The nightmare that is Kenya’s administrative bureaucracy

By MERCY OMWONY
Published September 22, 2009

Woe unto you if you lose an official document in Kenya and have to replace it!

“It has been a hell of two weeks for my family and I as we have been trying to acquire travel documents,” lamented Mrs Hadija Salim, a woman from North Eastern part of Kenya, currently residing in Kisii. We were seated on a narrow uncomfortable bench at the Kisii Police Station, patiently waiting for our turn to have our cases recorded at the Occurrence Book or the OB-Book as it is commonly referred to.

Replacing an official document in Kenya is a long and tedious process. First you have to make a report at the local police station in the area where you lost them. An officer should give you an OB number, which you use to get a police abstract and an affidavit from a notary of public or commissioner for oaths, at a fee. Only then will you be able to make a new application.

I was at the police station to report my lost passport while Mrs Salim had lost all her academic certificates, birth certificate, bank documents, national identification card and her passport. They were in a briefcase that got lost on her way to Kisii from Nairobi. This meant Mrs Salim could not withdraw money, apply for a job or even travel. She had had several nasty encounters with the authorities because of her ethnicity. Mrs Salim is from the North Eastern Province and has cushitic features. The reason of her bad encounters with the authorities is because of an influx of illegal immigrants in the country from Somalia, who are cushitic. Incidentally, the system cannot prove Mrs Salim is Kenyan, nor that she actually exists.

“I have come here more than five times today and it has been the same story for the last two weeks,” a young man squatting near a bench mutters under his breath as he shifts to a more comfortable position. Eric Barongo has been camping at the police station for the last two weeks trying to report his stolen ID card and passport with no success. Every time he advances to the desk, an officer tells him to wait because his case is a bit complicated. “Unajua mambo ya passport ni magumu kidogo kwa sababu si watu wote wana hiyo document, ni nyinyi tu wenye pesa! (You know a lost passport case is a tricky one because only rich people have them)”. Shouldn’t this be the reason as to why it should be a simple case, because it involves less people? “So this is what I will go through?” I ask myself as I wait for my turn.

An officer swaggers to the counter with an obviously drunk man to report a lost ID and to get a P3 form, usually used for cases of assault. He is given an OB number and the P3 form, without even producing a hospital card as is usually the case. We gather from their conversation that he was in a brawl at a local bar, where he acquired the bruises he was getting a P3 form for. The drunk man openly gives the officer a crisp Ksh 1,000 note! (US$13). He then tells the officer, “Kuleni lunch (That’s for your lunch)!”

My turn comes and as I rise up from the piece of wood passing off as a bench, a lady officer gives me one glance and decides she is handing over. It is only 3.30 p.m. I proceed to the desk anyway and just stand there waiting to be addressed. “Wewe husikii? Nimesema ninafanya summary ni handover, masaa yangu hapa yamekwisha (Did you not hear me saying I am doing a summary to handover, my time here is up),” the plump police woman tells me breathlessly with obvious annoyance. I sure have ticked her off this time. “Hata hewa iwezi kuingia hapa, songeni huko (We cannot even breath, move!).” She gives a final retort before she waddles into the armoury. I am the only one standing at the counter, the other wanainchi (citizens) have all given up following her first order that she was handing over.

The contradiction could not be more stark. These are people who have left their jobs to seek justice and help from this supposedly honourable Arm of Law whose slogan is “Utumishi Kwa Wote (Service to All).” Service to all indeed! This word “All” has its conditions from what I have seen and heard today. There is a small girl who has been queuing alongside her mother the whole day to file a rape report. Her first queue was at the General Hospital where there were endless rows of patients waiting for services. Sadly, when they finished at the hospital they find another mass of humanity at the police station with officers insensitive to what the young girl has gone through.

Fatuma Albashir, a sweet 7-year-old-girl was raped by a neighbour’s son, aged 10! On inquiring from the accused’s father on the way forward for their children, Fatuma’s mother received a thorough beating from the boy’s father who claimed his son was innocent. All she wanted was an apology from the boy and a counseling session for the two kids on the facts of sex and their sexuality. The beating is what prompted Fatuma’s mother to have the matter settled in court. “Yeye na cheza na matoto yangu huko chini, halafu nachapa mimi kama ngamia (My daughter is defiled, and I am beaten like a camel for asking)?” These are the angry words from Fatuma’s mother who is understandably vexed at all that is happening to her.

By the time I walked out of the police station without anything to show for the long wait, one lady officer had come to attend to Fatuma and her mother. She had taken them to a corner for privacy, and was recording their statement. I am thankful the system is broken but a few good people still work in the force. Fatuma’s frustrations are commonplace despite the government launching a children’s desk and a hotline number at every police station some years back to curb the rising child rape and child labour cases. The system, it would appear requires urgent fixing.

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