Back in the mid 90s, we had some in our rika who had graduated college and soon after started employment as Nairobi’s young professionals.
As was habit, one evening a group of us sat around in a friend’s living room examining life as the aroma of masala tea wafted from the kitchen.
Then one of us started unloading about his day at work. This guy worked for an international car dealership with a subsidiary in Nairobi. He was doing pretty well for himself.
You need to know, we were a sincere lot, never lied unnecessarily, perhaps kept some personal feelings unsaid as is usual with young people falling in and out of love. But this is not a love story.
Our friend says- We had a sales meeting today.
No one pays any extra attention to what he just said, especially because he yawned right after.
He continued- The top boss was there. He wanted us to sell more cars.
He’s getting animated now.
– Me, I have sold the most. Kwanza yale mabasi makubwa makubwa. Si you know how I know people… Me I’ve made a lot of money for that company, and even the boss knows.
He wasn’t lying. This guy knew all the big transport businesses in Mombasa and he was the pointman for their vehicle acquisition. He goes on.
– Now everyone at the meeting, all of us sales people, we are there, Africans. Eh? Tuko hapo kwa meza! We are looking at this big boss who’s been sent to come and whip us up to produce bigger sales. Tuuze malori anasema. Na mimi nimeuza haki ya nani!
We’re listening. The aroma from the masala tea that was competing for my attention is forgotten. Our friend is in full combat mode.
– This guy, mzee mzungu tena, is telling us to go door to door selling cars! You know why? Heh, wal’ahi tena siwadanganyi! This guy used to be a milkman in London selling milk bottled door to door, and that’s all the experience he has in sales. He’s telling us that himself! He’s looking at all of us sisi wafrika na madegree zetu and our sales record and he’s teaching us how to sell cars like a milkman! The only reason he’s the head of the company is because ni mzungu. Mimi sifichi! He’s useless! Bure!
By this time I have dramatically flopped off the sofa and I’m on the floor suffering delirious peels of laughter in also and soprano with hefty hiccups in between.
Those were the years when public debate raged about placing wazungu expatriates in corporate and institutional leadership positions apparently to control African greed. These expatriates could be as dumb as rocks, all they needed were smart Africans doing the work.
Remember I told you we were a sincere lot? There was nothing intrinsically corrupt about us as a people. The political system we operated in had created a rot everywhere. Our friend went back to work the next day and stayed highly productive and obedient to a London milkman.
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2Kademu Kiwinda Kituri and Mulla Moti Collins
