Misery of hunting for the elusive new passport

Members of public lining up at South Rift Immigration offices in Nakuru town on June 12, 2019 to apply for their passports. [Kipsang Joseph/Standard]

I thought I was as prepared as any Kenyan could be to face Nyayo House.

I did my research online and consulted widely. But when I got to the Department of Immigration Nairobi offices, I found out that no one can really prepare you for what you meet.

First, the situation at Nyayo House is so fluid that your experience will differ almost completely from another person’s.

Someone I know went to apply for his passport at 5.20am and was out a short two hours later. Another went at 6am and left after six hours.

I figured if I got there at 5am, I would beat all these times. But I did not. Not even close.

Last week Wednesday, at a dark, cold and lonely 4.50am, I was in town walking towards Nyayo House, confident I would be out by 7am.

I might have even bragged about how the system can work for all. I am now struggling to live my words down.

The first queue I found was for men. It had about 150 people. I walked on, imagining the women’s queue would be shorter. It was not.

I could not immediately trace the end of it so I asked around and was gleefully directed to the back and found a line that had several twists and turns. At 5.01am, I finally found my spot.

There is a sense of camaraderie in shared misery, so tales of past experiences with the Nyayo House queue were liberally shared as we waited for the gates to open at 6am.

“This is my third time here,” a lady in front of me said.

“Last week, I came at 10am and the officers laughed when I said I had come for passport application. They told me to come back the following day at 3am.”

The following week, she got to Nyayo House at 5.45am. She queued, went past the security entrance and settled to wait.

At 8am, she and hundreds of others behind her were told to come back the following day; the department was not processing more than 700 applications that day, and they did not make the cut.

“Today, I was at the stage by 3am, but the matatu took long to fill up. There aren’t many people trying to get to town at that time. I got to the queue at 4am.”

Her story was not unique. Nearly half of the people around me were making their second or third attempt at getting the e-Passport ahead of the August 31 deadline when the old passports will cease to be used.

Harsh judgements

Interspersed with these stories was the kind of social commentary Kenyans deliver so expertly, harsh judgements on women who ‘had not covered their babies warmly enough’ for the morning chill, and banter with an armed officer who kept asking why so many Kenyans are trying to run away from their country.

“Yesterday, this queue was just as long. Last week, it was the same. Where are you all going? Love your country,” he told us.

“But this country doesn’t love us,” one woman shouted back.

The response was met with uproarious laughter, deserved it or not.

At 6am, the security gates opened. Someone told me to run immediately I got through security, but an armed officer quickly put the brakes on this grand plan, threatening to take people who ran to the back of the line. We adopted a fast trot in response.

We got into our new line at 6.15am. The next time I took a step forward was at 7am.

And then a man in a suit came by counting people. At 7.17am, the hundreds of people who had wrapped around the perimeter fence of Nyayo House were asked to come back the following day. Some of them had joined the queue at 5.30am.

Trading stories

At 7.57am, we had barely made any forward movement when the man in the suit came back with ticket stubs. I was number 457 after a three-hour wait and a 5am arrival.

At 9.30am, we finally caught sight of the waiting bay. By this time, those of us still in the queue outside were hungry, thirsty and cold, and could barely muster any energy to keep trading stories or complaints.

At 10.10am, we finally got to lean on the walls of the waiting bay. And then we did not move again for 40 minutes.

At 10.50am, we got into the bay only to be met with the sight of more than 200 other Kenyans resigned to spending the whole day at Nyayo House.

After another 40 minutes without so much as shifting slightly in my seat, I gave up.

At 11.30am, six and a half hours later, I handed my number to a woman behind me who was making her second attempt at applying for a passport. She had lacked the essential documents during her first trial.