WHAT'S WITH KENYANS AND COMPLAINING

In all my worldly travels (not that many if truth be told, but I do love to exaggerate), I have never met a people more fond of complaining than Kenyans. They do not like to be kept waiting, Kenyans don’t!

Waiter takes long, they complain. Queue too long in the bank, they complain. Matatu driven by a manic driver (which is more the norm rather than the exception), they complain. Only trouble is, Kenyans will complain to anyone within earshot – anyone but whomever they are complaining about!

The fact that I am a Kenyan and usually complain to the offending party probably puts me in the minority, and more often than not earns me rather strange looks from the people around me.

Recently, I have had two outstanding incidents in two different banks. One was during the festive season and the queues were long enough to drive one’s pressure to dangerous levels. Like a good citizen, I patiently queued, listening to other patrons complain about how long they had waited, how it wasn’t fair that there were 6 teller booths, but only two were occupied. I nodded and smiled sadly at the appropriate time, but truth be told, I was more interested in facebooking on my smart phone (but do I say) than listening to my fellow Kenyans complain!

Almost two hours later, I was third in line. I put my phone back in the bag and rummaged through my big bag for my bank papers. Out of nowhere (well, through the main door really), a sharp suited not-so-gentleman-ly man walked past everybody, straight to the teller without so much as a glance at the people in the queue. We looked at each other, but all everybody seemed to do was shrug – well, they would complain later, no? But not me!

So I say “Excuse me sir, there is a queue”. I mustered as much patience as possible under the circumstances, but I could hear my own voice shaking with adrenaline driven righteous indignation!

After giving me several once-overs, he said “I know…”

Oh no, he just didn’t! I thought as I felt my dark side taking over my whole being.

“So why did you not queue?” I demanded. I wanted to add something like ‘are you stupid’, but as I get older, I have learned to hold my tongue – for a while!

“What is your problem?” disdainfully, he wanted to know, turning to squarely face me, probably intending to intimidate me, but it only served to infuriate me further. I was past being afraid and not even his bully tactics were going to work on me.

We were not exactly whispering, and by this time the whole banking hall was at a standstill – even the tellers had stopped doing their job, probably not wanting to miss the ensuing action!

“You want to know my problem? Fine! My problem is I have been queuing for two hours, and you just walked in a minute ago and you want to be served before me. I demand to know why?”

By this time, the guards had moved closer to me, I don’t know why me and not the offender. He was the criminal in all this, in my opinion. Other patrons had moved away from me, probably not wanting to mess their clothes with my blood splutters in case the big bad man decided to shoot me! Thanks for the support people! NOT!

To cut a long story short, very unkind words were exchanged. He informed me some customers were more valued than others, I told him I didn’t care how much illegal money he deposited in the bank, it did not have an effect on my kitchen budget, which seemed to infuriate him (I wonder why). He said it didn’t matter what I thought, he would still be served before yours truly, that I could go to hell! The nerve!

The guards were telling me to keep it down (again, why me? He was just as loud and as colorful in language). I told the guards to shove off (actually, I might have used a word worse than shove), that they should go back to guarding the door. They looked offended – I wondered why! Why were people getting so easily offended today?

All this time, none of my fellow Kenyans had spoken for or against me. They seemed to be in a trance. Finally, the manager came, carefully took my hand (I must have had the eyes of a raving lunatic, he seemed very cautious!) and led me to his office. My eyes caught the sight of the man storming out in anger! Like I cared! I was dully served in the manager’s office, offered a cup of tea which I declined. I still wanted to know why that man walked to the head of the queue. Apparently, he had several millions in the bank! “I don’t care”, I repeated, probably for the 10th time in as many minutes.

I continued to lecture and advice the manager (I should bill the bank for consultancy), that if they had some customers more special than others, they should not rub it on our faces! Could they not have a special room where they didn’t have to remind us, we less special customers that we were several millions poorer? He seemed to agree with me, whether genuinely or just to appease me I do not know, but agree he did! I even told him I was a journalist, that I would expose his bank (really, I do not have that much clout as a journo, but he did not know that and I wasn’t going to tell him). He begged me not to, told me that every time I went to his bank, I should just walk straight to his office to be served. I said okay – ha! Where is the sharp suited twat now?

As I walked through the banking hall towards the door, fellow Kenyans were congratulating me, patting me on my back (thanks a lot for the support people, NOT!) Even the guards stood as I walked towards them, I could swear they were going to salute… I apologized to them for my rude behavior!

The other unfortunate incident involved less drama…but I sort of feel I have enough pro borno writing! I aint getting payed for this and I do not feel I should tire my not so delicate fingers with this … this… oh well, if you want to hear about the other incident, call me – and pay me – yup, I am behaving like the Kenyan I am!

Kenyans can really complain! TSK!