Free It Happened on the Way to War by Rye Barcott

center. It was his first full-time job in the formal sector, though he had much larger ambitions. Dan wanted to be a surgeon. He viewed Kibera as a rung in his ladder of socioeconomic advancement.
    â€œA surgeon? Have you ever met a surgeon from Kibera?” I asked.
    â€œNot really, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen.” His attitude was amazing. Later in our conversation he surprised me again by offering his house as a place to stay. I thanked Dan for his generous offer and told him that I’d appreciate crashing at his place as soon as I secured a research permit with Oluoch.
    â€œWhat, do you think they’ll arrest you?” Dan laughed.
    â€œI don’t know, perhaps.”
    â€œNo, the police, never. They never come down here. Closest they’ll come is the railways. They’re afraid, you know.”
    â€œAfraid of what?”
    â€œAfraid they’ll get lost, and maybe even beat. You know, the community, we deal with it ourselves. Mob justice. A thief steals from you here, the community will respond. And if they catch that thief, it’ll be the end of him. Beat him and burn him.”
    I cringed.
    â€œHere we have a saying,” Dan continued. “You would rather cross a thief than a policeman on the tracks. Why? Because the thief will just take your stuff. The police, they’ll take your stuff and throw you into jail.”
    â€œDan, should I be concerned about thieves? I mean, would I be endangering you if I stayed at your place?”
    â€œNo, no Omosh. Me, I’m okay, and this is a good compound where we look after each other. We have a lot of good people here. But maybe don’t tell a lot of people where you’re staying. And keep doing that gota thing. The thugs, they like that.”
    I laughed, thinking about how the universal fist bump might become my best defense. My ROTC commander Major Boothby would have enjoyed my exchange with Dan and referred to the information he provided as an example of “local intelligence.”
    â€œBig gota , Dan,” I extended my fist.
    OLUOCH AND I struck a deal that night back at Fort Jesus. I could keep my gear at his house and have access to a bed and a meal whenever I needed it without giving advance notice. In return, I would pay him a thousand shillings a day, about $13, and I would hire his nephew as a research assistant for another thousand shillings per day. Despite having graduated with honors in political science from Kenya’s top university, the University of Nairobi, Oluoch’s nephew was still searching for work.
    The following day, Oluoch took me downtown to meet his contact at the Ministry of Education. Oluoch wasn’t much of a conversationalist. He stared out the window until I asked him about the official we were going to meet to fast-track my research permit.
    â€œHe’s a Kamba. They like sex.”
    â€œWho?” I asked, taken aback.
    â€œThe Kamba, they like sex. They are loose, not serious people.”
    â€œSo is the official like this?”
    â€œOf course, he’s Kamba, like I said. The Kikuyu on the other hand, all they care about is money. They are businessmen or thieves, or both. Never trust a Kikuyu.”
    Oluoch continued, unfazed by the strangers surrounding us: Luhya were submissive and best suited for simple jobs such as watchmen and cooks. Nubians were lazy because most Nubians survived simply by renting out a few plots in Kibera. Kalenjin, the ethnic group of President Moi, were fast runners but slow-minded.
    â€œAnd the Luo?” I preempted him. “What are my relatives known for?”
    Pleased by my question, Oluoch responded, “We are stubborn and smart. We are smart because we eat so much fish.”
    That was it, the ethnic taxonomy, cut-and-dried. It was absurd. Had a teenager mentioned the same stereotypes to me, I might have lectured the kid about bigotry. Yet Oluoch aired them as if they were science.
    By the time we