The gendarmerie arrived! In this case, three very large African men dressed in khaki military uniforms- head to toe, boots to hats. They knocked loudly on my door. I crossed the courtyard to open it.
“You have been served,” I was told and one thrust a paper into my hand. It seemed my former houseboy, Norman, was from the same tribe as Lamu’s magistrate.
Norman was from the same tribe as the island’s magistrate and he freakin’ sued me. He sued me for a much larger sum of money than what I offered him and because I didn’t hire another boy in his place, I doubly angered the powers that be because I was withholding potential income from the local economy. I bucked the system. I was a plug in the European cash flow pipe line. I had three choices: pay him more money, immediately hire someone else and claim Norman was a shoddy houseboy or go to jail. None of these choices appealed to my now 22 (I had a birthday in Lamu)-year-old way of doing things so I created a fourth option. I asked for a court hearing.
What was I thinking?!?
Court. Court in Lamu is the size of a master bedroom in a suburban valley home. At the head of the stone room is the judge behind a wood pedestal with a gavel. In front of him are rows of stone benches. In my case, 4 on each side. I sat in the back, in between two Indian young men who were arrested for smoking pot. The local Muslims hate the Indians but there is very little they can get them on– pot smoking, which is technically illegal — is all they have. The Indians hated being in court and gossiped to me the entire time. Then my name was called. I approached the Magistrate and turned to the room. Just as I was about to state my case, the Magistrate stoped me, calling for a break for lunch.
I was outraged! And I said as much.
“You can’t break now, I’ve been waiting all morning!” I said. “This is unfair!” I continued. “I demand to see my Embassy!” The Magistrate paused, turned back to me. “Oh, are you a diplomat?” Here’s where it gets good. “No, but I am an American citizen and I demand to talk to my Embassy.” I said with pathetic bravery.
The magistrate says: “Ok, you can go to your Embassy but you must leave your passport with me.”
Few things in life are crazier than overland travel in Kenya and few things are more insane than to travel overland in Kenya without any identification.
I went to Petley’s Inn, the only phone on the island, and called my Embassy which was in Mombasa, a boat, plane, bus ride away.
Here is what the nice woman said:
“We highly recommend you get here as soon as possible. You are the first European we have heard of being sued in Lamu in over 30 years and until you get here you are entirely in their jurisdiction.”
Oh.
I returned to Philippe to tell him what happened. He quickly went to work. He arranged for a dhow to take me off the island to the air field where a small plane would be waiting to fly me to Mombassa. We said our goodbyes the night before. I gave Barbara the radio I bought. It was all I had. I had been in Lamu for 5 months. 5 years in Lamu time.
The sun was just rising. The boatman covered me under a blanket, Philippe was going to ride with me to the plane. We landed at the air field safely, unseen. And then Philippe decided to come with me. We travelled to Nairobi where Philippe met his attorney, the person handling the permits for the restaurant. I translated English to French for Philippe and he realized for the first time that there would be no end to the money he would have to give in bribes.
Moving quickly, before news travelled to Nairobi, we decided to leave Kenya together. He bought us two first class tickets on Air France to Los Angeles where he thought he could find work writing again. Nervously, we passed the military throughout the Kenyan airport but we boarded, unstopped. In our seats, safe, Philippe ordered us a bottle of champaign. The first of what would be many bottles. But I didn’t know that then. To Los Angeles.
