my first car crash

Ok, here’s the scoop… last Friday night, Anthony and I innocently prepared to head to town along Ngong Road. I was going to drop him at the bus station so he could travel upcountry to Kitale for the weekend. After fuelling, I pulled out onto a dark & wet Ngong Rd, and straight into another vehicle. I didn’t see him at all. Though Anthony was yelling (rather softly) YAYAYAY, I didn’t attach much meaning to that until I heard crack-crunch. I had been looking at the oncoming traffic on my right, and plowed into someone heading the same direction I was on my left. My left headlight area hit his right – no injuries, no major damage.

The other driver came out shouting & screaming, and of course I gave it right back to him. He said he had the right of way and I shouldn’t have crashed into him, and I told him he was an idiot for seeing me and stubbornly refusing to stop just because he was in the right. He yelled over me and kept saying it was my fault, till I finally got back into the car to get out of the conversation – that’s when he pulled out a walkie-talkie, and we finally figured out that he was police. I rolled up the window and just sat there, figuring my big mouth would get me in more trouble than I needed if I didn’t!

He turned out to be the District Traffic Officer – not just a mere police constable, but a big boss…

His officers came to the scene, and he became much more polite. One accompanied us back to the station – halfway there, I offered to stop at a bank machine so I could get out enough money for either a cash bail or a bribe, but Anthony & the constable decided against it. Kenyan police stations are just a collection of shacks that smell like criminals (Kenyan jails have the most horrible smell in the world, don’t ask me how I know). It was still raining & muddy, and we trooped into his tiny shack of an office. He tried to intimidate me with damages and figures about his insurance deductibles, but didn’t ask for a bribe, and didn't even charge me with anything – in fact we didn’t file any paperwork at all. He agreed to meet Anthony the next morning to find out how much the damage would cost, and then insisted I hand over my keys so they could detain my vehicle. There was no arguing on a wet Friday night, so I did. Anthony & I walked to one of our local watering holes and tried to revive our spirits...

The next day, we had lots of discussions about whose insurance would cover what, but I had a pretty good idea from my agent that all would be ok. I chased papers around all day on Monday, including heading to the police station again to record my statement, get a police abstract, pay Ksh.5000 ($75) cash bail, and actually get my car back. I was also served with papers to attend court the next day –ack! I went to the insurance company to file the claim, and basically the only complicating factor in this straight-forward case is the fact that I hit a police officer! He could make my life hell, considering he controls the police road blocks on all of the streets that lead to my house… he could demand a new bribe every day, or charge me with minor offenses at will (though I must say, not a single bribe innuendo received as yet!). The insurance company legal department advised me to plead not guilty in court – the basic ‘never admit liability’ advice.

Kibera Law Courts. Kibera is one of the biggest slums in Africa, housing over a million people in squalid conditions. Today, rainy season: mud and potholes, chickens and charcoal, garbage and fires, barbed wire and broken vehicles. But the court is a surprisingly well-maintained large building, with room for parking, and notice boards outside displaying the courtroom schedules. Courtroom 4 is like a big cell, painted grey with white trim, housing a few handmade pew-like benches, docks, and a magistrate’s desk. We are required to bow when entering and leaving the courtroom. It’s freezing, and slow, and also open on 3 sides, so too noisy to hear much of what’s going on. Lawyers, defendants, and witnesses are dressed in sagging second-hand suits with frayed collars, washed by hand and far too big. Prisoners are brought in through the back door to hear the postponement of their cases - if they don't have an advocate, no-one bothers to speed it up - and then they go back on the huge black prison bus to rot in jail. Those of us lucky to have paid the $75 cash bail are waiting on the pews until being called to the dock, respectful and contrite, to answer kweli or sikweli (guilty or not).

My name is called and no-one notices me moving towards the front. They are looking for a Kenyan man – Johanna is the Kiswahili translation for John the Baptist in the bible, and Khisa is obviously a Kenyan name – so I am overlooked. I wave and get ready to shout, and then finally the court clerk notices me and reads my charge: ‘Careless driving blah blah blah, true or not true?’ I answer not true, everyone looks surprised, and I’m asked to cough up another $75 for the court bail this time. I am escorted to the back where Anthony and a manager from my office are waiting, and I dig out the money. I wait around for another hour or so for my receipt and next court date, and off I go, a bit dubiously, into the cold Kibera air.

See, the court case could drag on for 5 years or more, and a warrant will be issued for my arrest if I fail to turn up for a court date, so I'm a bit worried. I contact my insurance company, and promise to send someone to represent me whenever I cannot attend. WHEW! But since they are the ones who want me to make a case out of it instead of simply pleading guilty and receiving a fine for much less than the cash bail, I figure it's all up to them anyway!

For now, I’ve done everything by the book, and I just need to follow up the details – get my car fixed, keep my nose clean – but I will keep you informed should anything exciting arise!!