Jamhuri 2. As from now on, this is my home. Located somewhere in the Southwest of Nairobi, glued to the slums of Kibera, situated approximately halfway the well-known Ngong Road, which roughly runs from downtown Nairobi to the white enclave Karen (the territory of the KC’s, or Kenyan Cowboys as the white Kenyans are nicknamed) and further on to Ngong Hills.
Jamhuri 2 is a middle class area, populated by mixed tribes. Most houses are owned by their inhabitants and are self-made, which results in a mishmash of styles – as far as this can be perceived behind the omnipresent walls and thick steel gates. As elsewhere, every palace has been turned into a barely conquerable fortress, the daily reality of living in Nairobbery.
Middle class area does not mean that the streets are asphalted. The intersection of Ngong Road (important mark when I take the matatu: on the corner of Ngong Posta, the former post office, which was among the first victims of the January riots, leaving it completely burnt) still has tarmac, but as soon as the turn into the neighbourhood itself is taken (mark: turn off at the Coca Cola kiosk, after three speed bumps) all that is left is a real Kenyan dirt road filled with potholes and bumps. Two more turns at a Coca Cola kiosk (omnipresent as ever) and there it is: I have arrived at my African dollhouse.
Like almost everywhere in Kenya, the streets in Jamhuri 2 do not have names and the houses are not numbered. Most likely that is the reason why I had to draw a map with the location of my ‘domicile’ (as phrased by the embassy), when I registered myself at the Dutch embassy as an inhabitant of Kenya.
Before I can really start enjoying my dollhouse, there are two more hurdles to be taken. One: the enormous steel gate, closed with a large padlock, which key I still do not own. Two: my ‘own’ front door, also securely locked with a giant padlock, which key is my sole possession. To conquer the first hurdle successfully, I got the phone number of askari Julius, the watchman, a Masai from Tanzania who does not speak a single word of English. A constant stream of Swahili is launched at me, which I barely understand. Especially talking over the phone proves to be extremely funny. I simply introduce myself as the mzungu neighbour (the white neighbour), to which he responds with a “Sawa” (OK!). And each time he manages to appear from the strangest corners, holding the key. Often he asks me where my rafiki (friend) is. Or something along that line.
In addition to Julius, a second askari is guarding the house, but this one is situated behind the gate, on the compound itself. The dog listens to the straightforward name Doggy and looks a bit shattered, with intensely sad eyes. Fortunately, after only two days the animal starts wagging its tail hesitantly, instead of aggressively barking at me. And at least I have managed to teach Doggy a few Dutch words, as he now fully understands “Goed volk!” (literal translation: Good people - an expression indicating visitors mean no harm). Even my rafiki is now greeted with a careful wag of the tail.
Once on the compound I follow a small alley next to the house of Martin the landlord. On a tiny lawn decorated with clotheslines there it finally is: a little guest house, also known as my African dollhouse. Not that spacious, but according to Kenyan practise crammed with large and sturdy furniture. The teeny-weeny kitchen forces the fridge to be fitted in the sitting area. The bedroom is too small to successfully take a decent picture of it. The bed on the other hand is large enough for me to lie sideways or diagonally.
A fridge, a gas stove containing two burners, electricity and cold water - those are the facilities. In the bathroom (though ‘closet’ might be a better description) the toilet is located to the left and the shower to the right. The shower I have immediately transformed into an African shower. Like most Kenyans I know, I am now using a water basin to wash myself.
One of my most important investments here was an electric water kettle. My first action after waking up is to boil water and pour it in a large basin. Mixed with cold water this results in a delightful bath. Using a small jar I pour the water over my body, lather and rinse. Equally clean and fresh, but in any case much more comfortable than a cold shower!
The gas stove is not working yet, hence preparing dinner (or better: organising dinner) requires lots of improvisation and creativity. The bulb in the bathroom is broken down, in the sitting area and the bedroom the lights are an intense 100 Watt. The curtains have been measured, but still need to be arranged. A sheet is provisionally hanging in front of the bedroom window, with the help of a clothesline and numerous clothespins. In the sitting room the fierce light and the lacking curtains create the sensation of sitting in a display window.
Seriously! I now know exactly which kiosk I have to visit to get my vegetables, fruit, air time, or other necessities. All kids in the street wave at me or approach me to shake hands. Neighbours greet me with a cheerful “Habari!” or “Hello, how are you!” All my stuff is somehow fitted in the rooms and now neatly arranged. According to Western standards, it might look like a small place without much luxury, but it nevertheless feels like home to me. My African dollhouse!
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