It was a beautiful sunny day in Nairobi, my 2 sons were in school, and I decided to run a few errands with my younger daughter. We had received notice that a package was awaiting us at the General Post Office (GPO) downtown. Now, this is a good news/bad news kind of thing: good news because packages are always fun to get, bad because every package was held at the post office until someone retrieved it, a major time-consuming, stressful process. In addition, just getting to the GPO involved driving downtown (manual transmission), maneuvering roundabouts, stoplights, and crazy drivers, finding a parking place, cramming into a packed elevator (and when the “overload” sign came on, cramming even further toward the back until the door closed) and standing in line at the proper counter.
Being the only mzungu (Anglo) in line could mean 1 or 2 things: either I would be called first and treated royally..or else I would be ignored and everyone would push in front of me and get served first. Ever the problem solver, I discovered that bringing my darling, blond-haired 1½-year-old daughter, who conveniently went by Mwende (her Kenyan middle name), ensured that I received instant, polite access to my package and usually a much lower assessment of customs fees. My daughter in turn was usually whisked away and showered by love, hugs, and attention by all the post office mamas. And it worked beautifully; all in all, a win-win for everyone.
Soon, I was carrying my precious daughter and the precious package to the car, placing her in the car seat and my purse and package in the front seat. Although Nairobi was much, much safer in the 80s, it was still important to closely guard possessions and keep cars locked…so as I closed the car door, I realized with horror that my car keys were now locked in the car. Baby inside, all windows rolled up, noontime sun blazing, cellphones not a thing yet. Panicked, I looked around and, miraculously, a policeman was standing close to my car. I immediately told him what had happened and he helpfully approached the car, noticed my daughter (who was now sound asleep after all the excitement of the post office), and started tapping loudly on the window and talking to my NOW awake, screaming, and sweating daughter (“Why is she is locked in the car”, the helpful officer of the law asked me). Money for a call box (payphone) to call my husband was in my purse, in the car, with the screaming child.
And then, another totally random man stopped by, offered me the shilling to call my husband and waited with the policeman to make sure no one kidnapped the beautiful mzungu baby as I was calling my husband. Four more miracles: there was a working payphone at the GPO, no one else was in line, the call immediately went through to my husband at work, and I returned to find that no one had broken in and stolen my child. My husband arrived and unlocked the car, thank yous and introductions all around, Mwende stopped crying and we all went home for lunch.
*Thank you, God, for guarding me as the apple of the eye; hiding me in the shadow of your wings
— cmshingle
Being the only mzungu (Anglo) in line could mean 1 or 2 things: either I would be called first and treated royally..or else I would be ignored and everyone would push in front of me and get served first. Ever the problem solver, I discovered that bringing my darling, blond-haired 1½-year-old daughter, who conveniently went by Mwende (her Kenyan middle name), ensured that I received instant, polite access to my package and usually a much lower assessment of customs fees. My daughter in turn was usually whisked away and showered by love, hugs, and attention by all the post office mamas. And it worked beautifully; all in all, a win-win for everyone.
Soon, I was carrying my precious daughter and the precious package to the car, placing her in the car seat and my purse and package in the front seat. Although Nairobi was much, much safer in the 80s, it was still important to closely guard possessions and keep cars locked…so as I closed the car door, I realized with horror that my car keys were now locked in the car. Baby inside, all windows rolled up, noontime sun blazing, cellphones not a thing yet. Panicked, I looked around and, miraculously, a policeman was standing close to my car. I immediately told him what had happened and he helpfully approached the car, noticed my daughter (who was now sound asleep after all the excitement of the post office), and started tapping loudly on the window and talking to my NOW awake, screaming, and sweating daughter (“Why is she is locked in the car”, the helpful officer of the law asked me). Money for a call box (payphone) to call my husband was in my purse, in the car, with the screaming child.
And then, another totally random man stopped by, offered me the shilling to call my husband and waited with the policeman to make sure no one kidnapped the beautiful mzungu baby as I was calling my husband. Four more miracles: there was a working payphone at the GPO, no one else was in line, the call immediately went through to my husband at work, and I returned to find that no one had broken in and stolen my child. My husband arrived and unlocked the car, thank yous and introductions all around, Mwende stopped crying and we all went home for lunch.
*Thank you, God, for guarding me as the apple of the eye; hiding me in the shadow of your wings
— cmshingle
Wow, a mother's worst nightmare. So relieved to read there was, at the end, a reason for gratitude and rejoicing!!
ReplyDeleteThanks! More than 35 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday (and most things I definitely can't remember that long! :)
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