This archive report was first published on 24 November 2019.
A Journey to Nairobi in 1961 ¶
On March 20, 1961, I stepped onto African soil for the first time, accompanied by my wife Marie. We had flown into Nairobi from London, with a brief stop in Zurich, Rome, and Athens.
As we arrived in Nairobi, it was drizzling, a sign of good omen according to local tradition. We were welcomed by Robert Beaumont, the administrator we had met in London. The murram road from the airport to the town was called 'Princess Elizabeth Highway' at the time.
As we drove through the city, we saw herds of zebras on the side of the road and a few warthogs and gazelles frisking their tails and darting across the road. Beaumont's car came to a jerky halt, and he pointed to a couple of giraffes unhurriedly crossing the road, saying, 'Animals have the right of way here.'
As we entered Delamere Avenue, we noticed that only whites drove posh cars and occupied offices and shops. The 'sons of the soil' seemed to be merely beasts of burden, walking subserviently on the service roads. The Biblical picture of 'hewers of wood and drawers of water' was glaringly obvious and indelibly printed.
However, there was one hope like a silver lining in a dark cloud - the drums of uhuru were beating loud and clear! Kenya was vastly different, still a British colony with a population of seven million, kneaded together as a three-tiered cake.
On top was the icing and the cream derived from political power and a fertile agricultural base, historically belonging to Europeans. In the middle were nuts and marzipan comprising Asian shopkeepers, civil servants, and professionals. Finally, there was the bottom tier, flour kneaded with a little butter, made up of the indigenous population carrying the heavy suprastructure and receiving an increasing burden as time went on.
As Beaumont had mentioned in London, there was no regimented or brazen racial discrimination, but it was exercised in a subtle manner. I became a victim on two occasions, including when we tried to buy a house and were warned that there would be an 'inferno' when the country gained its freedom.
Nairobi was also different, with a population of 300,000. There were no traffic lights, no matatus, no muggings, no traffic jams, no grills on the windows, no walls round the house, and everything worked, including telephone landlines. Nairobi was truly a clean and green city in the sun.
As I was taken round the Aga Khan Hospital, I was disappointed with two introductions that scarcely raised my spirits. One was meeting my predecessor, Mr Teja Mangat, a handsome shaved Sikh who was doing my locum and keeping the seat warm for me.
After Beaumont introduced me, he asked me if I played golf or tennis, and I replied that I didn't play either. He then took me round the 32-bedded surgical unit and I was horrified to see only 14 occupied. Over the next few days, it was brought home to me some reasons for low occupancy, including the unofficial boycott by whites and the inability of indigenous Africans to afford the hospital's rates.
As a result, the hospital was patronised by only the Asians, mainly Ismailis, who travelled from the neighbouring countries. The other incident was when I was taken to meet Wilfred Barber, the senior surgeon and my boss, who said, 'We are not fond of Mcleod here.'
He was referring to the British government minister who had recently visited Kenya and promised early independence to the country above the heads of the diehard settlers who had vowed to convert Kenya into another South Africa. As I was going around the hospital, seeing empty beds and the colossal annual deficit suffered by the hospital, I was determined to change it.
