In The Land of Baobab and Flame Trees by Nuzhat Shahzadi

I will always remember Nairobi as a stunning, sassy, vibrant city––audacious and resilient, needling together its many colors into a whole, unique pattern.

I lived there for almost five years. Unlike many expats, I didn't want a rental subsidy to live in a large residence. Mine was a compact, small 2-bedroom, 1.5 bathroom fully furnished apartment in a gated compound in West Lands. This neighborhood was favored by expats and affluent Kenyans. Sarit Center, a modern, multi-storied market complex (mall?) was 5-8 minutes walking distance. Walking to Sarit was safe only during daylight. Those days social violence, government corruption and burglaries were rampant. (. . . UNICEF-staff's well-orchestrated financial fraud in Kenya was a shameful chapter . . .).

We were mandated to keep a safe room in the residence––were issued walkie talkies to reach UNDSS in case of home invasions or emergencies (pre smartphone era) . . .

I was trying to settle down with my adolescent son, and struggling to figure out some basics of a cross-continental move.

"Kenyans hate south-Asians," a spouse of a senior expat colleague warned me right away. My heart sank.

At the time I wasn't aware of the latent tension between native-Kenyans and Indian-Kenyans . . . The natives resented the Indians for monopolizing the businesses, concentrating their powers in the socio-economic and political horizon. In the past, such resentments led to communal rioting between the natives and the Indian-Africans in several East-African countries including Kenya.

"You're not like the Indians," my Kenyan friends often remarked.

"I'm not an Indian," was my instant response . . . I had a large group of local friends––exceptional women.

I managed to overcome the initial hurdles, found an incredible human being, Beatrice, who I trusted fully with my son (he didn't need much looking after––somehow was fond of Beatrice). She was my house-keeper, cook, and became like an older sister.

"Beatrice, your ugali and Sukuma are the best in the world," my son used to claim aloud to a beaming Beatrice. He genuinely was fond of the Kenyan staple.

He also loved Nyama Choma (grilled meat/beef). Our office drivers took him to a popular Nyama Choma joint to give him a real taste of this delicacy. Being a vegetarian, I was helpless . . . it was still my no-fish-no eggs days . . . (almost) a famine-era-of-choices for vegetarian food in restaurants in many parts of the world.

I traveled extensively––my stomach formed a solid layer of tomato-cheese sandwich or pasta with tomato sauce that I consumed invariably. Even for those myopic-mundane items I was served last. (After a decade of vegetarian-hardships, I gradually turned into a semi-pescatarian).

No matter what, Nairobi was amazing.

Whenever I was in town, I partied with my girl-friends. We were young–– late-nights on weekdays didn't seem daunting. Office was an everyday affair––what the heck?

"If you want to know about the nightlife, ask Nuzhat. She knows all the discotheques and pubs in Nairobi," once I overheard a senior colleague enlightening visitors from NYHQ.

Jane Delorie usually picked me up in her Rav4. She was Irish-Kenyan––the only white woman in our girls' gang. Driving back home at the dead of the night carrying the smell of cigarettes, blended-perfumes in our hair and clothes was fun, actually. Smoking was allowed in public places. Jane was confronted with car-jackers at the gate of her house one night. Luckily, the gunmen didn't hurt her––took her car.

That was Nairobi . . .

My friend, Taslima lived in an independent house with her husband, Dennis, and their toddler. We all worked with the UN. Dennis moved to India while she stayed back for about a year to complete her assignments. I spent my free time––after office and weekends often with her.

One afternoon as we were lazing, two of her guards came to speak with her. One was a Kikuyu who spoke English, the other was a Masai who didn't.

"Madam, he wants some money . . ." the Kikuyu said.

"Why?" We were curious.

"He says when he goes home next week he will buy a spear to protect you and baby better since boss is in India."

In the age of guns? We laughed––two "ignorant young women (?)" and dismissed them.

We loved watching movies at the theatres. All Hollywood movies were screened here at the same time as they were released in the US. Often, we finished one movie and watched the next one right afterwards––returned home late at night. Roads weren't that safe so late.

. . . We decided to take the Masai with us, now back from leave––as our (body?) guard and to watch the car while we were at the theatre.

As we came out of the movie-theatre, we saw the Masai guarding our car––the parking-lot light reflected on a shiny object he was holding high, bravely. It was a spear!!! He bought it from his own money . . . the naïve young women had challenged his Masai(man)hood. . .

We shrieked gleefully . . .

From then on it became the joke-of-the-town. Friends and acquaintances pulled our legs . . .

"We know what you did last night . . . "they laughed, teased.

. . . Oh, (Masai) man!