Darkness in Dakar and a belated homecoming as rains wash runways

I’d like to start where I left off about my travels and travails in west Africa, not because I relish in those difficulties, but because it helps illuminate the state of our nation.

My departure from Dakar was at the ungodly hour of 4am. Reason? International flights require a four-hour reporting. Yes, the same chaps who kept us grounded for eight hours…

But I wasn’t going to risk anything. A minute or two after 4am, I was in the hotel lobby, where the hotel attendant required I pay for “extras.”

Well, the truth is, someone owed me a few bottles of water—I was constantly receiving one, while my buddies received two every morning—but a close scrutiny of the tab revealed it was someone else’s room, not mine. 

I stepped out before I could blurt out bure kabisa only to find the driver of the van that would deliver us to the airport driving off. I established he had gone to pick more passengers from another hotel, but he had left without a word. 

This was the same chap who had derailed our pickup days earlier, because he drove such a small van than his passengers could fit, so it was good to see our matatu culture, which means there is always room for one more, had been exported abroad. My friend hailed a cab outside and we got in. 

Like a thief in the night, we had driven into Dakar in the dark, and here I was departing in the dark. But things were worse now: we drove through the back roads because the main highway had been closed, for reasons no one could provide. 

Not that I cared anyway, I was half-asleep, and the ribs took the full impact of the potholed roads. I wasn’t sure we’d make it to the airport on time.

In any case, there was no telling if we’d be grounded for another eight hours.  In the event, our fears were misplaced. Our driver proved quite efficient, I suspect he’d make a good driver ferrying miraa in Kenya. It could be that he was high on muguka.

Truth be told, I had such low expectations of ASky, the pan-African airline, that I elbowed my colleague when they announced the flight was ready to board. And it was actually on time! 

We were in a buoyant spirit as we took our connecting flight in Lome, in what was a surprisingly seamless transfer. Soon, we were landing at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. 

But, not yet, the pilot announced. He was waiting to be directed to the proper hangar before turning off the plane. From the nuksi of a plane without a pilot in Togo, here was a pilot who couldn’t turn off his jet. This meant we couldn’t disembark. My friends and I exchanged glances. 

Peeping outside, I could tell it had been raining, so I suspected the runway had been washed away by the heavy rains. There is always the risk of such a catastrophe. It wouldn’t be what insurance folks call an “act of God,” but a clever charade to justify the airport’s takeover by Indian crooks. 

Ultimately, the plane was parked and everyone scattered. It’s always interesting to see elderly men and women scampering as if any extra delay would cause them pain.

The port health folks stretched out their hands: they needed to see our yellow fever vaccination certificates. This was strange, especially since regular Kenyans are never asked for yellow fever certificates.

But the upumbavu of the highest order was at the JKIA exit. Six flights had landed, pouring out several hundred passengers within minutes of each other. There was only one scanner available. The baggage and exit area resembled a Riggy G rally, the sort that police use teargas to disperse. 

I hope this wasn’t a smokescreen for something more nefarious. Nothing, after all, is an accident in this proud land run by crooks.