Rubber-stamping

I can’t help but feel that we Brits have a lot to answer for. The guilt of the ex-colonial power. It’s strange to find in Kenya that, after all the struggle for independence, and with the uniquely African Kenya that we now experience, that the “British way of doing things” is still so prevalent, and often revered to a crazy degree…In this instance, I mean that most British of inventions – bureaucracy.

Yesterday we went to open a bank account. We’d put it off for quite a while, having heard that it would be a time-consuming chore. But now we were running out of cash. So off we went, promising our employers we’d be in the office just as soon as we were done.

As we walked into town (a new achievement to add to our list), we passed the usual rafts of street stalls and shacks. And in amongst the selling of shoes, fruit, tools and trousers, I notice three or four stalls dedicated to “Rubber stamps”. It strikes me as odd. Why would rubber stamps be such a thing that they deserve their own special stalls?

We’re in the bank. We’ve been there for hours. It’s not our first attempt to open our account. We’ve provided paperwork, revised paperwork, proofs of ID, addresses, phone numbers, and in a scene reminiscent of the West Wing, we’ve been asked to “sign here, here, here and here, initial here, sign to acknowledge that I wrote your email address wrong here, sign here, initial here, and then sign here”. Then the same for Helen. Then our bank dude vanishes for an age. Then he returns. Then he sends us away to wait, as “the system is down”. We return a few hours later. And then the rubber stamps appear.

Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. Then he moves on to page two. Of ten. Stamp. Stamp. He stamps four times around each section of the form, then puts his signature in the middle of each stamp. Then a different stamp comes out to stamp the same pages. Stamp, stamp. Then we pay 100 Shillings “to make the form legal”. Isn’t that what the rubber stamps do?

We refrain from derogatory comments, frustrated questioning or sighing impatiently, reminding ourselves to be flexible and adaptable. And eventually, finally, officially, we have a bank account! It’s taken six hours, from 10am to 4pm. This one, perfectly nice Kenyan bank dude has spent an entire day processing one bank account. “Asante sana”, we say warmly.

As we prepare to leave the bank, which is a Barclays by the way, our bank dude observes with a grin that it would have been much quicker, but the British system requires them to do all this. British checks, British bureaucracy, a British bank. Then he slips in a concerned query about the rioting British citizens on London’s street, and suggests that our Prime Minister should call on Kenya for aid. He’s sure Kibaki would be happy to send some Kenyan police for back-up.

We are suitably chastised, and head out into the rush-hour Nairobi streets in urgent need of a beer.