That's my new philosophy

Initially, the title of this blog was “No good deed goes unpunished”, but after somber reflection, I adopted a more forgiving lyric. It is with great hesitation that I include this chapter of my Kisumu adventures, knowing that many of you might be alarmed as you watch the tale unfold. I beg you to read the blog through to its conclusion and remember that a good reporter tells the whole story.

When last I left you, I was enjoying Beldina’s hospitality, laughing and eating Oreos with a cold glass of milk. A rare treat, trust me. However, when Beldina took me back to the guest house, things went awry.

My room had been burglarized in my absence. There were subtle but obvious signs that someone had rustled with my stuff, the least of which the drawer in which my valuables were locked had been stripped open. I grabbed everything valuable that they didn’t take and went back downstairs to report to the lobby receptionist, calling Beldina with my free hand as I made my way down. She turned around and came back and told me to call the owner, which I did. The men in the lobby were helpful in some ways and less so in others. Firstly, they immediately had a suspect, in that they were already suspicious of the man that had checked into the room next to mine. Helpful, sort of. They went upstairs with me, which is when we realized the balcony door was open and that the window screen next to that door’s lock had been bent backward to allow a wrist access. Then they told me that I had to go to the police station to file a report. As if I had the means and/or the desire to wander Kisumu near midnight to find the police station. Less helpful. Once they realized I was on the phone with the owner, they became a little more helpful. Beldina and the owner arrived at the same time, and we went back up to the room, where the owner and his wife proceeded to chastise me about the fact that I left valuables in the room. Because that’s exactly what I needed. Beldina started hinting about the fact that she was going to end her relationship with the guest house, and they suddenly became a little more gracious, though only barely. My recollections of most of this are hazy at best as I was in a haze, feeling violated, overwhelmed, and stupid all at the same time. They recognized that they rented a room to someone against their policies (without an ID/passport), but still wouldn’t accept any hint of culpability. We all left en masse to the police station.

Imagine a small city, with barely enough street lamps to keep the main thoroughfares illuminated. The streets are mostly deserted, as it is the eve of a great National Holiday, the birth of a new Kenya, a historic event on par with the celebrations of the independence it gained from Great Britain in 1963. The car slows as we near an ominous gathering of men in the street, fortunately it turns out to be located in front of the District Commissioner’s home and a security presence is strong. The gravel crunches as we turn onto a small back street. Broken and vandalized vans line the darkened street, and were my driver any other than the companion I have, I would be insisting we head back to civilization. The police station is neither well-marked nor well-maintained. We pull off the gravel road into the dusty soil of the station’s lot. Boda bodas and tuk tuks fill most available spaces, waiting for the off chance to transport the officers anywhere they may need to go. The station is little more than a holding cell with a small cement antechamber in which two officers while away the night. The first sits behind a desk with a massive paper ledger, into which he records the details of my situation. The second stays at the door with a gun stretched across his lap. Numbly, I stay in the broken chair he offers me, facing a metal door with a small square hole, curiously painted bright blue. As Beldina and the guest house owner provide local information and provide a little pressure in the form of Beldina’s contact with the head of Kisumu Crime, I realize that I’m staring at the town jail, and the disembodied voices yelling in Swahili (or perhaps Luo, I can’t tell) are the prisoners. A fact that becomes more real when I lift my arm from the desk and see the title of the ledger beneath me, “Cell Register”. Not exactly where I ever expected I would be in the early morning hours of a Kisumu morning.

We returned to the guest house, where I prepared to pack up and move rooms. All sense of safety had fled from me, and even with a group of people behind me, my heart started racing as I opened the door to my room. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and despite the fact that the hotel staff was trying to help, I got tremendously disturbed that they were touching my things. So much anger building inside until I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. We moved me down to a room right next to reception, and the owner left. I sat there with Beldina on the verge of falling apart. My heart was still pounding, and Beldina, reading me more acutely than I realized, called the owner and forced me to talk with him. It was on the phone with him that I finally started to lose it. Without Beldina within earshot to appease, he began again with his lecture on the error of my ways. First was anger at his failure to acknowledge that his staff already had suspicions about this guy, who should never have been allowed in the guest house. What good are all his locks and buzzers (we have to ask to be let in and out of the reception area) if he doesn’t pay attention to the clientele he admits? Then I flat out got scared, and couldn’t keep the tremor out of my voice. I told him I couldn’t spend another night at the guest house, I felt completely violated and couldn’t accept the fact that the chief suspect still had a key to the guest house. I also added that because of the theft I wasn’t in any position to pay any of the bill that I had already accrued. He made me sign the bill I had accrued, to which I added my own comments. He professes that he will submit an insurance claim for the items that were taken, but that he refuses to be responsible for the cash.

We were both sufficiently shaken up at that time that Beldina didn’t want to stop the car until we got back to her home, where I will be installed until I leave Kisumu. My anger was red hot last night, and spread over everyone. I was angry at Kenya, angry at myself, angry at a God whom I thought should protect people trying to do good things.

When I finally got my hastily packed belongings back into some order in Beldina’s guest room, it was near 2:30 before I was able to lie down to sleep. And as I fought with the mosquito that got trapped inside the net with me, I did a fair amount of soul searching. In truth, the things I had lost were just that, things. I had my health, I had my life. It could have been so much worse. Money flows in and out of my life, and though I have struggled with it, I’ve never been so destitute that I felt I needed to resort to criminal activity to survive. I have clean clothes on my back, a roof over my head and a generous layer of fat to remind me of my nutritional excesses. Perhaps my God was watching over me and kept me safe from bodily harm. This man, this thief, took away some of my sense of security, but he’s the not the first to have done that. He stole very little of anything irreplaceable. And he’s more than welcome to the Broadway audios on my iPod and the photos, videos and phone numbers on my American cell phone. He neglected to steal the power cords, and as I haven’t seen any in Kenya, he can enjoy them while they last.

And so, I’ve decided to be thankful for the things I do still have:
For the souvenirs that he didn’t feel were important enough to take.
For the passport that he was generous enough to leave.
For the fact that he didn’t recognize was a Nook was, and I still have my primary form of solitary recreation.
For the split decision to take my laptop and camera with me to Beldina’s house.
For the many friends and family that will, of course, send me their phone numbers again… (via facebook and email)
For Beldina’s friendship and her ability to see beyond my anger, urging me to stop and reflect.
For the wonderful memories of this trip that I will not allow to be tainted by this individual act.
For perspective and forgiveness.

And that’s my new philosophy.