Travelling around Africa in 36 hours, and marvels of our Kenyan democracy

I am writing this from the shore of the Atlantic Ocean, in Dakar, Senegal, where I have been for the last 36 hours, and from where I depart in a few hours. Well, well, the cycles of my life spin so fast these days, I measure the passage of time in hours, especially if I am going to spend most of my waking hours in airports.

My trip from Nairobi was ordinary and seamless, flying on an airline that I was encountering for the first time: ASky. I assume the “A” is for Africa because its marketing mantra is “the pan-African airline.”

We were well fed (which is something airlines can no longer afford to do), and which was surprising because the flight was nearly empty. So generous were they, when I asked if the red wine was sweet or dry, I was offered both white and red by a hostess who I later found scrubbing the toilet. That might sound like strange division of labour; a hostess who cleans.

We descended into the Gnassingbe Eyadema International Airport in Lome rather suddenly, named for the OG dynast who ruled, alongside his son, Faure, for a very long time. It was a clear, humid day, only 11.30am local time, with a 12.30pm connecting flight to Dakar. We tracked the boarding gate but we were turned away. Our flight was delayed and would be boarding from a different gate at a time that was not disclosed.

Not a good sign. That was the ping-pong that would go on for one, two, three four hours… Surprisingly, my growing irritation appeared to be isolated. The rest of the passengers appeared more bemused than upset.

Finally, we boarded. And waited. Nothing doing other than a toddler wailing in the back of the plane because, I suspected, the air-conditioning was inadequate. Another announcement was made. We were waiting for passengers coming from Niamey, and who needed to board our plane to Dakar.

To keep us motivated we were offered sound snack that tasted like sawdust. The passengers from Niamey arrived. One of them sat next to me. He said he was travelling from Yaounde and his flight from there had been delayed, too.

Still, the plane did not move. The toddler, perhaps more irritated than me, wailed at the top of its lungs. The announcer returned. The passengers grumbled their disapproval from the lilting French inflections that were later translated as follows: The flight’s captain (pilot) had exceeded his or her flying time. So, another pilot was on the way to relieve him or her.

I always thought that it’s more expensive to ground planes, but here was instance where grounding pilots was more expensive. We waited for the exalted pilot to arrive. Minutes ticked away. Five, ten, 15…

I had no idea if the fabled pilot was travelling by road, rail, water, or air, so when the announcer returned on air, I was anxious for an update. I got a sense that things were not going well from the grumbles that grew louder and longer. Then came the English translation. The passengers were required to disembark…

And just like that, one by one, they left, many bearing bemused expressions on their face, shaking their heads in disbelief, clutching their small tins of njugu karanga mixed with fragments of kaimati that tasted like dust.

Had that happened in Nairobi, I was certain what would have happened. All passengers would have been shuttled to the nearest five-star hotel, a firm commitment for the next available flight would have been communicated and apologies published. And that wouldn’t have stopped the fiasco from going viral.

Those are the dividends of our democracy, the sort that demands a little more respect for the citizens from those who purport to wield power. We were grounded for eight hours, only making it to Dakar 24 hours after I had left Nairobi, sleep-deprived and discombobulated by the experiences of the last dozens of hours.