I thought it was a bathroom, but as I took in my constrained surroundings, I realised it was not a friendly place. I shifted my body and got up. I knocked on the door and shouted for someone to come. A policeman opened the small window (pigeon hole), and the first thing that came to mind was, “Call my embassy, call the embassy of Kenya.” He shut the window, and everything went silent, so I banged on the door and shouted for them to get me out.
The policeman returned, opened the heavy door, and asked me to follow him. I insisted they speak in English. I am not fluent enough for such a sensitive conversation. There were two of them, and they told me I had been arrested for drunk driving. Drunk-driving?? I don’t even own a car! I had been in the company of a lady and was driving her vehicle against the traffic, having left one of Geneva’s famous night spots among the African community, Five Night Club. I have no recollection of leaving the club!
I had been on a six-month break from alcohol, having made a crucial decision to leave my job and relocate back to Nairobi. I needed 100% focus on my transition, which included setting up The Football Foundation for Africa and completing my professional master’s in football business. This evening, I bought some alcohol-free beer and a bottle of whisky for a couple of friends I had invited over. There was no work the next day – a Swiss holiday. I made some meat, as was the norm whenever I had people over, and we enjoyed the evening. When we were winding up, I brought up the idea of going to Five Night Club. I always got excited about hosting people, or so I thought. I broke my six-month fast from alcohol and had a couple of shots before we headed out. A polite night out will do.
It was the early days of Uber, but a surprisingly fancy car rolled up in front of the apartment entrance. It was one of those with winglike doors; in my mind, this signified the start of superstar night. I am still sober even as we get to the club. I admire our ride as it rolls away, and we make our way to the door. The bouncers haven’t seen me in a while. We exchange the usual artificial pleasantries, “Ca va toi? Oui, ca va. Ca fait un moment.” We are ushered and shown to a table not far from the door. We quickly decide on a whisky bottle (Black Label). We pour a round and do the usual cheers. Just then, I notice a lady I know from my diaspora engagements and head over to say hello. We chat briefly and I return to my table, perhaps to pour another shot of whisky, but that’s all I remember—Blacked Out!
I asked the see woman who I was driving, but the officers said something about privacy. I quickly switch to seeking my immediate release. They asked for my residence permit, and I explained to them that I was a student and that the school had applied for the same. I insist they call the Kenyan embassy, which I am confident will be interested in why one of their citizens is being detained. I am told there is no need. I gave them contact information from the school, and they called the Admissions Officer. Everything is okay, but they can’t release me unless they know where I am going. “I live alone; I’ll go home.” (I have lived in Geneva for over nine years). They insist I have to call someone.
I called my friend who I was with at the club. I told him I had been arrested and the police wanted to talk to someone in French. His wife speaks French, so we are covered. I am unsure what the exchange was, but immediately after, the officer disconnects, and everything seems okay. I get excited. A strange feeling engulfs me, a sense of accomplishment as if to say I have done everything there is to do in Switzerland, including a night as a guest of the state. I signed the police statement despite it being in French, and the officers told me they would contact me soon. I leave the station with a bounce in my step. I am eager to go and tell a story I have no recollection of, but I am also curious to know when we separated from my friend. Who was the lady? Maybe I can piece it all together.
I decided to head to my friend’s place first, so I message him, “I’m coming”. He called me back almost immediately and told me to tell his wife we had separated after eating in downtown Geneva. Hmm, that’s not true. According to the police, I was arrested almost right outside the nightclub after having made a wrong U-turn. I am a bit confused, but the excitement is still there. I arrived at their apartment, and they had some food. I excitedly narrate how I woke up in a Swiss cell and how my Swiss experience is complete. I am ready to go home. The issue of where we separated doesn’t come up. It’s unsettling me, so I ask if there’s any alcohol in the house—a quick swig. Cheers to everything!
I call my other friend, Jay. I start narrating to him how I have just been released. He pauses for a bit and then blurts out his usual “WHHHHHAAAAATT ebu kuja kejani (come home)”. I wind up with my friend and his wife and head to Jay’s place.
He’s waiting for me, having also informed his wife. He asks me to tell them what happened. I tell him about the club and waking up in the police cell. Jay had also been at my place the previous evening but had to leave because he had an early morning. I told him about the excitement and that it was my idea to hit the tiles kidogo. Then he asks about Jerome and Derrick. “Have you talked to them? Where did you guys separate?” Brayo umesetiwa (Brian, you have been set up). His wife steps in. “Brian, have you listened to yourself? I know you like to drink, but that is not you. What you’re describing is not the Brian I know.”
Reality begins to sink. I have a massive case on my hand that I have owned up to. I regret the couple of shots that set things off. But I can’t help it. I don’t want to face myself. I ask for a drink. Meanwhile, Jay’s kids skip about innocently. I play with them as if to distract myself from my realities. I drink some more as I try to make sense of what happened. Jay advises that I shouldn’t go home, which is right across the street. Ok. Blacked Out
When I wake up the next day, breakfast is ready. But I need a shower first. I am alive now. Everything is as it should be now. Jay lends me one of his white T-shirts, “Dunga hii, hainitoshangi – kali!” I feel like a brand new second-hand. I enjoy the breakfast amid awkward stares from the kids. Afterwards, Jay proposes that we head down, get some beers, and catch some air in the park. It’s mid-September. It’s still lovely and warm outside. I told him I would head to my place first to get my portable speaker. Come Tomorrow, on my mind.
