Free It Happened on the Way to War by Rye Barcott Page A

reached Jogoo House “B” in the city center, it was midafternoon. It was a tired, grim high-rise. None of the lights worked and half the elevators were busted. Men wore dark suits. Women avoided eye contact, and no one smiled. I was wearing my classiest outfit for the occasion: a seersucker blazer, khaki pants, and my Timberland boots.
    A faded bronze nameplate on the office door read PERMANENT SECRETARY. I assumed the permanent secretary was a mid-level bureaucrat, a paper pusher. After a half-hour, his assistant escorted us into his office. A handsome maroon carpet covered the floor. Photographs of men with serious looks lined the walls.
    The permanent secretary rose from behind his large desk and greeted us in English.
    â€œ Vipi mzee? ” I said, figuring I would lighten it up a bit. “What’s up, old man?”
    He furrowed his eyebrows.
    â€œBig gota .” I offered my clenched fist over his desk.
    Oluoch shrugged his shoulders. I kept my fist extended and then shook it slightly to signal that he was leaving me hanging.
    â€œYes, yes, very good.” The permanent secretary, who I would later learn was the second highest-ranking official in the Ministry of Education, laughed and touched my fist with his flat hand, as if he were tapping the head of a small child. He lifted a folder with the three-page application Oluoch and I had prepared. “So, Kibera. Tell me, young man, what is it you want to do down there?”
    In broken Swahili I told the permanent secretary that I wanted to live in Kibera and talk to young people about their lives. Before I could mention the part about studying ethnic violence, he interrupted, “So, you’re into reggae? Discos?”
    â€œUm, sure.”
    â€œAnd you like African women?”
    I didn’t see that coming. “No, no, bwana, it’s research,” I backpedaled. “You have amazing women here. I mean, I love them. I love them all. But I have a girlfriend.” It was a bit of a fib. I hadn’t had a steady girlfriend for months. The last one I had had dumped me for working too much.
    â€œHmph.” The permanent secretary didn’t believe me. Understandably, he saw me as a young, clueless college student in Kenya to have a good time, and that was fine by him as long as I paid my $400 research-permit fee.
    â€œThere you go gota man.” He laughed and passed me the permit. “You’re welcome to Kenya.”
    Oluoch wasn’t too pleased by my actions, and he had a right to be upset. My big gota to the permanent secretary was a stupid, juvenile move. Oluoch looked as if he was about to explode as we boarded a bus back to Fort Jesus. His attitude prompted me to fiddle with my cell phone. Texting was not yet popular in the States. I decided to try out my first text with a note to Dan. My message started off with a simple “What’s up?” until it dawned on me that I had no interest in spending the night at Oluoch’s. I changed the note and shot Dan a request: “Can I crash at your place tonight?”
    â€œNo prob. Unajua the way?”
    I wasn’t sure if I remembered the route to Dan’s place, but I didn’t want to inconvenience him. It seemed like a good challenge of my Marine navigating skills.
    â€œHakuna matata,” I thumbed out the line made famous by The Lion King . “No problem.”
    IT WAS DUSK and thousands of residents were returning to Kibera for the night, the daily tide rushing back to sea. Within minutes of having crossed the tracks, I was thoroughly lost, and the mud alley ahead of me looked like a firing line. Gangs of young men hung out on each side of it surveying the foot traffic, looking bored and mean. There were too many men to give fist bumps, and it was getting dark. Jane had warned me to be careful at night, when the thugs came out to prey on the drunks and washamba . Mshamba translated to “farmer,” but it meant anyone new to