8 o’clock on a Sunday morning, and there I was, crouched in a prison cell roughly the size of a coffin, sharing it with 11 Somalis and the faint scent of despair. Could this day possibly get any better?
Why was I here, anyway? What could I have possibly done to land myself on Kenya’s most wanted list? Running a brisk mental inventory, I couldn’t recall any particularly felony-grade behaviour. But that’s the catch, isn’t it? The moment you step outside your house, you’re guilty of something. Anything. There’s no escape from it.
Once humanity decided that God’s ten rules weren’t enough, we got saddled with a million new ones—an endless flood of regulations that suck the joy out of existence. The unrelenting overabundance of laws—codes, decrees, statutes, ordinances, directives, mandates, you name it—is like a hydra: cut one down, and ten more spring up in its place.
Think I’m exaggerating? Well, let’s take a moment to examine your car.
Is your car truly road legal? Or is it a rolling time bomb of petty infractions? Maybe there’s a busted tail light bulb you’ve failed to notice because craning your neck and reversing into a shopping mall window for a full diagnostic check is just a little too much effort.
Or perhaps you’re like me—firmly focused on the future, leaving the past (and the traffic behind you) to sort itself out.
But let’s get serious. What about the missing rubber glove from your first aid kit? You know, the one you sacrificed to temporarily patch your leaking water-cooling hose. The law doesn’t care about your ingenuity; it just cares that you’re not “fully equipped.” And speaking of equipment, where’s that mandatory yellow safety vest? The one that’s supposed to protect you from being flattened by oncoming traffic after your car breaks down, while simultaneously ensuring you look like a complete moron stranded on the roadside.
Oh, but we’re not done yet. There’s more. You’ve just been caught going over the speed limit, rolling through a red light, and—oops—failing to yield for the self-righteous cyclist who was busy swerving through traffic like a donkey on drugs.
Next thing you know, the dunce on wheels has gone airborne and made an unplanned, face-first rendezvous with a lamp post. Praise be to the heavens that this particular Fred (an affectionate term cyclists definitely do not love) was a vocal advocate for road safety and wore a helmet—a helmet that, of course, didn’t extend far enough to prevent the need for major facial reconstruction.
There are even more annoyances lurking out there, waiting to ensnare the hapless motorist. No, you can’t flick your cigarette butts at passing pedestrians, no matter how insufferable they may seem. The law apparently has this wild idea that people—even the despicable ones—should walk down the street without having to dodge flaming projectiles.
And no, commandeering your vehicle after downing two bottles of wine and a smattering of vodka shots is not permissible—even if taxi fares are bordering on extortion. Shocking, I know.
But let’s keep the checklist going:
- Is your car registration up to date?
- What about insurance? Or are you still riding under the policy of your dearly departed parents because it’s cheaper? And while we’re at it, maybe stop cashing their retirement checks too, you cheapskate!
- How’s that driver’s license? Current? Address updated? Medicals all squared away? Or are you one of those “technically licensed” drivers clinging to a piece of paper that expired during the French Revolution?
- Are you even allowed to park here, or are you about to fund the local government’s pothole-filling budget via a hefty fine?
It’s exhausting, isn’t it? A labyrinth of rules, each more nit-picky than the last, and all ready to pounce on the slightest slip-up.
Now, don’t misunderstand me—I’m not suggesting we should cast off all rules and embrace the chaos of unbridled anarchy. And for the record, I’m absolutely not condoning drunk driving, either.
But here’s a radical thought: What if we handed responsibility for daily life back to the people? Let them face the consequences of their own actions instead of being micromanaged by an ever-expanding army of lawmakers, bureaucrats, and enforcement officers.
Why? Because I, for one, am not a bonsai tree. I don’t need to be pruned, propped up, or tethered to a stake by politicians who think they know better. I’d much prefer to spread my branches freely, even if it means occasionally dropping a leaf or two onto someone’s lawn.
Back to my cell…
It was still Sunday morning, and I had already concluded that prison time, no matter how you dressed it up, wasn’t going to win my heart. Yes, I could acknowledge the conceptual perks: three nutritious meals a day, a somewhat horizontal bunk, a sturdy roof to shield against the elements, and—who could forget—the joy of sharing a bathroom experience with a rusting toilet bucket.
Sadly, my particular accommodations came with none of those luxuries. No meals. No bunk. Just the company of my 11 Somali roommates, who were equally unimpressed with the prison's hospitality package.
What I did have, however, was a limited view of the outside world through a small steel-barred window perched inconveniently near the ceiling. This window, it turned out, doubled as the only location where I could get meaningful reception on my phone. And so, every call I made involved me dangling mid-air, one hand desperately clutching a steel bar while the other precariously gripped my cell phone. Add in the chorus of bored Somalis below, and you’d think I was rehearsing for some avant-garde prison circus.
From my lofty perch, I could see tourists coming and going, blissfully oblivious of the misfortune unfolding just meters away. Clutching their guidebooks and cameras, they strolled in search of safari adventures, while I clung to the bars like a demented Spider-Man, trying to decide if I should call for help or just proceed to strangle myself while I was up here.
My dried fruits had long since disappeared, consumed in a burst of tactical generosity hours ago. Breakfast had yet to arrive—if it was coming at all. I had no way of knowing, as the Somalis didn’t seem optimistic, and optimism, I had learned, was a rare commodity in a prison cell the size of a broom closet.
I felt like Papillon after two years of solitary confinement in a hole in the ground. OK, I had been there for less than three hours, but then, suffering is a relative perception, right?
With nothing better to do, I turned my attention to the two people in my life I deemed worthy of being informed about my plight. Both, in their infinite wisdom, came forward with the same groundbreaking advice: "Reach out to the German Embassy!"
After all, isn’t their entire purpose to swoop in like a well-dressed cavalry and save stranded citizens from dire straits? Turns out, not quite.
I had learned long ago that the German Embassy, while appearing competent on glossy brochures, was mostly just an architectural showcase in foreign capitals. Sure, there had been one time in Mexico back in the 90s when a sympathetic consulate worker traded me $100 for my passport after I’d run out of cash. But that was the exception, a rare glimmer of usefulness in a track record otherwise marked by indifference and bureaucracy.
The Nairobi branch? Predictably dismal. For starters, it seemed my biggest mistake wasn’t running afoul of Kenyan immigration but rather having the audacity to get arrested on a weekend. Apparently, embassies don’t bother with "citizen emergencies" outside regular business hours.
In fact, if you managed to find the secret scroll containing their helpline number, you’d still be met with the infuriating monotony of a phone line that might as well connect you to the middle of the Serengeti. The only response I received was the deafening hum of crickets, which, I assume, was their way of encouraging me to reflect on my life choices in contemplative silence.
By this point, I had come to terms with a harsh truth: as a foreigner in most countries, you don’t count for much. The embassy exists as a last resort—a fortress of rules and regulations that mostly serve as an impenetrable barrier between you and assistance.
There was no sense in fretting, whining, or indulging in melodramatic fits. I simply accepted my predicament with the resignation of a man who had already learned the art of stoic suffering. When life gives you lemons, they say, make lemonade. Except in my case, life had given me nothing but a rusty toilet bucket and 11 hungry Somalis. So, lemonade was off the table.
Every few hours, we were allowed a prison privilege so luxurious it deserved a drumroll: a restroom break. These excursions happened in groups of two and were supervised by a full entourage of security guards, as if we might stage a daring prison break through the plumbing.
Sometime during the night, the staff—perhaps feeling a twinge of humanitarianism or maybe just boredom—arrived bearing nourishment: a single bucket of sweetened tea. No cups. Just the bucket. This peculiar offering was deposited in our midst, leaving us to decipher whether we were to drink directly from it or baptise each other in its sticky contents.
The Somalis, still riding the high of my dried fruit generosity, offered me a coveted spot among their flea-infested mattresses on the floor. I politely declined, deciding instead to settle on two uncomfortable blue plastic airport chairs, the kind designed by sadists who specialise in public seating. I pulled my jacket over my head to block out the ceiling lights, which blazed like a laser beam. Sleep was elusive, but at least I wasn’t scratching imaginary fleas off my skin.
Morning arrived without fanfare—or breakfast. Time crawled by in the sort of uneventful monotony that makes you question the very nature of existence. It wasn’t until around 10 a.m. that the cell door screeched open, and we were herded out like livestock. Outside, in the parking lot, two trucks awaited us.
I won the prize of being crammed inside the cabin, alongside a sweating officer who had apparently declared war on soap, a complete stranger to the concepts of personal hygiene. Meanwhile, the Somalis were less fortunate, piling into the open loading area in the back like sardines in a tin, only with worse ventilation.
What followed was a 30-minute debate among the officers to determine who would take the wheel. This debate was, in itself, a masterclass in bureaucratic absurdity. To my astonishment, the chosen driver turned out to be the one individual who couldn’t possibly see over the dashboard and reach the pedals at the same time.
As we lurched forward, I did something I rarely do: I buckled my seatbelt. It didn’t feel like a precaution—it felt like a lifeline.
As fate would have it, barely 2.5 miles down Mombasa Road, the truck collided headfirst with a Matatu—Africa’s answer to the clown car—packed tighter than an overstuffed suitcase with weary commuters. The crash was a masterpiece of chaos: two of the Somalis riding in the open truck bed were unceremoniously launched into the roadside bushes like wayward missiles. Neither of them reemerged.
Back in the cab, a spirited argument erupted among the officers. The bleeding driver moaned faintly while the others debated whether to call (a) an ambulance for his mangled arm or (b) the police. The latter idea was quickly shot down with the logic that they were, after all, a "sort-of" police unit themselves. Why complicate things with professionals? The ambulance, it seemed, was vetoed for reasons lost to me—possibly budgetary, possibly apathy.
Amusingly—or tragically, depending on how one chooses to view this farce—no one seemed overly concerned about the two airborne Somalis. Either their absence was attributed to divine intervention, or they had simply ceased to exist as a logistical issue.
By early afternoon, the bedraggled convoy limped into downtown Nairobi and stopped outside the immigration headquarters. I, along with the remaining Somalis (only three adults and the children now), was escorted into a locked room. Mercifully, this room had chairs and a window, which by now felt like five-star luxury. Still no food, no water, and no sign of the missing Somalis.
Sometime later, an officer entered and began questioning us with all the urgency of someone whose lunch break was looming. His questions were aimed at me and the three remaining adult Somalis. The children, though present, were relegated to their usual role of background decoration.
As he grilled us, I couldn't help but wonder what had become of the Matatu driver, the airborne Somalis, and the logic of this whole ordeal. But the officer’s unimpressed expression suggested I save my questions for a different time—or perhaps another dimension.
The interrogation continued, and it was quickly revealed that one of the Somali passengers had been flying under the radar for quite some time—using his absent brother’s passport as his golden ticket to the continent.
“You can’t use your brother’s passport to travel, especially not to distant lands,” the officer said, laying down the law as though it were a cosmic truth.
“Why not?” the Somali asked, genuinely perplexed. “He looks like me, and he's only two years older.”
“No. You can’t. He doesn’t look like you at all,” the agent responded, narrowing his eyes with the kind of certainty usually reserved for solving national security threats. “And what about the different first names?”
“But we’re both called Mohammed,” the Somali argued, “all my brothers are. We can’t afford more than one passport. That’s why we all use this one. Besides, nobody in Somalia, South Africa, or even Nairobi had a problem when we came through last month.”
The officer’s face, usually as expressionless as a rock, slowly turned into something resembling disbelief. “You came here last month with this passport?” he asked, as if hearing the concept for the first time.
“And nobody stopped you?”
At this point, the officer, clearly out of his depth, just sighed heavily and grabbed the two Somali men by the necks—not in a friendly way—ushering them out of the room.
Well, I suppose some things are just better left unexamined.
Ten minutes later, the officer returned for me, looking somewhat smug as if he had just solved a grand mystery.
"Do you know why your passport was flagged?" he asked, his tone a bit too casual for my liking.
"No idea," I responded, still trying to process the absurdity of the entire situation.
He proceeded to explain that, during my two-year stint in Kenya between 2012 and 2014, I had applied for a work permit but had never actually started working or paid taxes. He admitted that the application process, thanks to the lack of a bribe, had dragged on for an impressive three years. But by the time my work permit was finally approved, I had already left the country for good, which led immigration to assume something shady was going on.
"Because of that, they flagged your passport," he explained, as if this was all perfectly reasonable.
"And this led to me being locked up at the airport for a trivial matter?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
He nodded, as if my frustration was an afterthought. "Yes, very sorry about that. But next time, you might want to consider greasing the wheels a little. Maybe treat the customs officer to a nice lunch… and avoid coming on weekends when all the offices are closed. Just a little advice for the future."
I stood there, dumbfounded, contemplating the absurdity of the whole thing—locked up for days because of a bureaucratic screw-up, and now this suggestion that paying off the system might have been a better plan. The irony was not lost on me.
Ah, yes, the age-old wisdom of greasing the gears—applies everywhere, whether you're wandering through the back alleys of a "third world" country or the polished bureaucratic labyrinths of the so-called "first world." It seems the only thing that changes is the currency you're expected to part with.
And let’s not forget the delights of navigating the "free world"—where saying the wrong word in the wrong place can have you carted off to a "resort" where they don’t serve mojitos, but they do offer plenty of time to reflect on your poor life choices. The kind of “vacation” no one’s ever heard of in the glossy tourism brochures.
But as you said—that is another story. For now, let's just keep it as a gentle reminder that sometimes, it’s better to keep the B-word, T-word, N-word, and G-word safely tucked away... unless, of course, you’ve got a special taste for adventure and the possibility of ending up on a government watchlist.
And on that note, until the next story,
Marcel Romdane
The locked room at the immigration office in Nairobi...a 5 Star Club Med facility compared to my airport holding pen....
