We left for Nairobi the next morning. Neither of us were happy to retrace our steps. And, the emergencies caused from bad driving didn’t improve our moods. After a half-day’s delay, our driver kindly bought us seats in an express bus from Garissa.
Roadblocks and checkpoints marked our progress. The Kenyan police were searching every southbound vehicle for Somali refugees. Most were undocumented and easily identified; but, an increasing number had begun to carry forged passports. The most popular of which was the United States variation.
One officer, after glancing over my passport, asked if I was an American. Exhausted shortened my response to the barest grunt. If I wanted to look like an illegal, I had inadvertently just smashingly succeeded.
“You don’t speak English?” He waves to a nearby solider.
“… No, sir, I speak English just fine.”
Chris took this opportunity to saunter up. I’d never been happier for the arrival of his scruffy white face.
Hours later, the potted streets and lively nightlife of Nairobbery welcomed us home.
(Photo courtesy Hunting Holly on Flickr)
