Picture it. Nakumatt Superstore, Suburban Nairobi, 2009. I'd dashed in just for a bottle of wine to take to a dinner party, but the siren song of the popcorn stand near checkout wore me down. I walked over, smiled politely and asked one of the two young men standing near the stand for a bag.He paused and said, "Are you eating it while you shop, or will you be taking it with you?"
Curious question. In my head, I was all, like, "Brah, if I wanna shove every kernel of it up my ass, it ain't your concern. Why you all up in my Kool Aid????"
But I caught myself and said, "I'm just heading out the door, thanks." He scooped up the golden nuggets, filling it almost to the brim, and then placed it beside the machine. I reached for the bag. The young man actually pulled it from my grasp, reached down into a drawer, retrieved a stapler, folded the top of the bag and then stapled it closed. Three times.
ANYEURYSM ALERT!!! Dude, WTF? Once again, one of the myriad cultural nuances of expat life had reared its deformed little head. What is it about Kenya that makes service people staple, fold, tape, and stamp the bejeezus out of every receipt, bag, or envelope during every transaction???
That's when I knew for sure: "Dear Sweet Baby Christ on a Cracker, I need a week in America real soon."
"I'm just sayin', Dawg...."
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