should have kept my legs closed... I just can't deal.. I wish I could run away from this problem. Jesus, please, forgive me... please, I'll be a good girl after this. No more fuck-buddies, no more casual sex; I'll wait till marriage, I promise, but you have to save me and forgive me this one time..."

 

You are sobbing uncontrollably now. You really need that abortionist's number. Should you ask in Kilimani Mums? No, people will stone you with Bible-verse-laden rocks. What about Marie Stopes? 

 

“No, I don’t trust those people; they sound like the kind who will rush you to Kenyatta and dump you there when you develop abortion-related complications. I don’t think they can do the job right. I need a neat, clean job so that no one will ever know I had an abortion, except me and the gyna... But who?”

 

You’re pacing up and down your bedroom. You just can’t keep still. Your heart is racing, your thoughts are racing. You just can’t keep calm.

 

"Oh Lord, I need your help... oh, wait, does Dr N still exist? He was a well-known, loud and proud, abortionist back in the day. I haven't seen him in the news for years... did he die? Did he give up the fight to give women safe abortions? His clinic was at A Centre, right? I should just go there and ask the guards if he still runs the clinic.” 

 

A little googling yields some positive results. Goodie!

 

You pick your phone and randomly dial the boyfriend's, nay, fuck-buddy's number.

 

"What am I doing?" You ask yourself well into the third ring. 

 

You can't hang up now. If you do, he'll call. He knows you never call him unless it is important. You have to keep your affair discreet. As much as it’s 2015 in a liberalised country, your compatriots still frown upon unmarried women who get it on, freely and openly. You still have a reputation to protect. Your boyfriend, nay, fuck-buddy picks the phone on the fifth ring, interrupting your thoughts.

 

"Hello..."

 

"Hello, I'm ... I'm pregnant!" You blurt out. Where did that come from? You wonder.

 

(Long silence...)

 

"Erm, hello, did you hear what I just said?"

 

"Yeah, this is, erm, unexpected, but … uhm, we'll just have to deal with it as it is..."

 

"Yeah, I've already thought about it. Uhm, I'm going to have an abortion next week... I'll take a few days off, my sick-off and some leave days to recover..."

 

"What! You can't just abort...!!!"

 

"It's my body, dammit! I'm the one who will be tied down by a baby, please, you don't have a say..."

 

"No, please, hear me out... I have a…"

 

“No!” You hold down the power off button, inadvertently cutting off the call and putting off your phone.

 

“How dare he try to tell me what to do with my life? How dare he?” 

 

You pick your quarter-full cup of tea from the table and smash it on the wall ahead, then you shuffle into the kitchen, rummage through the drawer where you put your meds. There are some sleeping pills left over from the last time you were having trouble sleeping. You gulp down one too many, with a glass of water, and then follow them up with four painkillers (another overdose) to dull the headache. Your forehead is throbbing and your temples are on fire. You need a blackout. It’s only midday, but you’ve had a long day already.

 

When you wake up, it’s dark everywhere. You acclimatise to the darkness and the noises of the night outside your bedroom window. You reach under your pillow for your phone, pressing down the power on button.

Ten missed calls: Mum, Elaine (your elder sister), Aunt Lucy, Mary CBA ( a long-lost acquaintance) – what does she want?, Betty Job (a work colleague) - hmph, what’s that that can’t wait till Monday...!?, Liz UoN (your college-mate from your MBA class), and four missed calls from Sauti…

 

“Nkt! Can’t he just leave me alone!” 

 

“No, actually, can everybody just leave me alone! I don’t want to talk, nkt!”

 

Your WhatsApp is overflowing with mostly useless messages too, a few from the people whose calls you missed above, either telling you to call them back, urgently, or that they were just checking on you … and Sauti with a thread of five messages:

 

“Can we talk?”

“Can I at least come over?”

“Please hear me out…”

“I know you really don’t want to abort…”

“Okay, at least wait two weeks and think this through, before you go through with it, no?”

 

“To hell with Sauti! Isn’t he the one who got me into this mess in the first place by whispering sweet nothings in my ear and making me lose good judgment? And now he has the nerve to tell me what to do…” You feel a sharp pain sear through the core of your head from one temple to another.

 

“Let me just block his number. I need my peace…”

 

Monday comes. You are very scared, very nervous. You’ve heard people whispering before that abortion wastes a woman’s body: “Why do you think, Daisy has lost so much weight? It is because she aborted, silly!

 

 Abortion sio mchezo…” a friend once told the blue-eyed you about a mutual friend.

 

Still, this is something you have decided to go through with, but God knows it frightens you to death.

 

“What if I die? What if there is nothing like a safe abortion? What if, what if, what if...?”

 

You’re now at A Centre. You’ll call the office just before you go in for the procedure and take a copy of the sick-off sheet to your boss and HR when you get back to work, two weeks after the procedure. (The doctor’s narration will read something like: Three-week bed-rest recommended for recuperation after continuous heavy bleeding from fibroids...)

 

“Sasa, soldier… madam! Nataka kwenda kwa Dr N…,” you start.

 

“Sawa, leta ID, andikisha hapa, halafu uende second floor.”

 

“Sawa.” 

 

When you get to second floor, you peep inside the door marked “City Women’s Health Centre”.

 

There are women of all ages seated at the waiting bay: young women like yourself, younger women than yourself, middle-aged women, and even a girl who looks not-a-day-older than 12.

 

“I don’t know if I can go through with this…,” you mutter to yourself.

 

“Yes, madam, come in, please. How may I help you?” The receptionist calls out to you breaking your thoughts.

 

“Erm, let me first make a call…,” you say, stepping out promptly. 

 

“Am I doing the right thing?”

 

You need to talk to someone, but who? You scroll through your 568 contacts. You can’t call any of them, not even the 12 counsellors/psychologists/psychiatrists in your phone book. 

 

“Jesus, I need someone to talk to… argh! Not Sauti, no, please… okay, he’s the only one who knows what’s going on with me... he’ll just have to do.”

 

You unblock Sauti’s number.

 

“Hello Sauti, we need to talk…”

 

“Jeez, Nerea, did you have to block me? Can’t we just sort this out like adults… anyway where are you? I can step out for a few minutes…”

 

“Actually, I’m just here near your office …”

 

“Okay, you go ahead to Java Kimathi, at the balcony… at least there we can have some privacy. Let me finish up on something then I follow you there…”

 

“Okay, no problem.” You hang up.

 

At Java, you ask for a strawberry lemonade as you wait for company. There are so many thoughts swirling in your mind. You feel so confused. Oh, Sauti is here… You stand up to give him a hug.

 

“Thanks for making the time ... ”

 

“It’s nothing. I’ve been trying to reach you…”

 

“I know. I just … needed some time alone to think.”

 

“Nerea, please, did you do it…?”

 

“Not yet, I got cold feet…”

 

“Phew, listen, I’ve been thinking about it all weekend and this is what I have to say, please hear me out…”

 

“Okay.”

 

(Singing soulfully) “Nakuomba Nerea, usitoe mimba yangu we, Mungu akileta mtoto, analeta sahani yake, leta nitamlea, usitoe mimba yangu we, Mungu akileta mtoto, analeta sahani yake …”

 

You’re crying. The mid-morning brunch crowd around you is clapping in awe, but a few elements throw you disgusted looks. Sauti is hugging you, swaying, shushing you. You know what you need to do.

 

 

Inspired by the song Nerea by Sauti Sol featuring Amos and Josh:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rtNZK3PUme8

Depression diaries: Looking for the elusive wonder drug

There are so many ways to tell this story, but my mind is a whirlpool right now so let me let the fingers do the telling. I really do not know where to start, but here goes:

I spent the last few hours or so crisscrossing Nairobi's CBD looking for this one drug. I did not know how hard it is to find until I started looking for it. Why bother? You may wonder. 

Well, the story began a few weeks ago when I noticed I was running low on this drug*. This is a drug you don’t just go off cold turkey. No. It is like cocaine or heroine. If you want to go off it, you have to plan it out over weeks; you have to be weaned off it, giving your body its fix in smaller doses until it says it can do without it now. It is like alcohol to an alcoholic. You don’t miss a day’s dose for any reason and if you do, your voice will tremble, your hands will shake, your eyes will see double, your life will turn upside down... Anyway, you get the idea. 

So last week, around Wednesday, I noticed I was running low on this drug. I had canceled my doctor’s appointment for 8th January, where I could have gotten a chit to replenish my reserves, and I had conveniently forgotten to reschedule that appointment, that is until I noticed that I actually needed to do that quick, fast and in a hurry, or a day would find me when my pill box would give me a blank stare.

 So that Wednesday, I made a mental note to call my doctor’s office to book an appointment, but then I forgot, yet again. Then on Thursday evening, I counted the remaining pills to see how long they would stretch, meaning: how long I could go without seeing my doctor – Sunday evening. I needed to book an appointment for latest Monday morning so that I could get a prescription and have a dose to take on Monday night, and I did. 

Monday morning, I dutifully went to my doctor’s and got my prescription. I wanted to talk to her about going off this drug, but she was concerned about my weight, I had lost a few grammes and she needed me to add at least six kilos in the next six weeks. Good luck with that, Miss Doctor! So we never got round to talking about going off the drug; we had a more weighty matter to discuss, and we did. I left her practice with my prescription, waited an hour at the pharmacy only for the pharmacist to tell me that he would give me drugs that were expiring in twelve days, "but not to worry," he said, “You can still take them for a month after expiry without a problem.”

Hmph! I could feel the irritation rising up my throat. I waited a full hour to buy expired drugs!? C’mon! #WasteHerTime2016. I said a resolute no and asked for the transaction to be canceled; a process that took another 30 irritating minutes (I hate waiting; especially senseless waiting. I have better things to do with my limited time than wait.)

No worries, child. You will just ask your insurer if you can pick them from an independent chemist (I consoled myself) ... – Something that I promptly forgot to do as soon as I had stomped off in a huff. I thought one night of a missed dose wouldn’t mean much, but I was so wrong. I had a restless night, woke up feeling nauseated, a feeling that stayed with me all day today. I was also tired and suffered from general body aches. I just did not feel fine. So at some point I called my insurer to ask which pharmacy I could pick the drugs from and the lady on the other end gave me a rather short list. I did some work and then headed out to the nearest pharmacy to pick up the drugs. I walked with a confident spring. Nothing could go wrong. Except it did.

“We do have the drug,” the pharmacist told me, but if insurance was paying for it, I’d have to go to their other branch affiliated with their clinic. No worries, I can do that.

 “But how much does it cost?” I asked.

 “Hold up, Missie,” he replied as he punched away on his keyboard, then: “that will be seven thousand, eight hundred and ninety-two shillings.”

 “That will deplete my insurance!” I gasped. “Can’t you give me a discount?”

 “No, Lady, we only discount cash payments. You’ll have to pay the full amount through insurance,” he replied. 

“But why, and it is still my money…” I pleaded and was met with a blank stare. 

Again, I left in a huff and went to their main clinic, where they dutifully informed me that I had to pay consultation fee to have their doctor copy what my doctor had written on my prescription into a new insurance claim form. But, but, I already have a prescription, I just need the drugs…

 “That’s the policy, madam,” the attendant said, unmoved.

 I stomped off again. 

And so I went from one chemist to another, and each time the pharmacists said they did not have my drug or its variants (generics), my energy gauge inched closer and closer to empty. Finally, I got a chemist with a version that was a third of the strength my doctor prescribed. They would sell it to me for Sh6, 000, discounted, but I needed my doctor to fill the claim form and stamp it for them to charge my card.

Oh boy! I felt frustrated. I’d have to wake up very early the next day to get my doctor to do the requisite paperwork, but I couldn’t imagine another night of withdrawal symptoms… So I walked out, stood in the midst of heavy city human traffic and decided to google.

 “Drug X Nairobi,” I searched. 

Most of the results were useless, but there was one lead. I clicked on it not expecting much. They had the drug and it would cost me Sh3000. Then my eyes fell on the date of the drug price list. It was a 2013 document. My heart sank, but I decided to call anyway. I wouldn’t know if the price had gone up unless I asked. I prayed that the company was still in operation. It was, and yes, they had the drug in stock and it was a few hundreds short of 3000 and they would only sell it if I had a prescription. 

I hang up and almost yelped for joy. Then I looked the city clock above me, it was 5.20. My instincts told me that they’d be closing at 5.30 so I began elbowing my way through the crowded pavements hoping to get there in record time. There were no boda bodas in sight and anyway I had zero shillings on me and I didn’t have time to haggle over whether I could pay via Mpesa. My legs had to save me. I quickened my pace, moving as fast as I could in a semi-sprint, lest the County askaris decide to arrest me for running in the city without a permit. 

When I got to the pharmacy’s building, I asked the guard at the door to direct me to the chemist, but he said they might already be closed. I insisted on checking and only caught the last of his words directing me to go round to the other end as I sprinted in. When I got there, the door was ajar in a way that showed they were closed – leaving only enough space for the employees to squeeze out on their way home. I asked the two women I met at the door if they would sell me my drug. They shrugged apathetically and told me to ask inside as they walked away.

The place was dark save for the last bulb shining that would be put off by the last person to leave. There was a lady picking her bags as if to leave. She called out to a man upstairs, who confirmed that there was no one else left. 

I asked her if she had the drug and if she could sell it to me. She responded in the affirmative while confirming the price on a price list on her desk and checking my prescription simultaneously. She punched a few numbers on her calculator and told me, “Two thousand seven hundred and seventy one shillings, already discounted.”

 “There’s one small thing,” I answered, making a pinch with my thumb and index finger… could you let me go to the ATM to get the cash ... can I pay by card?"

 “We’re already closed and we only take cash...”

“Could you give me a dose worth Sh1,000 ... I can send you the money via Mpesa... I just need one tablet for tonight then I can come back tomorrow when we all have time,” I blubbered my interruption.

I was panting, out of breath, I could have cried if I had breath… my eyes were pleading. I would leave my ID and debit card ... I would leave anything, even my life, for that one tablet that would make me whole again... 

My eyes followed her to a cupboard on the left of the room and my ears welcomed with sheer relief, the words that she would give me a strip of five without taking any money from me if I promised to come back the next day to pay for it, but as fate would have it, there were no scissors, so she gave me the full strip of 20, put the rest in her drawer, and told me to tell whoever I found the next day that Fresana had put my drugs in her drawer for me. I said my profuse thank-yous and left. 

Now I wanted to cry. She may not have realised it, but this total stranger had saved my life. There are so many con men and fraudsters in the city, but she chose to be kind, not knowing if I would betray her kindness. As I walked away, and when I had walked for a while, I began to feel better; even the withdrawal symptoms eased for a while before rushing back in a vengeful flood. There was a flood of emotions as I thought about the many times people had told me “Wahindi ni wale wabaya,” but that was not true: A "Mhindi" had just helped me. To hell with stereotypes! Every person is an individual and should be judged on his/her own merit, I thought to myself. 

 Now I’m trying to think of what I can send Fresana in gratitude. Of course there will be a card. I’m thinking of a pack of grapes…

PS - I eventually settled on a gift voucher.

* The drug was an anti-depressant. This happened earlier this year, around end of January, 2016.

Rogue women need to be tamed

A little slap goes a long way to tame a rogue woman.

I would never have thought how true this saying rings for many Kenyans, were it not for an incident last week.  You see, it’s been a while since I came across a gender violence story that shook me up as much as the one of the Nyeri man whose wife hacked his face and left a jigsaw of stitches that bore the evidence too well. So I have been under the impression that gender violence cases had gone down, though my assumption was not backed by any science.

As I write this, someone is probably being clobbered senseless in a spate of violence, whose aftermath may not reach the media unless it is too gory to be ignored. Numbers from the most recent demographic survey remind me that almost half (45%) of all Kenyan women aged 15-49years have experienced physical or sexual violence. Of those who were ever married in the five years before the survey, 47% experienced physical, emotional or sexual violence.  And three percent of women perpetrated violence against their husbands. (KDHS 2008/09)

These figures are too high for my liking, but I still entertain the romantic view that there is a type of man who would never lay his hand on a woman no matter what the circumstances. I imagined the Nairobi governor Dr Evans Kidero as one such man, but appearances do not necessarily make for accurate judgment; because last Friday, our dear governor Dr Kidero, allegedly slapped Nairobi Women Representative, Rachel Shebesh. Shebesh had stormed the governor’s office with a mob to demand for better pay for county workers. It all happened so fast and it is hard to decipher what really transpired, but there is a slap, the shocked cries of Shebesh wondering if she really has been slapped, and the arrogant answer of her assailant, "Yes, kwenda huko!"  Different sides have disputed what happened. Kidero does not recall slapping anybody and I guess we have all moved on from there.

 In the usual Kenyan fashion, there were a lot of jokes to be cracked about the whole scenario, which curiously looked like a scene from one of those Mexican soaps or Nigerian movies. Then there was the debate about whether Shebesh deserved to be slapped after all. One side argued that no matter the circumstances, the slap was not justified. The other side insisted that she brought it upon herself and that it was long overdue – this loud-mouthed and irritating rogue woman ought to have been slapped back to her senses a long time ago; heck, they would do the same if they were in Kidero's shoes. Someone added that he had never heard of anyone dying from a slap, so he couldn’t understand what the hullabaloo was about. Others wondered why there wasn't as much outrage when people like the former first lady allegedly slapped a government official. All in all there was a lot of justification for beating up a woman as illustrated in a storify I compiled titled: It's ok to beat up a woman if...

I found these attitudes, from both men and women who insisted that a 'rogue' woman like Shebesh should be tamed, very disturbing. More so because they were coming from the people I least expected to support violence of any kind – be it a little, harmless slap, or a heavy, senseless clobbering. Those who stood up for violence, were not necessarily the usual culprits I have in mind, every time I read a report on GBV in Kenya. Such reports usually cite culture as one of the reasons violence, especially against women, is still rampant, but I usually associate that with images of uncultured, hardcore traditionalists, who believe that women and children need to be beaten into place, lest they veer off the path of submission. They believe that beating up a woman is the normal African thing to do.

Now, in my mind there is a sharp contrast between them and an educated, urbane and well-exposed man – the latter would never lay a hand on a woman because he cares for good taste, has manners born of sound upbringing and education, or so I thought. After the Kidero-Shebesh incident, I have had to discard that notion because it seems the belief that there is a certain type of woman who deserves to be tamed with slaps and blows that put her firmly back in her place is very alive, deeply-rooted and widespread, even among men and women I wouldn't think would harbour such attitudes.

I do not condone violence against women or men, because I believe as civilised grownups, we should have figured out how to take charge of our emotions and deal with conflict in a mature way – there is no place for emotional outbursts and violence on the table of well-bred adults. And just like the Constitution in Article 28, I believe that every person should be treated with dignity and every person has the right not to be subjected to violence from either public or private (domestic) sources – Article 29(c)

Unfortunately, it seems we still have a long way to go before we get there.



 "Women's forced subordinate status (both economic and social) makes them vulnerable to violence and contributes to an environment that wrongly accepts, excuses and even expects violence against women" – NPCD policy brief 26, SGBV in Kenya: A Call for Action (June 2012)