Running into an exam that was not to be

Running into an exam that was not to be

“Be with WB and others as they prepare for the exam…,” the trainer started the morning with a prayer.

I did not believe that I was hearing right but this was happening realtime.  But how did we get here on this Friday, November 19?

I had already attended a fire marshals training, which is close to my heart.  The trainers of the two-day event had threatened a fiery exam, which they failed to deliver.  I had already taken two such fire exams in previous years and I was not worried any bit whether the exam was to be there or not.  Anyway, it is those trainers who recommended that a good fire person should also know some first aid.

That is why I found myself, one week later, sitting in a three-day first aid class.  I am one of those people who have had a hard time with the biological sciences.  I was forced to take a course in biology as a compulsory subject in high school.  I am even lucky to have attained a grade B in Bio in the finals.  This was after real struggle and many hours of dedicated reading.  I was glad to finally do my ‘adios’ to bio after high school as I pursued the physical sciences.

I was therefore not looking forward to this first aid course.  I do not like issues to do with health distress.  I am one of those people who hate going to hospitals, for self or to visit.  The misery that I see there just gets me back to being well, even if I was the one unwell.  However, I was in the class, and I just had to see how it goes.

I had already gathered information from a previous year’s class attending by other work colleagues, that there is usually a ‘hard’ exam after the course.  I do not like exams at this stage in life.  I detest ‘hard’ exams.  I nonetheless went through the motions of attending the training.

The training turned out to be more enjoyable that I thought.  The material was presented in small doses.  It did not take more than half a day before I was adorned in hand gloves, having a feel of the latex for the first time in like forever.

“You must have your gloves on before performing any first aid,” the trainer reminded us as she demonstrated how to put them on, and then watched over us as we replicated her instructions.

We were already performing cardiopulmonary resuscitation (CPR) by day two.  I had just heard about this on the news.  I was now an active participant, albert performing this life saving process on a dummy.  This is a chest compression procedure done when a casualty does not show any signs of a heartbeat.  It seemed easy when seen on TV.  

It was more difficult that I had imagined.  At two chest presses per second, powerful presses if I may add, you get tired hardly 30-seconds into the procedure.  But that is not all – once you start the procedure, there is no stopping until the casualty’s heart becomes responsive or until medical help arrives.

Many abbreviations later, including DR ABC, and we were on day three.  The word ‘exam’ had just been mentioned in passing at the end of day two, with no much emphasis.  If anything, they told us not to write too much notes since they would give us the handouts of the training, after the training.

However, when day three started with that prayer then I was brought back to reality that this exam thing could as well just happen.  The day started like any other and we were soon doing both theory and practical sessions.  We were dealing with fractures in no time and stopping bleeding like pros.  We were kept busy with no sign of any exam.  

By lunch hour the exam thing had been forgotten.  It was even now too late to do it.  We even came back from lunch and started preparing for the end of day and the future outlook on how we shall be deployed at our various stations.  We even took our evening tea!  This is usually the last thing you do before you break!

It is just as we were preparing to call it bluff, a few minutes past 3.30pm when….

“Now we shall be giving out the exam papers and you have 20-minutes to answer all questions!”

At four we got our certificates and the one-year first aider license.  The morning prayer must have worked.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, November 25,2021

Of being a doctor and the mathematics that did not add up – the Lakeside story

Of being a doctor and the mathematics that did not add up – the Lakeside story

I was ready for anything on this Wednesday as I prepared to travel to Kisumu.  My travel time had already been changed, I had already sent MPESA to a wrong number and my accommodation bookings had already been cancelled… twice.  The flight on a Bombardier dash 8 Q400 branded Jambojet left Nairobi’s JKIA at 1857hrs, instead of 1745hrs.  It took exactly 40-minutes to touchdown at Kisumu International.  It was already dark.  

The COVID19 port health declaration forms that we had been compelled to fill-in on the MOH portal while still at Nairobi, and had even got a QR code to show at the port of arrival, had come to naught.  No one asked for this QR code nor was there the usual COVID19 hype that had accompanied such a previous arrival.  No temperature checks, no hand sanitization, no MOH declarations and even no masks on most people.  Corona was no longer an issue.  The very corona that had now infected 253,082,160 people and led to the death of 5,114,568 on planet earth, with our Kenyan numbers being 254,297 and 5,316 respectively.

I got out of the terminal building and checked the Bolt taxi hailing app on my phone to confirm the cost of travel to Mamboleo area where I was going.  The fare was 420 on regular and 480 on comfort variants of the cabs.  I had a waiting time of 10 and 2 minutes respectively.  I however thought of getting a better deal from the already parked taxis at the outside parking lot that were already beckoning the travelers to take them up.  

One person approached me and offered to take me, “Chukua taxi twende.”

“Kama ni kama bei ya Bolt, basi ni sawa,” I told him.

“Kwani Bolt ni ngapi yawa?”

“Four-eighty.”

“Ai! Iyo awesi yawa!  Si wewe nalipa tu twelf-handred naenda na wewe msuri mpaka Mamboleo,” he responded.

“Bolt ni four-eighty na unataka nilipe twelve-hundred?”

I saw him beckon another person next behind him, “Bi ilos gi ja Narobi ni.  Tinge gi eight-hundred udhi”

The new person took over the negotiations, “Wachana ni hiyo twelf-handred.  Wewe lete tu one-thao tuende Mamboleo.”

“Four-eighty, au niende na Bolt!”

“Yawa jo Narobi gi!,” he turned back to talk to his colleague momentarily, then back to me, “Sawa, toa mia saba, tumalize hi mambo, si we najua hata gate ya airport sisi nalipa so moja!”

“Sawa, six-hundred, na utasimama kwa supermarket ninunue kitu.”

“Eh, yawa, po! Twende!,” he led me to a white taxi cab.

It was almost eight as we left the airport.  The driver just waved at the gateman as we exited and was not charged a dime.  We would then get onto Kakamega road where he pointed to a supermarket and stopped the car at the roadside.  He allowed me to alight, cross the road and get to that former Kondele Ukwala/Choppies supermarket to pick some items.  I had taken the risk of trusting the car and driver with my valuable left luggage as I went to the supermarket.  I relied on the expected honesty of the lakeside people and Gor Mahia their ancestor.  It worked, since I found the vehicle waiting for me with all my luggage intact, some ten minutes later.  This is not a gamble I would have taken in the city.  

We left Kondele and kept going on the Kakamega road.  It was not long before we hit a dead end after the railway crossing.  The road under construction had been blocked on the side that we had attempted to use.  I was about four-hundred metres from where I should have alighted.  I agreed to take a walk while the taxi driver navigated his way back.  I did not ask, nor get partial refund for this incomplete journey.  If anything, I took the drivers telephone number for a pickup on Sunday when I travel back to the city.

I got to the residence at about eight-thirty.  The gate was locked, and the gateman was nowhere to be seen.  His phone went unanswered.  I had to call the house owner to report that I was unable to get in.  It took about another ten minutes of waiting before Wasike came by.  I thanked him once again for having agreed to send me back the MPESA that I had erroneously sent to him the previous day.  He was soon struggling himself to open his own gate.

“Sasa nani alifunga gate and kuenda na kifunguo?,” he asked me.

I had no answer.

He soon ran out in his gumboots to the darkness of the retreating road and disappeared in the background.  I did not know where he had gone or what he was planning to do, nor did he tell me anything before he left.  I remained stuck outside the imposing gate, with the apartment block visible just a few metres inside the compound.  I would wait another fifteen minutes before I heard the gumboots running on the ground emerging from the darkness to join me at the well-lit gate.

“Tungoje tu, mtu atakuja fungulia sisi,” he updated me.

Finally, he shouted at someone on one of the upper houses on one of the apartment blocks to come down and open.  I finally got into the house tired and ready to take a shower and sleep.  I had bought some bread and milk already.  I had forgotten to get some sugar or beverage.  The tea intended for dinner was now seeming quite unlikely, until I found some tea bags and sugar left at the kitchen.  That is not all that I found in the kitchen.  Those scary giant roaches had multiplied since the last time I was here in June.  I counted over five big ones running on the floor in different directions when the kitchen light illuminated the room.  I thought nothing of them and continued with my life.

It was the very next day, Thursday, November 11 when we started the two-day capacity building workshop on processing data of the African languages of Swahili, Luhya and Dholuo.  A continuation of what had brought me here in June.  We were holding the meeting at the same Kisumu hotel.  The sessions went well and uninterrupted.  Last June was different, since our seminar came to a forced halt a day later when the Kenyan government had imposed an immediately cessation of movement in Western Kenyan and halted all gatherings with immediate.  That was then.  We were not even back to a 24-hour economy.  

We continued with our workshop, some plenary, some group works.  The group works would eventually lead to group discussions.

“Daktari, as I was saying, our Swahili data needs to be broken down into text spans for the machine to process,” George address me, in the group of four.

We were discussing how to process Swahili text to a format that would make it ready for machine learning tasks.

“Thank you, George, but I had told you before that I am not yet Daktari.  I am still working towards that.  Just call me WB,” I corrected him.  

I was just being academically correct.  I did not want that envious lot to see me pretending to have joined their club when I was not yet in it.

“Sawa WB, sorry for that,” he resumed, “So as I was telling you, Daktari, this formatting is what we need for machine learning!”

I accepted the situation and lived with it.

We would eventually take an evening break just after the evening tea.  Their serving of boiled bananas was quite something.  I had to get a second helping of this.

“Nikubalie niendelee,” I added some more to my plate, as I updated the catering staff, who was now clearing the used-up utensils and clearing the tables.

“Sawa,” he said jovially, “juzi kuna mtu alisema ati mtu inatakiwa akule mpaka achoke!”

“Mpaka ashibe au mpaka achoke?,” I reconfirmed.

“Mpaka achoke!”

My stay at the apartment would be uneventful, with roaches, mosquitoes, small black dot-sized insects running all over the kitchen and the unsightly paintworks that was peeling off especially in the washroom and kitchen.  I would however still stay here in future if the booking frustrations I went through is anything to go by.  The internet speed and the quiet ambiance compensates for any shortcomings of this one-bedroom apartment.  

Anyway, it was soon a Sunday, and I was already set to travel back to the city.  My newfound taxi man of last time had already dropped me at the Kisumu airport.  The check in process was quite fast, since I was seated at the departure lounge hardly ten minutes since getting to the port.  The airline kept the departure time, though the cost of travelling on a Sunday was almost double that of my inbound travel last time.  And we blame matatus for hiking fares when it rains!?

WWB, the Coach, Kisumu, Kenya, Nov. 14, 2021

When trouble follows you through and through – my Lake Victoria run experience

When trouble follows you through and through – my Lake Victoria run experience

“Hi, Is that Alvin?,” I talked out loud when the phone that had rang for almost a minute was finally picked.  I even though that I would not get an answer and was just about to tap on the cancel button on the cell.  It was just about seven in the evening on this Tuesday, November 9.

I was just from a 25k evening run, the first long run since the Stanchart virtual.  The heat and the hilly route has now won the duel, and I was once again just glad that I had managed to average a 5min 19sec.  I was still good with this.  It could have been worse.  The hilly terrain from Uthiru to Lower Kabete road via Kapenguria road, and eventually through the Uni farm past Mary Leakey is no easy feat.  I had almost collapsed with exhaustion after that 2hr 13min run.  It however just took a one-litre gulp of water laced with some 300ml of Fanta soda to get me back to normal.  It was now just about seven in the evening.

“Yes,… eh… whom did you want to talk to?,” a hesitant voice responded onto my ear.

“Is that Alvin?,” I had to reconfirm.  This is not what I expected.

“Ye…es…. But whom did you want to talk to?”

“Hi, I booked with you online two-days ago, and wanted to know how to get the keys tomorrow”

“What booking was that, are you sure it is me in Kisumu?”

“Yes, that is how I even got your number, from eh-ah-bee-en-bee,” I pronounced.

“But are you sure?”

Now, something strange was cooking over here.  I was already getting panic stricken.  Could there have been a mistake on the online booking system?  My worry was that my money had already been taken from credit card in advance.

“Yes, sure, I even paid already.  I booked your place.  The one you confirmed.  That is how I got your number.  Tomorrow is the day,” I said in quick succession.  Not know what was now relevant information or not.

“I am not sure, but I did not confirm any bookings.  I have nothing available.”

So, we went on to discuss how this issue came about.  His guess was that the system had auto-booked me within his information or consent.  He could have helped had he had places available, but it was not possible.  Now we had to discuss the inevitable topic of the refund process.  I was back to the situation that you would usually face with Uber taxi cancellation.  The ‘you cancel, no, you cancel’ exchange.  I asked him to cancel, and he said that he did not even know that he had a booking, so he advised that I cancel on my end.

I logged onto the booking site and tried cancelling.  I got a message that I would be charged for one-night for cancelling 24-hours to the accommodation date.  There was however another option of ‘let the host cancel’ in case it was them that had initiated the cancellation.  So, I once again called Alvin and informed him of what the online system was advising.  He agreed to try on his end and soon he was the one calling me to report that it was still not possible to cancel from his end.  He even sent me a WhatsApp screenshot of his system where the ‘cancel’ button was surely disabled.  

We were not stuck between cancelling from my end and losing 1 night charge of about $20, or him cancelling when he could not cancel anyway.  Meanwhile, my money was stuck somewhere ‘on the cloud’, but not with me.  This situation needed intervention.  I initiated a complain to the booking site and stated the issues that were facing the two of us.  There was an option of sending the complain by messaging and getting a response in 24-hours, or calling them and getting attention in 2-minutes.  I was not calling the US, so I sent a message and was ready to live with my 24-hours waiting period, as I waited for the refund.  Meanwhile, I still had to search for and get another place to book, with or without the refund.

But this was not the first time that I was facing a refund issue in less than 3-days.  Just three days ago, I had booked on the same site and got a confirmation, only for the host to send me a message the next day that the accommodation was not available.  I was about to ask him why he lists a property that is not available, which I actually did by messaging anyway, but for this occasion, I had been able to cancel successfully from my end.  He had once again taken me through ‘you cancel, no, you-cancel’ exchange.  I cancelled from my end and got the money almost immediately.  Maybe I was not yet on the 1-day to accommodation window.

I was just about to go to the online booking site once more to now try my luck at securing accommodation hardly 24-hours to my travel, when my cell rang.  There was a long number on the phone display, starting with a +1.  I knew that it was a USA number and I guessed that it must be the booking company calling.  And for sure it was, starting with the issue of the phone shall be recorded, a hearted apology, a promise of immediate refund, but not later than 24-hours and even a ‘small’ coupon to my account to console me.  They said that they had also called the host and agreed on the full refund to my account.  This was just too good to be true, but maybe my day was getting better.  I sighed and went back to the booking site ready to be frantic on what could be available at this last minute.

I however remembered the last place I had booked for my last stay in Kisumu hardly four months ago and recalled that I had even seen it still listed online.  I have ignored it this time around since it was a bit pricy than the two options now cancelled.  In desperation, I was now ready to pay more – pay any price.  I decided to call the host first just to confirm that it would be OK to book their place online, and if they would be kind enough to accept the booking upon presentation on their end.  The phone rang and timed out before being answered.

“I am roast!,” I kicked the underside of the desk where I was seated and shouted.  It was now dark.  I was still sweaty from the evening run.  I was yet to bath.  I was yet to get accommodation, less than 24-hours to my travel.

I momentarily saw the WhatsApp installation on my computer pop up.  I immediately recognized the icon on the message.  It was the host that I had only known as Diana sending a message.  Her marketing name was ‘Simply Diana apartments’.  Last time I had paid through the booking site, and hence did not have any other name of the host apart from the marketing name provided.  We exchanged a few messages, generally telling her that I was about to book her place if it was available at this last minute, and that she should accept the online application when she sees it.

“I can book you immediately, just send 1800 per night”

“But I was about to get online to book?,” I was about to say, but thought the better of it.

“Do I send to your usual number?”

“Yes”

Before I could even start the MPESA payment process, I saw other messages in quick succession.

“James Wasike of 07… shall receive you and show you the house”

I did not even think twice.  I was soon sending the big money to James, and I responded to the chat as such, “I have sent to James as instructed”

“No!,” she shouted on WhatsApp.  I did not know that you can send shouts in that messaging app.  Now I knew!

“That is the caretaker!!  You should have sent to me!!!  Ask him to send back!!!!,” another shout.

“For crying out loud!,” I typed in shout letters and was just about to send the text over, when I thought the better of it and deleted the message.  I instead retyped, “Let me try, but I can count the money lost, but let me try.”

Wasike answered the call almost on the first ring.  I explained to him that I intend to stay at Diana’s block, only that I had send the money to him instead of to her.  I think that the spirit of the good evening was with Wasike on this Tuesday, since he seemed to understand the situation faster that I thought he would.  I had imagined a protracted argument at best, and a switched-off phone at worst.  Instead, we were just talking about who would meet the MPESA sending charges.  I told him to deduct the charges from the amount he had received and send over whatever remained.

I did not wait long, since the spirit of the great Lake Victoria was surely still alive on Wasike as I got the full amount back.  He had not even deducted the charges that we had hassled over earlier.  I called him back to thank him for his quick action, before I sent back to him triple the sending charges that he had paid.  I soon resent the booking money to the right number and this also gave me the opportunity to get to know the name behind Simply Diana.  Thank you MPESA for being such a full disclosure payment system.

Now that I was not going to the booking site after all, I decided to catch up on emails, having been out of office for the whole day attending a fire marshals training.  I usually keep my inbox fairly well managed.  It therefore did not take me long to spot a mail that needed attention in the collection of the twenty or so unread messages.  This one was from Jambojet with the subject ‘Action needed or you risk cancellation’.  This sounded alarming enough to get me straight to it.  It was direct to the point.

“Your flight has been rescheduled from 5.45pm to 6.45pm. Click Accept or Cancel booking.  Respond immediately or you risk not traveling in case we do not hear from you soon.”

I was now facing a late arrival at the lakeside city, but there was no other option at the last minute, so I did accept the changed time and left that issue closed.

I walked home exhausted, planning to get to the house, watch the nine o’clock news, listen to loud rumba for an hour as I put together a travelling bag, think do dinner at some point before going to bed by ten-thirty.  This would enable me to sleep early enough and be well rested in readiness the upcoming travel, with the anticipated two days of full-day seminars that are known to drain the energy from the strongest of the strong.  I got to the house and switched on the main power just behind the door.  I have formed this habit of switching off the main power as I leave for duty in the morning.  It has the potential to conserves power from any leakages within the house and is also a safety consideration, but that is just me.

I was therefore in surprise when I switched on the living room light and no light came up.  The room remained dark.  That could only mean that there was no power for whatever reason.  I had paid my postpaid bill already and had just confirmed earlier on the day that I had a zero balance.  Disconnection was therefore out of the question unless…. 

“Oh, hech!”

I immediately knew that the place where I was staying was having one of those phase failure situations, where some houses have power while others have none.  It does rotate over collection of houses, though I tend to believe that my residence suffers more failures on the rotation than my neighbours.  And the way the failure works is so interesting.  The neighbours on both side of my residence would have power while I do not.  On those other rare occasions, I would have power while they do not.

With all plans now through into the darkness of no power, I found myself still writing the blog story on the laptop that was now about to run out of power being just past midnight.  Have I even taken dinner?  Have I even packed?  Can I even see in the dark?

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Nov. 10, 2021