Confrontation With American Ambassador's Security Escort In Kenya

Global Exclusive

by Macharia Gaitho

(May 03, Nairobi, Sri Lanka Guardian) Had a run-in earlier today with the American Ambassador’s security goons.

Here I was, making small talk with my daughter amidst the inspiring sounds of Peter Tosh's Mystic Man in the serenity of a mid-morning Uhuru Highway traffic jam.

All of a sudden the peace and tranquility of my first day off duty for quite a while was broken by some wailing banshee.

I looked through the rear view mirror. It wasn’t the obscene motorcade of the president.

It wasn’t the prime minister or the vice president.

It wasn’t some visiting head of state or other official guest who rates such privileges.

It wasn't an ambulance, the fire brigade or a police 999 car speeding of to some emergency.

It was some black limousine brandishing the American flag trying to force its way through the gridlock, siren blaring and the full range of disco lights on display through the aggressive Chrysler grill.

The registration number was unmistakably that of the US ambassador’s official vehicle.

For me that was a first in Kenya, an ordinary envoy demanding bullying rights through the traffic.

Hell, No, I said, and so did everyone else. All motorists studiously ignored the wailing sirens and refused to give way. Behind me the limousine and the 4x4 security ‘chase car’, no doubt with a full complement of Uncle Sam’s finest, we're deciding the siren and disco lights were not enough, so they started hooting and flashing the full headlamps, spotlights and everything else they could.

The found that that try as they could, Uhuru Highway traffic would not part like the Red Sea for Moses.

The more the diplomat in a hurry turned up the screaming sirens and flashing lights, the more I got irritated.

Peter Tosh giving me Downpressor Man in his own imitable style, was all the inspiration I needed, so I rolled down my window to give Uncle Sam and the entire US Marine Corp and the Kenyan security complement,

a piece of my mind.

In mind was a gesture known to every motorist in Kenya. When somebody held up in traffic behind you indicates unhealthy impatience, you stick your hand out of the window and make a motion suggesting the can

fly over you if they so wish.

But I thought the America potentate on the rear left power seat of the ambassadorial limousine might not understand that gesture. He might even mistake it for a 'Hail to the Chief' kind of greeting .... God forbid!

So I settled for option two, a gesture I’ve never used involving the middle finger. I'd seen it employed in many a Hollywood offering that surely the Americans would appreciate. I do acknowledge cultural sensitivities.

I could not tell through the heavily tinted windows who the occupant of the limo was, but I was sure he got the message. For good measure I showed the same greeting to the driver and passengers of the security escort car too.

I thought US embassy would get the message and ease off. Instead it was like the forces arrayed against Gaddafi, the Taliban, Al Qaeda and Al Shabbab were diverted to my humble self, an innocent journalist.

With horns blaring, sirens walling and disco lights doing the Saturday Night Fever, no other than the official ambassadorial car forced its way through to cut me off at the Museum Hill roundabout. Some angry man in a very smart dark suit jumped out of the front passenger seat and rushed towards my door. The other car had blocked me off to my right, and another beefy man, in a grey suit, also rushed towards me.

I waited for the missile launchers.

The Third Degree came first and furious. The main question: Who I was, why I was not giving way and why I'd rudely shown them the finger.

"Because you are being aggressive and rude on the road", I replied innocently, making sure both my hands remained in full view on the steering wheel lest I give any one of them the excuse to thwack me with an M16. "Your passenger should know better than to play the bully on the road, I added helpfully."

"Can't you see that's a VIP"

"VIP my foot? I really don't care. Would he behave like that on American roads", I demanded.

I could see guys used to bullying their way through any situation wondering who this crazy was.

The called over the traffic cop from the roundabout. "Arrest this man", they demanded, "bring the handcuffs".

Contemplating a night in the coolers, that should have been the time for me to kneel in supplication to mighty Uncle Sam, plead temporary insanity and blame the inciting words of Peter Tosh, and no doubt his intoxicating breath wafting in through the car stereo.

But I had my daughter in the car, so no way I was going to cower in fear. She believes in me!

She is also a chip off the old block, for she joined in protesting furiously this threat to arrest a Kenya in his country at the behest of some foreign bully.

Traffic was starting to build up as curious motorists slowed down to gaze at father and daughter in a furious shouting match with angry security types, while cars with US embassy diplomatic plates, including the ambassadors’ official car, clearly caused obstruction.

The uniformed traffic cop was looking on in utter confusion.

I was wondering whether to call a lawyer, a judge or a prosecutor,when looking up ahead, a saw the left rear passenger door of the Chrysler limousine open just a little bit.

I thought Mr Ambassador himself was coming out to reinforce the troops.

From just a small opening, a white hand peeking out of dark cuffs made a barely perceptible signal.

The two security guys suddenly abandoned their quest to have me arrested, jumped into their cars without as much as a goodbye, and zoomed off.

I gave a thumbs-up to the traffic cop who was scratching his head and asking what the hell had just opened.

As drove off, I wondered when the little drama would make Wikileaks.