Dr Patel knew that a man of his talent could not remain Deputy Head of the HR Department at Amber Investments for the rest of his life. He was destined for greater heights. As he manoeuvred his Toyota Corolla through Nairobi’s traffic on Waiyaki Way, en route to the office, the question of how to impress the Directors was uppermost in his mind. A few people had mentioned he was ready for promotion, though of course he’d dismissed the idea with a modest wave.
He rested his elbow on the open window and drummed lightly on the steering wheel, trying to ignore the music blaring from the packed matatu in the next lane, and the exhaust fumes of the diesel tanker in front. Before long, he wouldn’t have to drive, he’d be driven.
Ahead, the lights changed to green. He jammed his foot on the accelerator as he circled the roundabout and honked at a car trying to overtake from the left. The lights turned red, he braked and just missed a vendor who dashed across the road, carrying a board with fake designer glasses.
‘Oi, kijana, use the zebra crossing,’ he shouted. ‘Follow the rules.’ The boy waved, flashing a cheeky grin.
Two more vendors sidled up to the car, one with a selection of air freshener cards, the other trying to push the Business Daily through the window. Dr Patel shooed them off. The traffic started to move, and he followed.
A policewoman at the kerb raised her arm at him. He changed lanes and parked at the side of the road. The woman approached the car, her blue uniform hugging her broad frame.
‘Good morning, Madam Officer,’ he said. ‘How are you today?’
‘Sasa, Mzee, what’s the big hurry?’ She pushed back her cap and peered through the window. ‘Una enda wapi?’
‘To my office; I have an important meeting.’
‘Is that why you were overtaking at the roundabout?’
‘Impossible, Madam. I’m sure I did no such thing.’
‘I know what I saw.’ She straightened. ‘It seems you want to be arrested, you even jumped a red light.’
‘You must be mistaken Madam. It was definitely green.’
‘If you argue it means you’re guilty.’
‘But Madam…’
‘Wapi driver’s licence?’
He took his licence from the glove compartment and gave it to her. Inside was a neatly folded five-hundred-shilling note. She frowned, slipped it into her pocket and squinted at the photo in his licence.
‘Kwani, are you sure this is you?’
‘Of course, Madam; that photo was taken some years ago.’
‘You’ve added several kilos since then?’
‘Maybe a few.’ Dr Patel shifted the seat belt which was cutting into his belly. She put the licence in her pocket. ‘Where do you work?’
‘At Amber Investments.’ He drew a card from his wallet. ‘I’m the Deputy Head of HR.’
‘HR? Then you should be used to following procedures.’ She looked at the card and turned it over. ‘But here it says you are a Doctor. Which hospital?’
‘Allow me to explain, Madam. My colleagues call me Doctor out of respect. They value my advice.’
‘I see. But today you made a serious mistake. Lazima uta enda Cortini.’
‘Come now Madam, I’m sure we don’t need to go to Court for such a minor matter.’
She took a notebook and pen from her pocket, and resting the book on the roof of the car, began writing. ‘Patel, I’m charging you for contravening the Traffic Act.’
‘Please, there’s no need to be so formal.’ He paused. ‘Why don’t you have a cup of tea on me and we can forget about it?’
‘That was for overtaking,’ she said. ‘There’s also the red light.’
He reached in his pocket for his wallet but she handed him a page from her notebook. ‘You just go to Court and explain everything to the judge.’
‘Can’t we settle this as friends?’
She shut the notebook. ‘Since you insist, open the passenger door and we can discuss this inside your car.’
‘I’m sorry, no. The last time that happened the officer stayed in my car for over an hour.’
‘So now you’re being difficult, Patel. Are you aware who I am? They don’t call me Bensouda for nothing. Come to Central at three thirty and we shall see what to do.’
‘Could I have my licence please?’
‘If you co-operate.’ She rapped the roof with her palm. ‘Enda, you’re blocking the traffic.’
*
Dr Patel arrived at his office a little late and breathless from the heat. He opened the window then took off his jacket and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. Awaiting him at his desk was an urgent message to call Hari Sagoo.
‘Good morning, Hari.’ He could hear birds chirping in the background, Hari was already at The Windsor. One day, in the not-too-distant future, that would be him.
‘Nothing good about it, Doctor,’ Hari said. ‘It’s pathetic and a very poor reflection on you.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ll be brief, I’m about to tee off for the Kenya Open. Yesterday afternoon I did a spot check on our Department; I asked each member of staff to give me just one example of a policy from the HR Manual and not one of them could.'
‘But that’s absurd Hari; I did an intensive training only last week.’
‘Then why were they blank?’
Dr Patel went over to the window and looked out: thirty rows of glinting cars, four bare mvuli trees and twelve overflowing dustbins. He often stood there contemplating his strategy on how to dominate the HR Department. He’d occupied the same third floor office for ten years. It was nothing like Hari’s on the fifteenth, which boasted panoramic views of Nairobi and had recently been redesigned. Dr Patel’s office was a quarter the size, and inadequate for his prized collection of management books and journals, purchased in bulk from a second-hand bookshop. His small desk was cluttered with pending files. But it was only a matter of time before he’d move to more spacious accommodation befitting a man of substance.
He pushed the window back so that his reflection was clearer. He licked the tip of his forefinger, pressed down his sideburns, fiddled with the knot of his Club tie until it was exactly in the centre of his collar, and smoothed the fine silk over his paunch.
‘Doctor, are you still there?’
‘Yes, Hari.’
‘It’s incredible that not a single person has even the slightest idea of our policies.’
‘I can’t understand it myself,’ Dr Patel said. ‘You’d think they’d follow my example.’
‘Well you’d better do something, because if this is the direction the Department is heading…’
‘I’ll get to the bottom of it, Hari. It’ll be sorted out by the end of the day.’
‘I hope so. I’ll wait to hear from you. Don’t forget the Promotions Committee is meeting next month and I’ll be making my recommendations in the next few days.’
*
Dr Patel pulled out his swivel chair, sat down at his desk and opened the thick black book lying in front of him: Amber Investments Human Resource Policy Manual. He flipped through the section on ‘Performance Management and Appraisal’, took a jotter from the top drawer and drew a line down the middle of the first page. In one column he made a list of names and at the top of the second he wrote ‘Score’. He pressed the buzzer on the intercom.
‘Kinuthia,’ he said. ‘I need to see you immediately please.’
After ten minutes there was a knock at the door.
‘Good morning Mzee, how are you today?’ Kinuthia came in and sat down without waiting to be asked.
Dr Patel glared at him. ‘Actually, I’m having a bad day.’
‘Also me,’ Kinuthia said. ‘But it is like so, every day. In the morning when I was coming to work, the matatu had an accident. The policeman told us to alight and asked us for money. I refused. Me, I told him…’
‘Never mind about that now,’ Dr Patel said. ‘I didn’t call you here to tell me your problems. What I want to know is, since last week’s training session, have you had a chance to read the Manual?’ He slid the book across the desk.
‘Of course, Mzee.’ Kinuthia’s eyes wandered towards the window.
‘I had a feeling you’d say that.’
‘My father always said, learning has no end.’
‘Very good, then you won’t mind if I ask you a few questions. Now pay attention. I want to discuss the provision in the Manual related to gifts. How about we do a role play? You pretend you’re me…’
Kinuthia got up and came round the desk.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Dr Patel said.
‘Mzee, my father taught me that learning is imitating. So, I was coming to sit in your chair.’
‘I suppose that makes sense.’ They switched places.
‘Now, where were we?’ Dr Patel said.
‘Well Mzee, you were you and I was me. But now you’re me and I’m you.’ Kinuthia leaned back in the chair, placed his elbows on the armrests and made a steeple with his hands. ‘My father told me,knowledge without practice is like wax without honey. And we are practising, not so?’
‘Precisely. Now try to forget your father for a moment. I want you to imagine I’m a client. What would you do if I offered you a gift?’
‘Such as?’ Kinuthia leaned forward.
‘A crate of beer.’
‘If I was you?’
‘Yes, if you were me, sitting in that very chair.’
‘Easy, I would say no, of course.’
‘Excellent,’ Dr Patel said. ‘Now explain your rationale to me.’
‘Mzee, everyone knows you don’t take alcohol – officially.’ He gave a sly grin. ‘Unofficially of course, it’s a different story.’
‘Please take this seriously, Kinuthia.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Let’s try again. What would you do as a favour if I gave you an envelope with money?’
‘If I was you?’
‘Of course, if you were me.’
Kinuthia picked up Dr Patel’s pen and twiddled it in his fingers. ‘Simple, I’d accept it and ask God to bless you.’
‘That’s very wrong.’ Dr Patel walked round the desk and looked Kinuthia squarely in the eye. ‘I’m disappointed in you. Amber’s policy is unequivocal, employees are forbidden to accept gifts or bribes of any sort in any circumstances.’
Kinuthia looked down, unscrewed the cover of the pen and capped it again.
‘Furthermore,’ Dr Patel said, ‘while you claim to have read the Manual, you’ve also shown you’re unlikely to follow it.’
‘So, what are you implying?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything.’
‘You are.’ Kinuthia raised his voice. ‘You’re pointing a finger at me.’
‘Calm down.’
‘You’re insulting me.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. All I’ve said is you’re not familiar with Amber’s policies.’
‘You’re accusing me of bribery.’
‘I’m doing nothing of the sort.’
Kinuthia stood up. ‘This was a set up. You’re trying to catch me out.’ He clipped the pen in his top pocket and made for the door. ‘No matter how hard we work around here, we’re always misunderstood. My father was right, things always continue the same, they never change.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ Dr Patel said. ‘Just go back to your desk and read the Manual. But before you do, kindly return my pen.’
He put a two in the column beside Kinuthia’s name. ‘Pitiful.’ He ran his finger down the list, and reached for the buzzer. ‘Wilfred, could you come up to my office please?’
‘I’m in the middle of fixing a toilet.’
‘How is it you’re always busy, yet nothing ever works?’
Wilfred arrived in a few minutes. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Get rid of that thing in your mouth.’
Wilfred removed the matchstick from between his teeth, ‘Sorry Mzee, I’m ready.’
Dr Patel tapped the Manual with his pen. ‘Do you recognise this book?’
‘Everyone has seen it.’
‘But have you read it?’
‘Yes,’ Wilfred said. ‘But halfway through I realised it was too long, so I gave up.’
‘Do you remember last week I told you this was Amber’s bible and you should learn it back to front?’
‘No problem, Mzee, I’ll try to read the rest when I get time.’
Dr Patel leaned back in his chair and looped his fingers in his braces. ‘You say you’ve read half, so I’d like you to answer a few questions.’
Wilfred nodded.
‘You must have noticed,’ Dr Patel said, ‘that we’ve recently installed a condom dispenser in the men’s toilet?’
‘Yes, I’ve been using it every day.’
Dr Patel frowned. ‘That’s not what I meant. I want you to explain to me how the dispenser is connected with Amber’s HR policy.’
Wilfred scratched his head. ‘Me, I don’t know.’
‘Take your time,’ Dr Patel said. ‘Try and recall what the Manual says.’
‘I think maybe it’s encouraging men to have sex?’
‘Don’t be absurd, Wilfred.’
‘Or, free condoms mean we’re saving money which is good for our pockets.’
‘That’s not the right answer either,’ Dr Patel said. ‘Think outside the box. How could condoms be related to work-place productivity?’
‘Aha,’ Wilfred said. ‘You are trying to trick me. There’s no connection.’
‘Wrong, again. The answer is related to HIV.’
‘Ukimwi?
‘Exactly, AIDS. If you stay uninfected, your efficiency stays unaffected and that’s the most important thing for Amber. Do you understand?’
‘I know all about ukimwi,’ Wilfred said.
‘I’m sure you do.’ Dr Patel tapped his pen on the Manual again. ‘Just make sure you read that section carefully.’
‘Yes, Mzee.’
‘That’s all for now.’
Wilfred went towards the door, and stopped. ‘Mzee,’ he said, ‘It’s not me taking the condoms and selling them outside.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Let me tell you, I’m not the thief.’
‘Is there no end to the mess?’
‘I am just saying, mimi sijui. But surely it’s not me.’
‘Get back to work, Wilfred,’ he said, ‘and tell Agnes to come and see me.’
Next to Wilfred’s name in the score column, he wrote one out of ten.
‘Maybe the women will be better,’ he said to himself.
*
There was a knock at the door. Agnes entered and he beckoned to a chair.
‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ he said. ‘Have you read the HR Manual?’
‘I have, Mzee.’
‘Good, because I’m doing a follow up on last week’s training and I’d like to ask you some questions related to Leave. Could you tell me, according to Amber’s official policy how many compassionate days are you allowed a year?’
‘Three.’
‘Correct. Now, what would you do if you had to attend four funerals in one year?’
‘Ask for a loan.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Burials are expensive, and I have a big clan. Every time I go to a matanga I have to make funeral contributions. In fact, this weekend we’re doing a harambee at my church so please Mzee, if you’d like to give a donation…’
Dr Patel raised his hand. ‘Stay on the point please, Agnes. I was referring specifically to the restriction on the number of days you can take off for bereavement.’
‘Do you mean to say I can’t attend my relative’s funeral?’
‘Of course, you can, but you’d have to take the time from your annual vacation.’
‘But that’s very unfair,’ she said.
‘Amber’s policy is clear: three days for compassionate, twenty-one for vacation, and six for sick.’
‘Aiee, if I’m sick for seven days I can’t stay home to recover?’ Agnes slapped her thighs. ‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘You’d have to utilise a day from your vacation.’
‘You’re confusing me, Mzee. If I use all my vacation days for funerals, then, when I’m sick, what will I do when I need to go up-country to rest?’
‘You’ll just have to learn to prioritise.’
She covered her face with her hands. ‘Everywhere it’s the same, we’re exploited because we’re poor.’
‘That’s not true Agnes. Every employee at Amber is equal and guided by this Manual which is our bible. It sets out the rules for all of us, seniors and juniors alike.’ He tapped the book with his pen. ‘All of us.’
‘Just because we’re the grass and you’re the elephant, it doesn’t mean we don’t know our rights. When the elephants start stamping the grass, the grass gets restless…’
‘You’re being silly, Agnes. If you took the time to understand the Manual you’d know exactly what you’re entitled to.’
She stood up. ‘I heard the others saying you were trying to catch us.’
‘What nonsense.’
‘I told them Mzee would never do that to us.’
‘Quite right.’
‘But kumbe, I was wrong.’
‘Just go back to your desk,’ he said, ‘and forget the whole thing.’
‘I can’t,’ Agnes said. ‘You’ve unsettled me.’
She left the office and Dr Patel wrote three out of ten in the score column.
He spent the rest of the morning conducting more interviews, each with the same unsatisfactory response.
In the afternoon he asked Afshan, his PA, to come and see him. She sat down across from him and arranged the notepad on her lap, her pen poised ready. ‘I’ve had a disappointing morning, Afshan,’ he said.
She looked up. ‘I heard Agnes complaining about something, but I haven’t had a chance to ask her; I’ve been busy with the auditors.’
‘Maybe you could tell me what’s wrong with this Department? We’ve got a serious attitude problem. No one’s interested in taking any initiative. It’s very frustrating.’ He paused. ‘I wish they’d take a leaf from my book. Do they think I got here without effort?’ He waved his arms. ‘Look at me, I’ve been at Amber fifteen years. How did I do it? Have any of them asked themselves that?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘I wish you’d have a word with them, Afshan. The Promotions Committee is meeting next month, and Hari will be suggesting names. I can’t let their ineptitude blot my record.’
‘I’ll do my best, Doctor.’
‘Thank you, I knew I could count on you.’
She hesitated. ‘There was something I wanted to speak to you about.’
‘Yes?’
‘I was wondering if you’d mention my name to Hari?’
‘What for?’
‘A promotion. I’ve been here two years and I…’
‘But you’re not ready.’ Dr Patel shook his head. ‘Not yet. You haven’t reached the required level of experience. Do you know how long it took me to become Deputy?’
She stared at him. ‘Ten years?’
‘Twelve, to be precise, so don’t be discouraged. You’ve got a long way to go and there’s still plenty for you to learn. You’re lucky you have me as a role model.’ He squared the papers on his desk and glanced at his watch. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better make my way, or I’ll be late for an important meeting.’
At three thirty sharp, Dr Patel presented himself at the police station with his smart faux brown leather briefcase. Experience had taught him nothing intimidated petty technocrats more than professionalism and diplomacy. He patted his hair, pressed down the front of his jacket and coughed.
The policeman sitting at the reception counter looked up from his newspaper.
‘I’ve got an appointment to see the Officer they call Madam Bensouda,’ Dr Patel said.
‘You follow me.’ The policeman hauled himself to his feet, hitching up his trousers, and escorted Dr Patel round the back of the main block. They walked down a rank-smelling passageway, sidestepping a bucket half filled with water which dripped from the ceiling. They stopped at the end of the corridor, and the policeman knocked on the door.
‘Nani?’ a woman’s voice came from behind the door.
‘You have a mgeni,’ the policeman replied.
Dr Patel entered, and the policeman left closing the door behind him. The office was a poky windowless room with a dim, flickering tube light. Bensouda was sitting back reading True Love. She lowered her feet from the plastic table.
‘So, Patel,’ she said, eyeing him. ‘You decided to come? You may sit.’
‘Thank you.’ He unbuttoned his jacket, squeezed himself into the narrow chair, and slid his briefcase under the table between his knees.
‘I hope you’ve come ready to co-operate?’ Bensouda said.
‘I’m sure you’ll find me to be a very reasonable man.’
‘We shall see.’ She picked up her truncheon from the table and rolled it in her palms.
‘Halafu, sema, Patel? So what do you have to tell me?’
‘First of all Madam Officer, may I say how extremely sorry I am about this morning.’
‘Sorry cannot make the dead man come alive. You broke the law when you contravened the Traffic Act.’
‘Could you tell me exactly which provisions I breached?’
‘Ati, Patel,’ she said, ‘I don’t believe this. Are you challenging me? Are you saying I don’t know the Law?’
‘Not at all, Madam. It’s just that I’d like to know what I’m being charged with.’
‘Patel, are you a lawyer?’
‘No.’ He straightened. ‘But I can’t blame you for thinking that. I’ve been told many times I look like a QC - Queen’s Counsel. I’m in fact a senior manager at Amber. You’'ll recall I gave you my business card this morning.’
‘I get many cards,’ she said.
‘I’m Deputy Head of HR.’ He took out his card holder and handed her his card.
She glanced at it. ‘Now I remember. You said you are not a Doctor?’
‘Exactly, but as I explained…’
‘Let’s not waste my time.’ She opened her magazine and took out a page from the back.
‘This is your Charge Sheet. Patel, I’m charging you under the Road Traffic Act, Cap 403, Laws of Kenya. This includes: moja, over-lapping and obstruction. If the Court finds you guilty, you’ll be fined Kshs 100,000, one year in jail or both. Mbili: over speeding. You are guilty, so the fine is Kshs 10,000 or three-months imprisonment or both. Tatu: which you cannot deny; you were talking on your mobile phone while driving…’
‘Please Madam.’ He opened his wallet and placed a thousand shillings on the table.
‘It’s been a long day and I’m sure you’re ready for some tea.’
‘Are you serious?’ She laughed. ‘Ati, now you’re trying to bribe an officer of the Court. I told you who I am. Don’t joke with Bensouda.’
Dr Patel removed another thousand and put it next to the first.’
‘Patel, you’re asking for trouble. People don’t play around with Bensouda. Don’t you know she’s the ICC Chief Prosecutor at The Hague? Everyone fears her.’
‘Madam, I’m ready to accept that I made a genuine mistake and I want to make amends.’
‘Errors cost money.’ She tapped the charge sheet with her baton. ‘If you want to drive a car, you’d better obey the Law.’
Her forehead was shining with beads of sweat and there were damp patches under her armpits. Dr Patel ran his finger round the back of his collar, loosened his tie and dabbed his brow with his monogrammed pocket handkerchief.
‘May I open the door, please?’ he said. ‘It’s too stuffy to breathe in here.’
‘Not until we finish. So what do you say, can we agree?’ Bensouda clasped her hands over her stomach and stretched her legs. Her knees knocked against Dr Patel’s briefcase.
‘What’s this?’ She reached down and pulled it up.
‘I use it to carry important documents.’
She ran her fingers over the smooth brown material. ‘This one doesn’t resemble those at Kariokor market.’
‘It’s genuine leather,’ Dr Patel said. ‘Made in Italy.’
She flicked open the gold latches. Inside were Amber’s HR Policy Manual, a stainless steel tiffin lunch box and a bottle of Boss. She tossed the book onto the table, sprayed herself with the cologne and shook the food container.
‘Vegetable samosas,’ Dr Patel said, ‘specially prepared by my wife. I was busy with important matters in my Department and didn’t get a chance to eat them.’
Bensouda replaced the cologne and tiffin in the briefcase and closed it. ‘Patel, kazi ni kazi, work is work and we have to carry on.’
He added two more notes to the pile on the table.
‘These days, kila mahali iko na shida,’ she said. ‘But what can we do? We have to eat.’
‘I can sympathise with you Madam, we all have our share of problems.’ He removed a couple more thousands and showed her his empty purse. ‘This is all I have.’
‘Let me see that.’ She seized the wallet from him, tucked the notes inside and put it in her top pocket. She stood up. ‘In future Patel, make sure you don’t go breaking the law.’
‘Thank you, Madam, I knew we’d understand each other. Now if you’d be so kind as to give me back my briefcase.’
‘You’ll leave that here, Patel. You’re lucky I didn’t charge you. Next time you meet Bensouda, she’ll take you straight to the Hague.’
‘Could I at least have my licence?’
She gave it to him. ‘And make sure you study the Traffic Act. Ignorance is no excuse.’
‘Absolutely right.’ He picked up the HR Manual from the table and made his way back to the reception. The policeman was still sitting there.
‘Mzee,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had lunch today.’
‘That makes two of us.’
‘How about a soda, Mzee?’
Dr Patel fished out a few coins from his pocket.
He made his way to the parking lot, got into his car and rolled down the window. Ten out of ten for you Doctor, he thought. His phone rang.
‘Hello Hari.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I had a small matter to deal with at the police station.’
‘I don’t know what you’ve been telling the team, but I’ve received several emails of complaint.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘They’re saying you’re after their blood.’
‘They’ve got it all wrong. Isn’t that just typical?’
‘Afshan’s managed to calm them down, but an hour ago they were up in arms.’
‘But all I did was emphasise they needed to learn the Manual.’
‘They’re completely demoralised.’
Dr Patel leaned forward, his belly pressing against the steering wheel. ‘What about the Promotions Committee report, Hari?’
‘You’re in luck, Doctor, the meeting’s been postponed.’
He sat back. ‘Good, I’ll start working on a follow up training.’
‘I’d advise you to forget about the Manual for the time being. Just focus on re-building your goodwill.’
‘I assure you Hari, we’ll get back to business as usual.’
Dr Patel started the engine and drove out of the parking lot. As he passed the police station, Bensouda was standing in the entrance, tucking into the contents of his tiffin box.
*
Farah Ahamed’s short stories and essays have been published in Ploughshares, The Mechanics’ Institute Review, The Massachusetts’ Review amongst others. In 2021, Pan Macmillan will publish her non-fiction anthology on menstruation experiences in South Asia. A human rights lawyer with a Diploma in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia, Farah is currently working on a short story collection and a novel set in Lahore. She also has a complete book of Dr Patel stories. You can read more of her work here: farahahamed.com.