In search of good conduct

What trauma.

I went in search of a certificate of good conduct yesterday. I'd been told one should go to the CID HQs or something so I headed to Kilimani, only to be told they'd moved to Muthaiga. A 44 and a long walk later, I arrive at the place. There's a queue outside the first building you see so I join it, like the guy who'd been walking ahead of me. I ask, in a rather hesitant manner and not to anyone in particular, if I'm in the right queue. "It has to be", comes a reply.

The queue leads up to the side of the building, where 2 people take payment and furnish receipts through a couple of windows. I start wondering whether this is how the architect intended this particular part of the complex to be used. It look so natural. Anyway. Traumatic thought number 1: That lady on the other side of the window writes receipts all day long. I wonder how many receipt books she fills.

After you get your receipt, apparently you go over to a kiosk in the vicinity to make a copy of your ID and the just issued receipt. Again my mind starts to wonder. There's a copier in that kiosk? What happens if there's a blackout, as is frequent these days with the rains. Wait. Does the kiosk have power or is it some car-battery type operation. It's a coca-cola kiosk!

I go to the shop. There are, in fact, 2 copiers. Some sodas, toilet paper and cigarettes [Kings pekee]. That's all. We hold out our IDs and receipts to the guy in the shop. He takes 5 sets at a time and does his thing. He works the copiers in enviable harmony. A maestro.

I leave the kiosk and follow yet another guy to the next step of this amazing process. There are no directions or enquiry desks so your best bet is to follow the guy in front of you. We head down to what seems like an underground parking lot. Indeed I can see a couple of cars parked on one side. I turn right and am immediately struck by what I see. A mass of humanity. Hussle and bustle. Melee. I don't know how to describe that scene. All I could do was smile.

The rest of the parking area has been converted into a huge office, open plan of course. There are desks to the far end and some towards the side. At one of these desks on the side, a guy is writing furiously into some thick book details from a heap of forms he has. The book is huge. It's new. He's on the first few pages. I wonder how long it took him to fill the last one. I imagine that he's writing names but can't figure out why.

The rest of the space in this underground office is taken up by seats, neatly arranged in rows. Periodically, people keep standing, moving to other seats, sitting, then standing again... I ask someone next to me in disbelief. "Is this a queue?". I can't help but feel silly as I join this queue, moving from one seat to the next like a more predictable form of musical chairs. I'm thankful there are seats though. We are like 50 guys in here.

I get to one of the desks where fingerprints are being taken. Mine are probably fingers number 15,880 today. As the lady presses my fingers onto the designated areas on some form, I wonder how they do fingerprint analysis or comparison. I can't even imagine how they'll do it, and figure out that I'm not a fugitive.

Finally, I hand in the paraphernalia in my possession to yet another guy. This one proceeds to stamp each of the 4 pieces of paper I have. He stamps every piece of paper everyone has. All day. Stamping away.

I leave the place shaking my head. Wondering how this process even works because there were people who'd come to collect their certificates, and actually got them. One guy told me it was his 7th time there. I felt for him. I felt for everyone involved in this whole process.