A Hot Minute in Mombasa

The Dalai Lama is shorter than one would imagine. Did I expect a colossus? Such is fame’s exaggerating influence. There are three people in the queue. A kikoied white lady, also diminutive, has the door of the ‘cooler’ open. She is clearly overwhelmed by the large selection of coloured drinks on display. The atmosphere in the convenience store, at one of those ubiquitous service stations, is as cool as a shake on the beach. For one used to cooler climes, if Nairobi can be so described, the searing Mombasa heat can at times disconcert. I am impatient for my turn at the cooler to get an ice cold bottle of good old aqua. I have long discovered that fizzy drinks only serve to make me irritable.  His Holiness / Eminence is more impatient still. He reaches over the lady’s shoulder and I’m ridiculously pleased to see him grab hold of a small tub of yoghurt. It would have been something of an anticlimax to watch him swig from a bottle of some popular soft drink. The kikoied one, with what look suspiciously like bangles doing duty for earrings, is however less than impressed with the brown arm snaking over her shoulder and turns around angrily, finger raised in reprimand. Coming face to face with the world’s most celebrated Tibetan is enough to throw anyone off. Our aforementioned friend proves to be no exception. It is always a fascinating experience to watch the blood drain from the visage of the light skinned. She does not disappoint. The raised finger remains raised. She makes as if to genuflect and Tenzin Gyatso, for such is the appellation that the eminent one was saddled with at birth, lets out a roar of laughter that is deafening in its intensity. In confusion the mzungu lady rushes at the exit and rams into the glass door, as we used to say, ‘full tilt boogie’. She predictably bounces off the door, careening into a snack-laden shelf. For what appears to be a full five minutes, but is more likely three seconds, there appear to be raining potato crisps in the area around the open-mouthed counter girl. The mirthful monk is not through with his merriment. Another roar sends in a pot-bellied personage, biro swinging importantly in his hand. “Iko nini?” he demands, “wapi security?” Through the louvers I can see ‘security’, blue-trousered, white shirted, the inevitable rungu swinging from his hand, in a dead run towards the commotion. I guess everybody so inclined gets a moment when they can play Rambo. The lady is lying still, covered with bags of crisps. The manager, biro an extension of his hand, heads for the famous monk demanding to know what is going on. The guard bursts in just then, sees the boss with arm raised at the now hysterical celibate and rushes at the enemy, now clearly identified. The crack as the rungu lands on the skull of the spiritual leader of all Tibetan Buddhists sets off the counter girl, screaming and out running into the hot car park. The manager horrified at his charge’s enthusiasm lands one on Rambo’s jaw and sends him sprawling down an aisle where he in turn brings down an entire shelf of toiletries. Meanwhile we have a new guest. This last is a dreadlocked young man in a tight black T-shirt with ZION emblazoned on the front. He kneels by the unconscious lady and incredibly begins to wail loudly. Thinking perhaps that his lady has succumbed, he loudly laments the cruel fate that has robbed him of his meal ticket. Not to be outdone the manager is making squealing noises and wringing his hands.  It is now about a minute or so since the Troubles started. Have I just witnessed what might turn out to be the most infamous homicide in my favourite city? Not really. The cold Nairobi air rouses me from my slumber as visions of the drama disappear like snow-wreaths in thaw.

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