A Road Trip to Mombasa, an 8hours Police Cell Stint and Kitu Kidogo
I was excited at the news that the second LSE’s Programme for African Leadership Forum where I am a fellow would be held at the Indian Ocean coastal city of Mombasa. For I knew a moment had arrived to finally kick that road trip basket list. A 14hours bus drive from Kampala to Nairobi was reflective and indeed satisfying. Most probably because I hadn’t taken much time with just myself: pondering about life, its highs and lows and everything in between.
On arrival in the morning, I checked in at Kipepeo Hotel, right off Tom Mboya Street in downtown Nairobi. A short nap to relieve the long night’s travel fatigue came in handy. I spent the rest of the day just wandering about and getting a feel of the city; window shopping in the crowded city spaces, talking aimless Matatu rides and checking in on old buddies. Winding the evening at a Karaoke bar with my favorite Tusker Malt was indeed nostalgic. Bar goers just grabbed the mic and started miming any song from John Legend’s All of Me to Beyoncé’s Lemonade among many others. It took me down memory lane mesmerizing the old high school days when the lyrical mastery of 2Pac’s Dear Mama or Black Eyed Peace’s Where Is the Love? used to be my most prized co-curricular gigs.
The next morning was another catch-up-with-friends’ continuation session followed by an evening Modern Coast Bus jaunt to Mombasa. The traffic in the Nairobi-Mombasa Highway through-out the whole night is quite fascinating to the ordinary eye because it keeps flowing on and on and on. I dozed off for a bit and waking up, I was in Mombasa. I quickly stepped out and got a Tuk-Tuk (Tricycle) ride around the city. I was marveled by the intersection of old versus new real estates and other city gawks but also saddened by the widening income schisms visibility widened by the number of homeless street dwellers, especially women. Abu-Bakr, the Tuk-Tuk rider was incredible. We saw Fort Jesus, the famous Mombasa Ivory Tower and the ship docking station. The morning voyage was climaxed with a breakfast at Abu-Bakr’s favorite roadside eating spot where we took a cup of fine milk tea, fried tomatoes with pepper soup.

After breakfast, we set off for the 10KM Mombasa City to Serena Resort Beach and Spa and just 5KM into the ride, drama ensued at a police check-point. Abu-Bakr was stopped for his ride permit and motor insurance verification. He had a permit but his insurance had expired the previous week. The police officer ordered the Abu-Bakr to go to the police station which was just around the corner. We went together to the station and Abu-Bakr continued inside as I waited in the compound. After a little while, Abu-Bakr sent for me. He told me he had been detained and suggested that I get another Tuk-Tuk to the hotel. I thanked him for his magnanimity, took his contact, naively shot a selfie with him and bade him farewell. I walked out of the station confused about how easy it is to be arrested in Mombasa/Kenya. No wonder, I was already a terror suspect.

No sooner had I stepped out of the police compound than a police officer came running after me, shouting, acha hapa. I thought he was stopping the matatu passing by, but I notice the pace at which he was running towards me and the aggressive looks in his face and noticed there could be a problem. With a strong alcoholic stench oozing out of his mouth, the ruthless police officer grabbed my phone and all my belongings — bags, wallet, and cash, took me to the reception desk and ordered me to un-belt and remove my shoes. And then came the charge: terrorist spy taking pictures with intent to bomb the police station. It was then that I started to smell the real coffee, for I had had a conversation a day prior with my colleague Susan Muriungi whose Ph.D. research is on the nexus between security and citizen relations in countering violent extremism. She had hinted to me that previous terror attacks at Garrisa University and Westgate Supermarket have led to the enforcement of very strict and stringent counter terrorism practices that most times would fall hard on the ordinary citizen.

Before I knew it, I was forced into a police cell with two compartments for male and female inmates. I was welcome with a pungent faecial stench in a room only aerated by an approximately 8x8inch ventilator. The floor was wet and the cell was packed to capacity. Shortly after stepping in, a cohort of about 10 inmates were called and taken to court for their third hearing. They were Congolese arrested for being undocumented immigrants in Mombasa. Inside, I was like WFT: I work with undocumented refugees in Kampala equipping them with life skills to make them better people and here they are being arrested? And charged? And might probably face deportation. One by one, most of the male inmates were called out. The female ones, most of whom were teenagers stayed. Theresa, who has been an inmate for 2months looked psychologically tortured and mentally disturbed. She was arrested because her friend stole some things and disappeared and now the police thinks she’s hiding her whereabouts. And lunch time, she hastily munched her food and quickly requested that I give her my food. I did. I felt so bad for her and so helpless to render any assistance. I was myself helpless.
For the 8hours I stayed in that cell, I couldn’t fathom how helpless, hopeless and hapless we can easily become. I felt enough was enough. I started banging the cell gate, complaining that I needed to take my medication which was in the bag. For hours, they neglected me. I kept banging on and on until the gate was opened and another reasonably sane officer whom I hadn’t seen before came. I told him my plight and he accepted that I go take my pills. Once I got out, I pleaded with him and also the officer in charge of the station to not let me go back to the cell. The officer ordered me to go to his office instead. I felt a deep sigh of relief.
When I entered, there were three other people waiting for him to discuss their cases. I joined them too. He reiterated how I had committed a big crime in Kenya. He mulled about how Kenyans are badly treated in Uganda and why I should pay for crimes or else face terrorism charges. Before he could even go far, he shamelessly asked for 10,000 Ksh. To me, it was shameless to directly ask for a bribe, let alone in the presence of other people who are looking forward to you to settle their cases impartially. But again, I felt happy because he asked for the money. For I knew, I hadn’t committed any crime that would necessitate an arrest afterall. They could have just deleted the phones and let me be.
I didn’t have that amount though. But I had some cash in the wallet which was all taken. But I had one more request: that he at least gives me 150 Ksh to take a Tuk-Tuk to finally arrive at my destination. It dawned on me that corruption in Kenya is a national crisis that has consumed the moral fabric of the society. Its not just the political elites. Everyone is an accomplice and something must be done about it.
It was indeed a road trip adventure to remember. After all, an adventure isn’t one if you didn’t climb hills and walked on steep valleys. This, was quite some hills and valleys. But I am looking forward to making the best use of every bit of it.
