This may sting a little, but let’s face it: 90% of what people tell you is either outright nonsense, shameless rubbish, or complete crap. Period.
Hold my beer—I’ll explain.
Now, I’m not saying every stranger, friend, fuzzy companion, family member, secret lover, or nosy neighbour is a pathological liar. On the contrary, most of them genuinely believe the drivel they’re feeding you. It’s not intentional dishonesty; it’s more like a finely tuned self-delusion machine that runs on autopilot.
That said, let’s not sugarcoat it either. Plenty of the charming souls you encounter are indeed dedicated truth benders, serial fibbers, or full-time merchants of bull. And yes, for those unsavoury types, I’m confident there’s a delightful corner of hell waiting, complete with eternity as a gooey gastropod—as I’ve so eloquently outlined in a prior discourse.
But setting those liars aside, most people genuinely believe what they’re saying—mostly because they don’t bother reflecting on the nonsense they’re spouting. Taking time to actually evaluate the information they’re parroting? That’s a luxury they’d never indulge in. Why bother with critical thinking when you can just babble about something—anything, really—without the pesky effort of verifying a single word?
And that’s not the whole story. Oh no.
Most people, you see, don’t actually listen when someone tells them something. Instead, they assume whoever they’re talking to isn’t paying attention either, so the cycle of thoughtless chatter just perpetuates. Why? Because humans are so preoccupied with crafting their next oh-so-clever remark that they don’t have time to process what’s actually being said. Listening is, after all, a skill—one that’s increasingly endangered.
Don’t believe me? Here’s the proof: how many times have you been mid-conversation, pouring your heart and soul into entertaining someone, only for them to suddenly zone out and start fiddling with their phone? Maybe they’re digging for a blurry photo of their riveting bicycle ride to last Sunday’s flea market, ready to wow you with its mediocrity. Or, even better, they start Googling something utterly trivial—a date, a fact, or a random tidbit we were all expected to memorise back in elementary school. Because, clearly, nothing screams “engaged listener” like a live Wikipedia search mid-story.
There’s more, of course. Humans are constantly lied to—relentlessly, unapologetically, and with a flair for creativity. TV commercials, movies, magazines, billboards, insurance agents, car dealers, politicians, election promises, charities, the church—you name it. Lies about hair implants, Viagra, rubber dolls, “delicious and healthy” microwave meals, gym memberships, magic diets, McDonald’s ingredients (because who doesn’t believe their nuggets are organic?), the meaning of life, laundry detergents, raincoats, mosquito repellents, the weather report... The list goes on, and on, and on.
And what’s the result? People eventually conclude that lying can’t be that bad. After all, if it’s good enough for Big Business, Big Government, and Big Whatever, why shouldn’t it work for them?
Take that car you just bought, for example. You fell for it because it didn’t just look slick; it also boasted a fuel efficiency so miraculous it might have been designed by angels. Something absurd, like 8,000 miles per gallon—uphill, in a headwind, with eight passengers crammed inside, five medium-sized suitcases strapped to the roof, and a 40-foot Airstream trailer swinging merrily behind. Naturally, you believed it. Why wouldn’t you? After all, it was right there in the brochure—probably next to a smiling family that looked suspiciously photoshopped.
Then came the maiden voyage: a triumphant drive from the dealership to the gas station just one ZIP code away. Except you never made it. Halfway there, the car sputtered, choked, and died, leaving you stranded on the side of the road. Turns out, your "miracle of engineering" ran out of gas—despite starting with a full tank. Begrudgingly, you admitted the car dealer might have been ever-so-slightly dishonest about the fuel economy. What he failed to mention was that to keep this thing running, you’d need to start drilling for oil in your backyard.
It’s dreadful, sure, but here’s the kicker: this kind of nonsense is just accepted. It’s the kind of deception people shrug off every single day, which is precisely why I haven’t owned a TV—one of the worst offenders of all—in over twelve years.
The last time I remember watching TV was the summer of 2014. Germany’s soccer team, back when it was still composed of actual men (as opposed to today’s wimps and whiners), absolutely annihilated Brazil’s pathetic, pitiful, second-rate squad, 7:1. Now that was worth watching. A delightful day, I must say. But I digress...
So, you ask, what does this tirade about lies and gullibility have to do with today’s story?
Brace yourself—this is where it all ties together, or, perhaps not.
But still, indulge me for a moment as we pivot to a city that gives “never sleeping” a whole new meaning: Nairobi.
Jomo Kenyatta Airport Holding Cell, Nairobi, 2015
When I stepped off the KLM flight from Amsterdam into the early Sunday morning haze of Nairobi, I wasn’t exactly bracing myself for life-altering drama. Up to that point, everything had been, well, ordinary.
It started with the predictably dreadful five-hour car ride from Germany to Amsterdam, hurtling down the German Autobahn—the closest humanity gets to hosting a live-action vehicular gladiator match. Every car is either a weapon of mass destruction or a potential missile. Survival felt more like luck than skill.
Then came the requisite gallons of coffee at Schiphol Airport, an ill-advised but necessary attempt to stay functional amidst the soul-sucking tedium of pre-flight procedures.
Security was its usual farcical spectacle. Apparently, my unassuming tube of toothpaste and innocent bottle of sunscreen had both been reclassified as weapons of mass destruction while sitting in my carry-on. A pair of nail clippers—yes, nail clippers—caused further consternation, presumably because of their obvious potential to hijack a Boeing.
My utterly futile attempts to educate the Security Imbecile in the fine art of basic arithmetic deduction went something like this:
"Officer, a 125 ml mouthwash bottle that’s only half-full cannot possibly exceed the 100 ml liquid limit."
His response? A blank stare.
"What?"
"Never mind," I sighed, waving my hand in surrender. "Just keep the bloody bottle! Frankly, you probably need a hygienic mouth treatment more than I do anyway."
But oh dear, simple logic is as foreign to airport security as politeness is to a hangman. They confiscated everything anyway. My nail clippers—probably now resting in a vault somewhere, labeled “Exhibit A”—were undoubtedly the most dangerous thing I’d ever brought to an airport.
Behind me, the line of tourists snaked endlessly. Mostly clad in Jack Wolfskin gear, they were the sort of bargain-bin Germans who had secured the cheapest seats on the plane. As if their outfits weren’t enough, they all sported absurdly floppy hats, as though Nairobi’s equatorial sun had singled them out for punishment. These brave explorers were already jostling for prime position at the boarding gate—a solid three hours before the actual boarding process was scheduled to begin.
The flight itself? A nine-hour tormenting struggle through the skies, punctuated by tasteless meals so uninspiring they made cardboard seem like a Michelin menu. The in-flight entertainment wasn’t much better: movies seemingly from an era when sound was but a distant dream, paired with plots so dull that listening to a sunrise on the radio might have been a more thrilling option.
All this, of course, was just the prelude to the chaos awaiting me in Nairobi. But at that moment, blissfully unaware of the storm to come, I leaned back in my seat—clearly designed by someone who had only heard rumours of chairs—and resigned myself to this airborne purgatory.
Nothing new, so far, so good.
However, once we arrived at Nairobi’s airport, things took a sudden and dramatic nosedive the moment I handed my passport to the female customs officer on duty.
Now, I’m no stranger to delays and have long since come to terms with Kenya’s unique interpretation of urgency when it comes to processing documents. Bureaucratic velocity here is measured on a geological timescale. Still, this was slow even by local standards—so slow, in fact, that I began to worry it might sabotage my return flight to Germany the following week.
At one point, I even entertained the unsettling thought that perhaps I was dealing with a long-expired corpse propped up for official duties. Her blank, glacial pace certainly wasn’t ruling it out.
But then, without warning, the pace accelerated in a way that can only be described as alarming. The woman behind the counter suddenly went ashen—something I genuinely didn’t think was possible for a Sub-Saharan African. Her expression turned from mild indifference to full-blown terror, as if she had just uncovered a passport from Lucifer’s private collection.
Without a word, she ripped out the tourist visa she had just painstakingly glued in moments earlier, her hands shaking as if the paper itself were radioactive. Within seconds, a small battalion of airport police materialised out of nowhere, their boots clattering on the floor as they surrounded me in a tight, intimidating circle.
It was safe to say my vacation plans had taken a very unexpected turn.
"I couldn’t have dreamt up a scenario like this in a week full of Sundays," I thought grimly as I was escorted to the superintendent’s office.
Everyone around stared at me as though they had just discovered the face of international terror. So, this is what a sociopath terrorist looks like? I had to resist the urge to wave and flash a satanic smile—somehow, I didn’t think that would help my case.
To be fair, this wasn’t exactly shaping up to be a five-star experience, but what can you do? Such is life. Unexpected things happen, and I’ve survived far worse. At least I had the good sense to travel light. The thought of my poor suitcase, spinning alone on the baggage carousel for hours on end until it found a grateful new owner, offered a small solace.
The superintendent observed me with a steely gaze, his expression practically begging for me to blurt out the inevitable, “What’s going on?” But I remained silent, determined not to give him the satisfaction.
After an agonising few moments of silent tension, he finally broke the stalemate. “Your passport,” he began with a tone of professional detachment, “has been flagged by the immigration office. There’s an issue that needs resolving.”
“An issue,” I repeated flatly, as though practicing for a stand-up routine.
He ignored my tone and continued. “Unfortunately, it’s six in the morning…on a Sunday.” The words fell like a sentence. “You’ll need to stay here at the airport until the immigration office can address the matter tomorrow.”
“Splendid!” I thought bitterly, already picturing 30 hours of purgatory in the airport cafeteria, surviving on coffee so bad it could strip paint and food that made airline meals seem like haute cuisine.
But the officer wasn’t finished. “Well,” he said, with the faintest flicker of regret, “not exactly.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Not exactly?”
He offered me a tight smile. “Regrettably, there won’t be any coffee or food for you.”
“How’s that?” I mumbled.
He ignored that too and delivered the real punchline. “You’ll be placed in custody at the airport prison until further notice. So sorry, Sir.”
I just stood there. My mind racing. But, he wasn’t done yet.
“All-you-can-eat is not included,” he added with a faint hint of humour that didn’t suit him, “and our entertainment program is…well, limited. However, some amusement might still be found.”
He paused dramatically before the big reveal. “You’ll be sharing your confinement with a few colourful individuals. Let’s see…Ahmed the Strangler, Ibrahim the Slayer, and, oh yes, Yusuf the defiler. A charming lot, really…”
I could tell right away that this guy was waiting for a performance. He expected me to crumble—to launch into a full-scale panic attack, maybe start hyperventilating or blubbering like a soap opera extra, begging for mercy at the prospect of being thrown into a crowded prison cell.
He probably figured I’d be desperate enough to whip out $200 for a discreet bribe, maybe even throw in a bit of begging and crying for good measure. He’d been in this game long enough to know the script.
Unfortunately for him, I don’t audition for that kind of theatre.
None of it was going to happen. No trembling hands. No pleading voice. No wallet opening like the gates of heaven. His disappointment was palpable.
"Hakuna Matata," I said, locking eyes with him, deadpan. "It is what it is."
The warm shower and breakfast at my friend’s house, the ones I’d been daydreaming about? Well, they’d just have to wait for another day.
And with that, clang! The steel door slammed shut behind me with a resounding finality.
The cell was an echo chamber of stale air, cramped quarters, and the unmistakable scent of despair. I took a moment to survey my new home—a space better suited for five, currently housing twelve.
Eleven pairs of eyes turned toward me. Eleven Somalis, five of whom were little kids, all stared at the unexpected visitor, the lone white man who’d just wandered into their domain like a lost tourist.
The air was thick with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, as if they were trying to decide whether I was an unfortunate soul or some kind of undercover operative who’d clearly made a wrong turn at the duty-free shop.
The kids were pressed up against the wall, their tiny frames dwarfed by the adults around them. The adults, meanwhile, sat in silent judgment, their expressions ranging from bored indifference to faint amusement.
It occurred to me that this wasn’t just a prison cell; it was an unscripted social experiment. And I was the unwilling subject.
First rule of survival in unfamiliar territory: make friends with the locals—or in this case, the inmates.
Surveying my cellmates, I quickly zeroed in on the most approachable group—the kids. Nothing builds bridges faster than a little generosity, especially when the currency is food.
With a friendly smile that I hoped didn’t reek of desperation, I reached into my backpack. Out came my secret weapon: a modest bag of dried dates. The moment I revealed it, their wide-eyed stares transformed into something between astonishment and gratitude. You’d think I’d pulled out a treasure chest instead of a few shrivelled fruits.
I moved over to the kids and began handing out dates like some Somali version of Santa Claus. The adults watched, their expressions softening just a bit. Later, I found out why. These poor souls had been stuck in this cell since Friday morning with almost nothing to eat. No wonder the dates were received like back stage tickets to a Michael Jackson concert..
As for my anticipated introductions to Ahmed the Strangler and Ibrahim the Slayer? Nowhere to be seen. Even the Defiler was out to lunch. Either they were figments of the officer’s twisted sense of humour or they had already moved on to brighter (or more dimly lit) pastures.
My generosity worked like a charm. My new companions quickly shuffled around, clearing a little corner of the concrete floor for me to settle in. A premium spot in this sardine can of a cell was no small gesture, and I wasn’t about to take it for granted.
So there I was—comfortably uncomfortable, with my new best buddies sharing the camaraderie of our shared misfortune.
How comfortable I managed to make myself and what fresh chaos awaited me in this Kafkaesque saga? Well, that’s a tale for another time.
To be continued…
Marcel Romdane
My Holding Cell at Nairobis's Airport
