My brother and I were in Kenya walking back from the Lake Victoria to the town of Kisumu having a blast saying, “What’s up,” to people who crossed our path in their tribal tongue of Luo.
Titus was a boy who had started walking with us as an impromptu guide and he taught us how to say it, “I’didnade?” What’s up?
I guess it was one thing—and a surprising thing at that—for a Mazungo to be speaking in Swahili, but to have one speaking Luo, oh no, cats and dogs living together! People lost it. They’d turn around, change their trajectories and ogle at me spellbound like I had been rolling through town riding nude atop a bionic camel juggling spray-painted babies. These simple words stopped people dead in their tracks.
Those who returned my greeting did so only so to demand where I’d learned Luo. In order to answer this question, Titus taught me how to say, “I am not an elephant” in Luo.
“What’s up?”
“Hi. . . How do you know my language?!”
“I am not an elephant.”
That settled it.
Near the outskirts of Kisumu was a looming National Bank of Kenya building. Just the sort that looked like it wanted to be in one of my Facebook albums. Not intending to cause anyone a problem worth freaking out over, I raised my camera to it and snapped a photo as tourists have done to buildings in foreign countries ever since all three have existed.
Before I could lower my camera three military officers stepped out of the bank’s entry way and waved me over to them with the urgency of needing a beer after a summer working at a Bible camp.
Guard 1 motioned to me with a relative of the AK-47 family and demanded, “did you take a picture of this building?”
“Yes. Want to see it? It came out kinda crooked though. Is your building crooked?”
“That is illegal!”
“Crooked buildings or crooked pictures?”
I looked around; Titus had done what I would have done were I in our shoes: hightailed it out of there like it was the last day of school. My younger brother began showering the fuming guard with sincere apologies that I interrupted. I guess I’d tangoed with enough power tripping menfolk in uniforms to let him bully us simply because he had a gun and an angry voice.
I raised my voice to match his, “Well if you don’t want people to take pictures of your bank maybe you should post a sign that says no photography!”
“Give me your camera!”
“No.”
“What!”
I put the camera in my vest. My defiance caused the guard to wave over another guard, older and douchier than him.
Guard 1 filled Guard 2 in on the developing situation.
“You know,” Guard 2 said, “we have rules in this country.”
“That’s fine. I didn’t mean to break them. But if you don’t want people to take a picture of your bank, YOU SHOULD POST A SIGN!”
“What country are you from.”
“America.”
“Aw…” he grunted, as if this explained our proclivity for illegal pictorial activities. “In America, in Washington, can you take a picture of the White House?”
“Yes, you can.” My brother and I both said.
He waved our answer away like we’d just told him we arrived in Kenya by flying on a bald eagle that moonlighted as a US senator. “No, no, of course you cannot.”
“Yes, you can,” I repeated. “I’ve been there, I’ve taken a picture of the White House. Have you been there?”
This really set him off. “Come with me,” he said, reaching towards us and indicating we walk with him into the building. I had no desire to get behind closed doors with this guy. I took out my camera and cued up the picture.
“Look,” I said, “if you’re so mad about it, there, it’s deleted.”
Guard #1 raised a halting hand while Guard #2 did the play-by-play, “He has deleted the photo!”
“Yeah, I deleted it. You guys were so upset about it, so now you got what you wanted. It’s gone forever.”
Both looked rather deflated by this fact. Filling a lull, I asked, “If it’s a law that we can’t take a picture of this building, what law is it?”
“What do you mean?” Guard #2 said, diving back in.
“What’s the statute number? I’m only interested because I study law.” That was kind of true, but not really. As much of a stretch as calling myself a veterinarian just because I removed a tick from the testicles of my dog (it was a day I had to dig deep to remember why I loved my dog).
The question reversed our roles. Now he was on the defensive. “Come back later and I will tell you what law it is,” he concluded with a humph.
“Fine,” I agreed. “Well, we’ll be on are way then and if we pass by here again, you can tell us what law it is.”
“Next time,” said Douche #2, sorry, Guard #2, “Next time you come to Kenya, there will be a sign that says no photography,” the first hint of a smile we’d seen was his lip. I smiled back and we bid them farewell.
When we’d walked away far enough so they couldn’t hear us, my brother broke the tension, “There will never be a sign posted.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “I doubt it’s even illegal. They just wanted a bribe.” I wish I had a photograph of the bank and the guards to go with the article, but it’s not worth risking incarceration. The best I can do is draw one from memory. This is basically how it looked.
