On Gender Stereotypes #1

On Monday of last week, I travelled from Nairobi to Mombasa via a Toyota Noah with five other people; four women and a man. We expected to be in Mombasa by 9:00pm latest, in order to beat the 10:00pm curfew. That was not to be, however, for we got in trouble with the traffic enforcers, thrice. In one instance, we waited for nearly one hour for our driver to secure his release. And mark you, we weren’t even on Mombasa road yet.

“Bad luck comes in threes,” my brother Nelson had told me the previous evening in our random, never-ending chats; as though he had foreseen that day’s drama. Nelson, for your information, is exceptionally brilliant and in a way that I find intimidating. He is also fascinated by science. I’ll stop there for now because this write-up is not about Nelson.

Our problems started as soon as we had left the stage. Our driver ostensibly took a wrong lane, on the Kenya National Archives exit. We were pulled out and in a few minutes, allowed to proceed. We hadn’t even covered a fifty metres distance along Moi Avenue towards Haille Selassie- I hope I’m getting my street names and directions right- when the driver knocked a learner from behind. It wasn’t major, but the driver, the learner I mean, demanded to be paid Ksh. 3,000 for the damages even after other motorists and passers-by pleaded with him to let us go. He looked barely twenty-five. After minutes of negotiation, he agreed to take Ksh. 1,000. But it was too late for us. Another traffic enforcer was upon us, because we had already caused a snarl-up. Our driver, my child, did not have a PSV badge yet he was ferrying us -passengers.  Now this is the case that ate up almost one hour of our precious time.

As I bargained whether or not to cancel the trip altogether, a friend’s call that morning started to haunt me. “Hey Chelaa, have you left? Why don’t you go by train?” I responded that Mombasa road traffic would mess me up and I was likely to miss the 3:00PM train. There was some truth, because it had taken me one and a half hours to reach town that morning on the same road. But it was also true that I wasn’t keen on going back by train. Because there’s something about the road. There is something.

We were given a go-ahead to proceed (not really given- our driver parted with some cash) .We proceeded quietly, someone making a vain declaration here another sighing there. I wondered what more drama lay ahead. They were already three, I thought. It was smooth until we were pulled out once more near Sultan. The cop actually wanted us to return to I don’t know where. Thankfully, that would be the last.

By the time we got to Emali, we knew that no miracle would get us to Mombasa before curfew, even though our driver whom we learnt at that particular time, to our chagrin, that he was using this road for only the second time, kept insisting that we would get to Mombasa by 9:00PM.

We arrived in Miritini at a quarter to midnight, which is where we started to encounter police stops. They were seamless, thankfully. We had agreed after all the trouble that befell us earlier that we were a family. And that we were from the upcountry. This narrative saw us through all the five roadblocks. Lesson: It is okay to lie to the police.

Let’s talk about the only man- well, apart from the driver-in the car. I shared the back seat with him the entire time. Besides being chatty, and up to date, there was to him an element of street smartness. A survival apparatus borne of experiences similar to what had befallen us earlier. He talked about this and many more things. He was headed to Likoni, I learnt. But as you well know, Likoni Ferry does not operate beyond 10:00PM. So the plan was to be dropped at Mwembe Tayari where someone would be waiting to pick him. But the later it got, the arrangement changed. He was instructed to then put up in the car and proceed with safari when curfew lifted. Thing is, this usually happens. People who are unable to cross over to Likoni usually stay put in the car till dawn. But this was a personal car, its owner lived in Kiembeni. I watched with sadness as the earlier confident and cheerful parts of this man peel back, exposing a human, afraid of the quiet and thickness of the dark and what it held. As we crossed Nyali Bridge to drop one of us in Kongowea area, I asked him in hushed tones what his plan was. As if there would be a plan. “I’ll put up in the car.” He said. Almost immediately, the driver asked him where he wanted to be dropped. He went quiet. The woman, seemingly in her sixties, whom we were dropping around Kongowea area, having sensed the guy’s desperation, offered to find him a place at her home. Oh the relief on his face!

When they were gone, I heard the driver say that he couldn’t even think of taking the guy with him, because, come on, he was a man! “Mimi siwezipeleka mwanamme sijui usiku.”

Make no mistake, I absolutely have no problem with anyone being wary of strangers. But even in wariness, I believe we should give people a benefit of doubt- informed by context/circumstances. It was not right for the driver to imagine that the guy would pose a danger by virtue of him being a man. And to further imagine that the rest of us were harmless, and that it was only us he would worry about, because we were women (as implied) wasn’t fair. Yes, statistics show that women are more vulnerable to sexual and physical abuse. But we know from statistics that victims of extra-judicial killings, especially in this curfew times, are overwhelmingly male. We know anecdotally that men are also vulnerable to sex abuse and that numbers aren’t a true reflection of what actually goes on, because, gender stereotypes! Besides, non-uniformed attackers hardly operate solitarily. So in the face of danger, we are all vulnerable. No amount of testosterone or physical strength can shield one from this. We all deserve protection regardless of our gender!