Meeting the Senator

I'm developing a travel routine - come back to Nairobi after flying all night only to find that your bags haven't flown with you. It's the third time this has happened, and this time I had the coolest head of any of the irate people at the Kenya Airways luggage counter on Sunday morning. One guy looked like he was about to rip a phone from a female clerk's hand; a bridesmaid whose dress was in her missing bag was close to tears. The only valuable thing I was missing was body armor, and I was hoping not to need that again for a while.

 

I celebrated my return to Nairobi after six weeks on the road by sleeping until 2 p.m., then an early dinner with friends J. and E., who graciously caught me up on all the gossip of the Nairobi media world. That took about two minutes. Fortunately, there was also E.'s new car to talk about, as well as the visit of Senator Barack Obama to Nairobi, which included a reception for journalists on Monday night.

 

With a mountain of paperwork to catch up on and a story to file about a speech Obama gave Monday afternoon, a cocktail party with a roomful of reporters - Obama or not - was not my idea of a great evening. But having been away for so long it was good to remind people, especially people at the U.S. Embassy, that I still work here. Plus, I didn't have time to get groceries today, and I figured there'd be food. So about 20 min. before E. arrived in the new car, I looked up from my desk at home, put on my least wrinkled "nice" shirt and went.

 

The reception didn't disappoint, as receptions go. Caught up with some fellow journalists, met others from the States who were traveling with Obama. Also ate my fill of appetizers. I had just put a piece of chicken skewer in my mouth when in walks the Senator. I'm standing right by the door with a friend, X., and Obama comes straight for us. He's very personable, and I'm acutely aware of the skewer in my hand. X. and I introduce ourselves, and Obama puts his hand on my shoulder, very Clintonesque. The press attache calls his name, and Obama looks up to address the room, his hand still on my shoulder and mine still holding a chicken skewer. I actually found myself edging away from him, like you would from a weird relative, fearing he would introduce me to the room, in his style of speaking that's at once erudite and at ease, as someone who talks with his mouth full. I wriggled free, Obama's hand fell to his side and E. grabbed the skewer from my hand and discarded it.

 

The lesson is: Eat beforehand.