Yes, a strange title I know, but this is Africa, where mob justice rules, everything can be bought for a price and a security guard knows more than a banker.
Last month we had a team here in Kenya from Pennsylvania. They gave me some U.S. money that they wanted to be exchanged into Kenyan shillings. A seemingly simple task, but in our little town of Kitale, we don’t have a money exchange forux, so all money has to be exchanged at banks. I didn’t want to go to my bank because in order for me to exchange money there, I have to put it into my account and then write a check and withdraw it in shillings. I thought there must be a better bank that could exchange the money quickly.
For the record, I would have saved a lot of time and frustration if I would have gone to my bank and just put the money into my account.
The first bank I go to is Equity. I follow the “Forux” signs to the third floor where I find the forux counter, closed. I go back downstairs and stand in the inquiry line. Upon reaching the counter they tell me to go back upstairs and ask at another counter. I go back to the third floor and wait in another line. The guy there to “assist me” has no idea where I’m supposed to go and starts making phone calls. He tells me that I need to go back to the first floor and wait in the main banking line and I would be helped at the main deposit counter. I want back to the first floor and saw the line snaking out the front door, an hour wait for sure. I left, already thirty minutes into the seemingly simple task of exchanging some money.
I head over to Standard Charter bank and was thrilled to walk through the doors and see only three people in line. Who knew that three people in line meant 20 minutes of waiting. I got to the counter, plopped the U.S. dollars on the counter and was asked for my account number. I didn’t have one and apparently one has to have an account there to exchange money. I was directed to the newest bank in town, Diamond Trust.
And now, I’m 50 minutes into my “seemingly simple” task of exchanging some money.
I had hope as I walked into the Diamond Trust bank and was greeted by the security guard and one secretary, two of the three staff on duty that morning. The entire banking hall was about 12 feet long and 10 feet wide, including the area where the banker sat and the six-foot secretary’s desk that took up more than half the remaining space. On the positive side, I was thrilled to have found the only air-conditioned room in all of Kitale. I guess when your entire bank is the size of a bedroom; you can afford to keep it cool.
The exchange rates were posted on the wall, that days rate of U.S. to Shillings was $1 for 76 shillings. A good rate compared to some of the other banks.
I could tell that they didn’t get a lot of people exchanging money because the counterfeit machines were kept under the counter. He pulled them out one at a time, blew the dust off and then had to unplug the computer monitor to have a free space to plug the machine into. After he was assured that the money was in fact real, he told me the rate was 74. “But your screen says 76.” I told him.
“Oh,” he said. “that’s last weeks rates.”
“Then turn your screen off if you aren’t giving those rates.” I said.
He chuckled, thinking I was joking. I asked for the manager and was told that she wasn’t in. “I’ll come back,” I said as I took the money back and walked out of the bank annoyed, wondering if I was going to ever be able to change this money over.
I was now an hour and a half into my venture.
I headed to yet another bank and this is where the story gets really interesting. For the purpose of this story we will call this bank X.
I walk into bank X, one of the larger and more popular banks in town. I go upstairs to the forux line. Wait in line for about 15 minutes and finally get up to the counter. I ask the guy what the rate is and if he can change the money over. He gave me the rate and told me that, yes; he could change the money over for me. I passed the money under the counter. As he was counting the money, the security guard comes over with is little stick and baseball helmet. No he wasn’t going to play baseball; this is standard wear for many bank security guards.
The security guy, thinking that because I was a white guy changing money that I must be a tourist and being a tourist, would be ignorant to what he was saying if he spoke in Swahili… Wrong. So he tells the bank teller in Swahili “Tell this guy that he can’t exchange money without an account so he can put the money into my personal account and then we will withdraw it from my account and give it to him.” The teller nodded in agreement to the scam the guard was cooking up.
I was shocked.
The security guy then leaned over to me and whispered, not wanting the other people in the bank to hear:
“You know, you have to have an account here to exchange money, so what you do is deposit it into my account and then we will give it to you. Don’t worry though; this is what we normally do.”
Pause the story here, for a minute. Some people might be wondering what is so wrong with this. First off, it’s Kenya and most people are out for themselves, it’s just assumed. Second, since when does the security guard give banking advice while the banker sits quietly? Really people, how stupid did I look? If I was to deposit the money into this guys account, he most likely would take it and he and the teller would deny that they ever saw me.
I was furious. “Do you hear what he’s telling me?” I asked the banker.
“No problem,” the banker said. “We will just do it this way.”
“Give me my money back!” I demanded in a loud voice. “This is corruption and I won’t play any part in it. I want to see the manager.”
I was told that there was no manger in the bank that day. Yeah, right, a bank of this size with no manger. I asked the guys their names. They told me their names and I walked over to another counter and asked for the manger. I was directed to the inquiry counter downstairs.
After waiting in line yet again, I got to the front of the line and told the guy behind the counter that I needed to talk to the manager. He asked me what the problem was and I told him that the people working at the forux counter where not doing things in a straight way. “Well, I used to work there” he said, “Maybe I can go talk to them.”
“You work at the assistance desk, like you have authority over the guys upstairs.” I thought, but didn’t say.
“No, I need to talk to the manager.” I responded kindly.
“Well,” he said as he slipped a peace of paper under the counter, “write your name here and I’ll go talk to the manger.”
“What difference does my name make; he will see me no matter what I write on that paper.” I told him.
Finally after realizing that I wasn’t going to give up and the line was growing behind me, he walked to the back to talk to the manager. He returned quickly and buzzed me in the back of the banking hall and pointed to the manager’s office.
The manager was shocked as I relayed the story to him. I didn’t care what he did but thought that as the manager, he should know what is happening in the bank he is managing.
As I walked out, I was overwhelmed with different emotions, frustrated that they tried to take advantage of me, happy that I stood for truth and for what was right and a bit scared as I looked over my shoulder half expecting to see the security guard in his baseball helmet chasing me down the road to kill me for making him lose his job. Ok, I really didn’t expect that, but this is Africa.
I returned to Diamond Trust where, after 2 ½ hours of trying to get money exchanged, I was happy to get the lower rate.
And that, my friends, is a day in my life living in Kenya, where mob justice rules, everything can be bought for a price and a security guard knows more than a banker.
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