Drysdale - I built no schools in Kenya: a year of unmitigated madness

In September 2010, Kirsten Drysdale was tricked. Her friend called with a job offer too curious to refuse: a gig as a dementia carer for a rich old man in Kenya. All expenses paid, plenty of free time to travel or do some freelance reporting. There seemed no good reason to say no so she got on a plane.

Only Kirstens friend hadnt given her the full story. On her arrival in Nairobi she discovered the rich old mans family was fighting a war around him, and that she would be on the front line. Caught in the crossfire of all kinds of wild accusations, she also had to spy on his wife, keep his daughter placated, rebuff his marriage proposals, hide the car keys and clip his toenails, all while trying to retain her own sanity in the colonial time warp of his home.

Meanwhile, the Kenyan army was invading Somalia, Al-Shabaab was threatening terror attacks, the East African bodybuilding scene beckoned, and Kirsten discovered she had long-lost cousins running a bar on the other side of the city.

I Built No Schools in Kenya is a travelogue-tragedy-farce about race, wealth, love, death, family, nationhood, sanity, benzodiazepines, monkeys and whisky.

It is almost entirely true.

Nairobi, Kenya November 2011

The man whose murder Ive been asked to prevent is trying to kill me. His name is Walter, and hes coming at me with a nine iron. Hes threatened me before, but its different this time. I can tell by the way his jaw is set and the unusual quickness in his hips. This time he really, really means it. And the guy survived a lion attack once that unlucky cats taxidermied corpse is hanging on the dining-room wall, glass-eyed proof that Walt is not a man to be messed with. I could do with some back-up but, as per usual, theres no one else around when I need them.

I whistle for Walts pedigree cur, his mucky dog, his lovely mutt. She usually licks him calm, but right now shes busy haranguing the troop of monkeys in the trees at the bottom of the garden, hackles up and teeth out, not paying me any attention. The guard hut at the front gate is empty: Patrick, the askari, has gone to have a crack at the monkeys too. He lobs gravel from the driveway at them with a handmade slingshot, while the monkeys return fire with small red berries. He flinches and ducks, swearing in Swahili and struggling to reload. The monkeys are winning this round.

Walt is coming at me with a nine iron because I wont give him the goddamn car keys. Hes always trying to get his hands on the goddamn car keys, but hes not allowed to drive anymore. He doesnt know what year it is or what country hes in; hows he supposed to make it through Nairobi traffic unscathed? Not to mention the rest of us.

A call to prayer sails out of a nearby mosque. I glance towards it, my eyes catching on a bamboo thicket where two owls have made a nest. Half an hour ago, Walt was fondly showing it to me. Before his mood turned dark, the wrinkles on his face were crinkle-soft like crepe paper. Now, they are sharp and hard and angry around his eyes, and he is starting to frighten me. Give me those keys, you little bitch! he spits, showering my face in tiny droplets of fury that cool my skin as they dry in the sunshine. Well, hes not fucking getting them.

I hold my arm behind me and shuffle backwards with my fist clenched tight around the little jangle of metal. The bright red plastic Peugeot tag is peeking out from between my second and third fingers. Walt sees it. He lines up the nub of my wrist with the polished toe of his golf club. Theres a backswing.

Walt, wait! I plead, relieved when he lowers the club slightly.

Im fuming that hes got a club to swing at all. After the garden hoe incident, his daughter, Fiona, sent an email ordering us to remove all potential weapons from Walts reach, including golf clubs. Apparently shes already locked the garden tools away in the shed and hidden his walking sticks under my bed. Talk about cold comfort.

Fiona is in charge around here even when shes not around which is most of the time, given she lives in England. She rules via text message fiats and email edicts and makes semi-regular site inspections, visiting every couple of months. I dont know who left the golf clubs out today, but Walt spotted them on his way to the garage. On his way to attack whoever he suspects has been driving his car without his permission.

Through the kitchen window I see three staff members with their faces pressed to the glass, eyes and mouths wide in shock. This scene must be vaudeville to them. A pink-faced pair of loons, sixty years apart, running in circles around the driveway.

Esther! I hiss to the maid at the window. Esther, get James. We need help!

The faces peel away from the glass, and I hear Esther call for James. Hes one of the few people Walt will listen to when he gets like this.

Bwana ! Bwana ! James comes running from the garden. He wipes the rich red soil off his hands down his navy overalls as he calls gently to Walt.

But Walt doesnt seem to hear him. Hes still glaring at me and coming at me and waving that nine iron at me.

My right heel butts up against the garden bed. I manage to stagger to the other side of the Peugeot, putting it between me and the madman. Fuck breaking an arm over this shit.

Thats when I hear the Mazda engine idling at the gates. Its Walts wife, back from her golf game, but Patrick isnt there to open up: hes still slinging rocks at the monkeys. What a bloody racket. Patrick shouts at the barking dog, Hapana! The Mazdas horn blasts: bip-beep! The muezzin calls Allahu Akbar! James pleads, Bwana, kuja hapa bwana, tafadhali! but Walt ignores him, peering into the Peugeot.

Ah-ho- ho ! he says in a tone of bitter vindication. I see youve all been out and about again. He must have noticed the odometer reading has increased by several thousand kilometres, proof that someones been joyriding in his car since he last parked it however many decades ago in his mind. Well, no more, chaps, he announces, grabbing the locked door handle.

Patrick fires one last rock at the monkeys, and finally lopes back to the gate in long, uneven strides. He jams the slingshot into the back pocket of his uniform, rattles the keys out of another and unlocks the padlock, then he pulls the gates open. Jambo, memsahib! Karibu! he says, saluting the grey-haired white woman in the passenger seat and nodding at her African driver.

The Mazda pulls up around the side of a bougainvillea, and Walts wife climbs out. Hell- ooooo , my darling! she calls to him, as he adjusts his grip on the end of the club and lines me up again. Are you having more car trouble?

He pauses mid-swing to squint at her, but he doesnt see his wife of forty years. He sees an old lady in a sun visor. God, I feel for this woman.

Turning to me, she asks the bleeding obvious. Oh dear, is he having another one of those turns?

I hold the car keys up in silent reply, as we hear the thwack of a nine iron bouncing off laminated glass.

It might be time for me to resign again.

Nairobi, Kenya October 2010

So heres how it is: Im a live-in carer for Walter Smyth. He is very rich, very old, very sick and very senile. Over the next eight years, dozens of people will occupy this role. Most of them wont last long. Some of them will literally run away in the dead of night after just a few weeks. In comparison, Ill be here quite a while. Eleven months all up. But I dont know that yet. I cant imagine whats to come.