Immigration Nightmare- The quest for a new Kenyan passport
On Friday I said that Kenyans are extremely wary of each other.
My friend Ben corrected me. He said that a Kenyan is a sufferer- and this suffering trickles down, naturally. Spreading slowly and efficiently because hearts don’t take to suffering well. And suffering hearts quickly turn from sympathetic to resentful and then straight to spiteful.
I said Kenyans are a wary people because I went to get my passport renewed last Friday. I must admit, I’ve been very shielded lately. I’ve met a lot of shiny, cheerful people. A lot of ladies with long, expensive Brazilian hair extensions or carefully orchestrated natural hair. Women that know their rights, are independent and outspoken- one’s that ‘hussle’ and read good books.
I’ve met men that smile and open doors- who ask “Are you alright, dah-ling? Can I get you anything?” when the glass just passes half full, or empty.
I’ve walked into Domino’s, where the staff happily yell “WELCOME TO DOMINO’S” and the cashier tells you her name with sincerity- almost devotion.
“Hi, my name is Angela, what would YOU like to have today?”.
Or calling Zuku when my internet goes off every week. And the lady in the recording tells me that she REALLY appreciates my call. And that I’m very welcome to the Zuku Customer Contact Centre.
See, happy days. Where smiles count for something. A tip and a thank you will get you star treatment. So in preparation for my trip to Immigrations i googled ‘how-to-renew-kenyan-passport’.
hapakenya.com told me that after six easy steps- I would be well on the way to a new life. A life where I would have proof of citizenship and protection from my beloved country while travelling.
With all my documents ready on Friday morning I made my way to Nyayo House. I wore an outfit that said: Take me seriously because I’m wearing pants, but I’m a good laugh cause of the rainforest print on them. Also the studs on my sweater- danger, warmth, mystery.
I’d renewed my passport before so I knew where to go. A handsome Somali guard looked over my documents. He pointed at a space I’d left blank (Description of applicant) and said: “Andika female”
Slow clap for, Immigrations everyone! What a brilliant way to get to know the applicant!
I’d actually have much preferred to fill in “Human”, very succinct. Gets rid of all the grey-areas, doesn’t it?
Ok, so female it is. I walk into the hall of counters. A man in a great green coat with the Immigrations logo ushered people to their respective queues.
“Excuse me, which line is for Passport renewals?” I asked with a friendly smile.
“Go and join the line!” he responded, looking somewhere above my head. Still guiding, waving. I looked at his face. Wisdom and age had furrowed it. Deep lines that gave away his life in the Nyayo hall of counters. He had seen everything. He knew all.
“OK, Which line, though?” I asked again, averting my eyes to the window on my left. Did I want the truth? Could I handle it?
“Join the line!” He jabbed his finger in the air at a line. One of those seated queues.
I complied forthwith. Scampering over knees and feet through the long forms to the end of the queue. There was a sunny young woman sat right near the end, she hunched over her documents like a hawk over its nest of hatchlings.
“Hi, excuse me. Are you in the line?” I hazarded. She seemed like she had been here a while.
“Hisssssssssssss” she whipped her head up from her papers and hissed at me. With a hint of growling.
“O.K. Take it you’re not.” I sat down on her other side.
I was officially in the queue. We slithered across the forms down the line. Calls of “NEXT!!! Counter number 6!” caused the massive snake of bodies to coil its way forward until finally I became the head.
The lady at the counter was very efficient. I was done with her in minutes- I left the counter slightly bothered though. She never once looked me in the eye. It was all:
“Pictures? ID?….. How many pages passport? Pay at cashier? Go to counter eleven?” And that was it. I felt like I’d been disposed of. No kiss goodbye? Bet she wouldn’t even call the next day.
Off to counter eleven. The final frontier. Counter eleven wasn’t really a counter- that’s the trick. It is really a room. We sat around it forming a new chair-queue. It was a long wait. After you stayed 30 minutes at Counter 11 you became a veteran. We veterans told the new-comers what the deal was:
- See the number on your ticket stub, doesn’t mean anything.
- You just stand there and wait, people here EARN their place on the chairs.
- Babies go first. If you have a baby, you can skip the line, apparently. Note to self, (Carry baby to Nyayo House for passport. Borrow neighbour’s baby- the one that doesn’t cry much)
So we waited. We waited as horde after horde of baby wielding families came in one after the other. No one could really complain- you’d be an unreasonable baby- hater. You can whimper “I was here first” all you want in your head. Don’t say a word out loud.
After about an hour, my butt was in the chair- my head seconds away from being photographed. I hated babies and my patience had dried up like some of the jokes on Churchill Raw.
Thereafter, I left Nyayo house- different. I walked out of the building bruised and battered by the rude and suffering, Yet bolstered by the community of Counter number 11. (The looks of disgust we shared as the babies traipsed in ahead of us made us brothers). It reminded me of the short yet meaningful looks people give each other in matatu’s- when there’s a drunk guy in there or when the driver overspeeds. Unity. Oneness.
Nyayo house still suffers in infamy in my book, and Kenyans need to stop being so damn mean. A polite thank you or a nice nod goes an extremely long way. ‘Excuse me’ is statistically proven to ease bowel movement and eliminate the ‘resting bitch-face’ syndrome.
hapakenya didn’t tell me about that.
Immigration Nightmare- The quest for a new Kenyan passport
