at the airport
I am interrogated,
Intimidated,
Inundated by questions.
Who are you? Why are you here?
The customs official barks,
Then switches to garbled Kiswahili
Huyo ni nani? What is your name?
But her voice softens
As she spots the crisp new note
Between the pages of my passport.
An old porter approaches,
Accosts me,
Asks me for some… work.
Madam! Your bags… ehehe,
He yowls, callused finger pointing
To the chalk marks on my suitcase.
I can clear them. Only two thousand.
He eyes my luggage,
His grin like a billboard-lit hyena,
Palm raised to close the deal.
A shadow slinks,
Slides and
Slyly stands beside me.
Nice watch. Original Rolex?
I hear the voice whisper,
Pressing cold metal against my ribs.
Shh. Shh. That’s right, give it to me.
I slide off my watch,
Pretend that that I am simply
Shaking hands with an old friend.
At the airport,
I find out what our national pastime really is.