Otherness: A personal experience.

In 2017, I was presented with the remarkable opportunity to attend an educational conference in London. It promised a delightful blend of learning, networking, and, I hoped, some cherished moments – a journey that had me brimming with anticipation.

This event held immense significance, not just from a professional perspective but on a deeply personal level as well. It marked one of my initial forays into the world of travel following a harrowing car accident, symbolizing a pivotal step toward recovery and a renewed confidence in my capacity to venture far from the comforts of home.

As I set out for London, I was still in the throes of recovery, navigating the world on crutches. This, the second accident in my life, appeared almost trivial compared to the gravity of the first. Yet, my unyielding tenacity had taken many by surprise. Perhaps the most agonizing aspect of this accident lay in the where and when.

My father, who had been ailing for some time, had finally surrendered to the embrace of the Almighty, as we say in the language of faith. Funeral arrangements had been swiftly set in motion, and within a matter of days, we were preparing to lay him to rest.

My journey involved a flight from Mombasa to Kisumu, followed by a taxi ride to Kisii. A dear friend had facilitated the taxi booking, allowing me precious moments to shop for the necessary provisions for my father’s final farewell.

The taxi driver, a warm and garrulous soul, transformed the Kisumu-Kisii journey into a shared experience filled with stories and camaraderie. He navigated the route right up to the nearest accessible point, a shallow stream to cross, followed by a gentle ascent up the hill to my ancestral home.

Before reaching Eremo, I paused at Kegati Secondary School to reunite with a childhood, or rather teenage, friend who had now ascended to the role of principal. After exchanging pleasantries, we agreed that they would join me on this somber journey. I returned to the taxi, called my brother and informed him of my imminent arrival.

The taxi driver dropped me off at the nearest point reachable by vehicle, near enough to my rural home. Siblings and extended family members had gathered to lend a hand with the goods I had brought, essential for sustaining us through the emotionally taxing ritual of bidding my father a final farewell.

As they took turns carrying the essentials, I engaged in conversation with my friend and his colleagues. It’s a peculiar thing about memory; I can’t quite recollect how or when it happened. What remains vivid is the searing pain and the powerful force that propelled me into the stationary vehicle behind me.

The events that unfolded from that moment deserve a narrative all on their own.

Fast forward to the year 2017, from the very outset of my journey to the experiences encountered during the conference, everything unfolded exceptionally well. My heartfelt appreciation extends to the dedicated organizers whose meticulous planning brought this remarkable event to life. However, amidst the learning, excitement, and networking, there lingers an incident that still lingers with me today, six years later.
You might be curious about this unfortunate incident. Following the main presentations on one of the conference days, attendees were granted a precious opportunity – one-on-one interactions with the presenters, an invaluable chance to seek clarifications and guidance. Appointments were mandatory, each allotted a brief span of 10 to 15 minutes.

Filled with enthusiasm to gain insights into conference themes and how they might seamlessly integrate into the educational context of my school, I secured my slot. The gracious lady at the registration desk directed me to the waiting area, where my mind buzzed with inquiries and ideas. How could I best convey this newfound knowledge to my colleagues and superiors, I thought.

Then the moment arrived. I rose from my seat and wobbled towards the presenter’s station. However, as she realized that I was her next appointment, she abruptly vacated her seat, clutching her laptop, and departed. This left me bewildered. Even the receptionist – appeared taken aback. She expressed her apologies and asked for my patience as she sought an explanation.

In that moment, confusion clouded my thoughts, and I couldn’t fathom the situation. I considered the possibility of a misunderstanding or even an overreaction on my part. However, something in the pit of my stomach told me otherwise. I was different and undeserving of her time and space simply because of a circumstance over which I had no control – the color of my skin!

Lost in this reverie, I failed to notice the receptionist’s return until she called out my name. She offered a vague explanation and assured me that my turn would come next. Ten minutes elapsed, and the presenter reemerged, confidently returning to her station.

By this time, a few other conference attendees had gathered alongside me, waiting their turn. The presenter signalled to the receptionist to join her at her desk, and a brief exchange unfolded. Then, the receptionist summoned another attendee from the waiting area. I contemplated voicing my grievance, but the receptionist’s apologetic shrug indicated limited recourse.

Fuelled by the determination to present an honest account of the conference proceedings, I clung to my composure. I reminded myself not to jump to conclusions or make excuses. Three more individuals received their appointments before the presenter, now gathering her belongings, exited the room. I watched her depart, completely disregarding my presence – a presence that could not be overlooked, considering my crutches. Something gripped my heart. It was an ache! An ache I have yet to describe to this day!

And so it dawned on me, perhaps faster than I wanted to admit, that I had been a victim of racial discrimination at an educators’ conference. This, in a gathering of individuals entrusted with nurturing global citizens and instilling in children the value of seeing the world through diverse lenses. I had sought to rationalize the situation, considering the possibility of miscommunication or the overwhelming load borne by the presenter. I knew, the rationalizations , were lies.

When I looked up, I noticed the receptionist looking at me with pity, but I chose to move on before a tear could betray me. I could not afford that. So, I walked away, not entirely sure of my destination, but seeking a few moments of solitude to collect my thoughts. It worked!
Driven by an unwavering resolve to address the matter, I approached one of the conference officials and candidly recounted my experience. His genuine concern and apparent shock mirrored my own emotions. He inquired if I felt comfortable confronting the situation, and my answer was an unequivocal yes. Encouraged by his support, I accompanied him to the receptionist’s desk, where he sought an explanation.

I had anticipated that a resolution might be reached through an open dialogue involving all parties, but the reality played out differently. The official’s words, etched in my memory, were clear: “Listen, Jackie, I think the best way to handle this is to file a formal written complaint…” At that moment, my thoughts seemed to come to a standstill. I wondered about the efficacy of filing a complaint from Kenya, and whether it held any promise of resolving a situation that remained unresolved even in my physical presence.

It was then that I made a resolute decision. I turned to the official, looked him in the eye, and emphatically stated, “I have no intention of reducing this incident to mere words on paper.” And with that, I walked away.

I cannot assert with absolute certainty whether my decision to walk away was the correct one. What I do know is that, irrespective of the justifications I attempted to construct, this was a clear case of racial discrimination. What saddened me even more was that the perpetrators were individuals within an industry tasked with ushering in a transformation in our treatment of one another, regardless of race, gender, or socioeconomic status.

In spite of this distressing experience, I remained steadfast in my determination not to let it cast a shadow over the joy derived from the remainder of my stay in London. I focused on the exceptional individuals I encountered, exerting my utmost efforts to relegate the memory of the presenter’s unfortunate treatment to the recesses of my mind. In the 21st century, the existence of such contradictions remains a remarkable testament to the complexity of human behaviour.