By: KARIMI GATIMI
Last week I went to the CID headquarters to apply for a good conduct certificate. It would be criminal not to commend our officers in that institution. I am averse to police stations, for a number of reasons, aesthetics included.
But I probably spent the entire twenty minutes that I was there open mouthed, surprised by how efficient they were. From the gate, the well-toned, tall officer briskly pointed out the parking, then later ushered me to the finger prints section. There, I met another young officer in overalls, patiently guiding other similarly open-mouthed Kenyans to the relevant sections for whatever they sought.
“Madam, go line up there for payment. Sir, you take your receipt in there for cert collections. Miss, don’t touch the walls with ink! Go wash your hands there!” He gave the instructions almost simultaneously, making me doubt the notion that men cannot multitask.
The queues were forbidding, but incredibly, within twenty minutes, I had already been served. It would all have been a wonderful experience, were it not for the majority of the men I ended up queueing up with.
By: the way, we did not stand for long, only when we had to do the finger prints. They have devised a kind of conveyer system (told you these officers have their game way up there) which allows you to sit for only a couple of seconds and then move on along with the line.
LET ME GIVE YOU A SECRET WEAPON
I have an astute sense of smell, and hence my beef with the men on the queue and basically most of the men in that hall (with the exception of the uniformed, well -toned officer!) Gentlemen, let me give you one secret weapon you can use to win over a woman, any woman. Whether it is to ace that interview with a female boss, or to have your wife agree to sign that document for a capital intensive venture, or to get Alice take up a movie date with you, kindly smell good.
Not perfume smell, but a clean, woody masculine scent, with a hint of soap that lets on that you indeed took a shower that morning.
So, here I was, marvelling at the clean, beige walls inside the finger printing hall, the fast and friendly service and the physically fit officers in there (did I mention this?), when I end up in line, banked on both my sides by two men.
One borrows me a pen, and just the act of opening his mouth, my already squeezed personal space feels desecrated. I give him the pen. I cannot help but notice his long nails.
I do not care whether they are clean or not, a man must never keep long nails. The guy on my left is not any good. He’s