I put away groceries, made myself a snack, de-shoed and un-socked my tired feet, and settled into the sofa for the short bit of evening that remained. About to nod off an hour or so later, I began unloading my six pockets to head to bed. I pulled out my two phones (one with a Kenyan # and provider for local calls, another that allowed for my US needs), paper scraps, pen, lozenges, charging cord, etc. But when I slapped my left thigh pocket, all at once I realized my wallet was not there!
I quickly scoured the apt. and, heart-racing and stomach aflutter, began re-thinking my steps of the few last hours. I knew I’d purchased that late lunch with my debit card—but did it fall out when I was trying to catch a signal to reset the Uber ride to my route after we dropped off Yusuf? Or did I leave it at the grocer? But no, I remembered the parking fee moment, and was certain I had it all the way until that final trip home.
I called the guard on the grounds of my airbnb, and with bright lights we diligently retraced my steps to no result. I quickly called the two banks corresponding to the debit and credit cards and had each put a temporary block on them. Thankfully no new charges had occurred. I plodded through the Uber app “Directions for Lost Items” which connected me to led to the HQ in the USA. I provided them my number, and was assured they would contact the driver (whose number I never had) and he would call me to sort this out, and theoretically resolve things.
On that final ride we’d had a nice chat, I liked him. I’d tipped him well and had given him five stars. Thankfully, as is my custom here, I sat in the front seat—which few folks do here—so that lessened the likelihood a follow-up passenger had surreptitiously collected it. The cards were blocked, and there was less than $40 in cash in the wallet, and I knew I could replace my driver’s license. I did have a family photo I’ve carried for decades in there; I would regret yet could accept its loss.
I was to be abroad another three weeks, and all at once felt the perverse fear that I had no means to get cash from my bank account. A cursory search online suggested sending a new credit card might be near $200 for DHL delivery, in about a week. But regarding my debit card, from a more regional bank, policy was they would only mail it to my residence in VA. Besides all this, Kenya is notorious for “middlemen” holding recipients hostage with delays and obscene, unwritten “fees” on delivery of items.
I could do some things with PayPal but Venmo’s (not used here). Plus I needed a way to access my bank account to obtain cash which one then puts into M-PESA ( smart phone money app) at a facilitator. It’s THE standard non-cash exchange method for payments of all kinds here. If I cancelled the debit card it also meant some hassle sorting out which things were on auto-pay using it—of course feeling like a larger headache as the embarrassing shock of my blunder was still throbbing.
My little brain spun hard concocting various versions of plans A, B, & C as I awaited the driver’s response. I began plotting how frugal I could be, and though a few excursions were somewhat paid for, and I’d still require some funds over the next 20+ days.
An hour passed, and no messages came. I wrote Uber again. “Yes, your note has been forwarded to the driver. Rest assured we are working hard…” the logarithmic blurb stated. Another hour, zilch, and again I wrote. A message clarified, “We are working hard…” and at the end of the script: “If you have no results in 24 hrs we will step in to resolve the issue.” In my anxious mind, every hour meant more possible passengers to pilfer the wallet!
Despite full awareness there was no major crisis if it was lost, I still fell asleep exhausted and a bit anxious, wishing with heavy lids I’d wake to a call. At pre-dawn I grabbed my phone and looked— still no messages!
With little recourse, I prepared for my planned visit to my gallery dealer Carol, and awaited my trusted friend Paul (a driver who I’ve cajoled to work for me in addition to his Uber work). He expressed concern about the lack of response and immediately began trying to help. Before we reached the gallery he’d brilliantly suggested we go to the local Uber office in Nairobi and they would have to have the driver’s name and number on file.
I spent a lovely morning and early afternoon with Carol at her gallery. She of course heard of my situation, and generously offered any assistance I might need. In addition, by fate, she’d just recently sold a painting of mine, her first sale of my art, two years after graciously giving me a shot in this new-to-me market. She quickly recognized she could transfer my payment directly into my M-PESA account, which greatly reduced my sudden fiduciary drought and the knots in my gut.
Paul had to deliver another scheduled ride but made the extraordinarily kind effort to stop at the Uber Office and try to move the process forward. Soon after he texted to let me know they were expecting me and gave me two names of personnel to whom I was to speak.
A Kenyan minute later (about 60 in real time) I had secured a driver and finally arrived at the office. The named staff people had departed, and they asked me to wait in the seat and “take a number.” I cringed and looked at the clock nearing the closing hour of five PM, but held my composure. Finally I was waived to the counter and a kind woman listened carefully to my issues, asked some good questions, and in short order got the driver on the phone. I practically was atop the counter, leaning hard to hear his response.
“Ah yes, I remember John! He was a nice fellow! I am at my workplace now, and I have his wallet. I intend to deliver it to his residence tonight after work, as I know where he is staying!” A self-created weight melted off my shoulders. “No—I saw no messages as I have been at work. Here I am not able to access online. I can bring it to heem tonight, or he can meet me here at work.”
I chose to meet him eager to simply have the humble bifold in my pocket. Turns out he is doing at least two jobs, this second one in Methare, a very rough impoverished section of Nairobi. By chance it’s directly across from slums I have been within, because the non-profit Alfajiri holds their healing and empowerment workshops there. Certainly not an area one would choose to earn income, if one had options. He was very sincere and extremely apologetic as he handed me the vehicle of my lesson.
I had my new driver deliver me to a local eatery and my energy-depleted body enjoyed a much-needed hearty meal. I ordered myself a celebratory Guinness, and sipped it as I pondered and smiled about the fascinating twists and turns of karmic fate in this most recent 72 hrs of my experience in this comical, mysterious human form.