For me, the challenges have mainly been around work, work identity and acquistion of work permits. It started with the induction visit, where I was told, very firmly, in 1950s tones, that 'It's very difficult to get a work permit here. Your job will be to support your husband. We might, over time, be able to get you a nice little admin job here.' D's hand firmly on my knee stopped me from savaging the messenger with a blow by blow account of my professional credentials, and tarnishing our first joint visit to his new office.
Despite the rocky start, for the first year I was mainly content to bide my time, acclimatise, and concentrate on finding my way through the shrubbery. Lots of strategising maybe, scribbling in a hotly held workbook with today's newly acquired smart gel pen, laying plans, but a generally calm, if fallow, period. But then, in response to advice from the Ministry, I managed to set up a Kenyan registered company, and the fun started in trying to obtain a work permit to go with it.
Firstly you can't get reliable information. Having submitted my first application in compliance with the explanatory email from the Ministry, three months later I then receive word that none of what is written in the email is correct. Fill in another form, apply under another heading, disregard that coherent email, start again.
It wasn't that I was unrealistic at the outset, I thought. A friend had prepared me for a long wait. Hired for an urgent timelimited job, after 4 months she was issued with a work permit in the name of her husband. Back to the drawing board. Then her papers got lost. 8 months till she received the (simpler) employee permit.
How much DO you need to invest to demonstrate you have enough capital to get a work permit as a sole trader? One might imagine that maybe £15,000 plus a comprehensive insurance bond would be enough? No, no, £200,000 I was told, and it must be lodged in a Kenyan bank. On the other hand, others say you just need to demonstrate that level of capital, for example, safely in bricks and mortar in a UK house. And still others say $50,000 must be enough. And I'm not trying to set up a boutique hotel. Not planning to employ anyone. Only supporting people to find and create employment. Could be defined as 'of benefit to the Kenyan economy'. One more potential worker, aiming to create her own employment, willing to pay Kenyan taxes. And supporting jobseekers in a developping country, unlikely to earn megabucks. But further digging just results in further tentative, partial responses.
Then there's the corruption issue, 'graft' as its known here. My bottom line is to seek to do this reputably. Not to undermine the valiant attempts by many Kenyans not to bribe. Not to create a market for the bribeable. But its easier said than done. The effective way to get a permit is to use a fixer. No standing in queues for days, no seeking to develop a schmoozing register to one's Kiswahili, no trying to understand the impenetrable yourself. But the fixers bribe. Mainly. One stalwart sole trader predecessor, steadfast against bribery, struggled for 3 years before his permit was awarded. And then, a fortnight ago, 12 staff from the Ministry of Immigration were sacked for corruption. Gossip mills allege that permits had been bought for between £2,000 and £10,000 (on top of the £2,000 official fee). And word on the street is that issuing of any work permits at all, even those legal to the hilt, has ground to a halt, as the staff in the Ministry are fearful that any decision taken at all will put them next in the firing line.
I understand that things are done differently in different places. In Germany, where I've also lived and worked, official regulations are complex, but are written down and applied stringently. Woe betide you if you forget or misplace one certified, translated copy, but what you need is clearly laid out in paragraph 3.6.3.1. In UK, regulations are transparent, there's a recognition that filing systems may sometimes be chaotic, and there's always potential for a conversation with a sensible administrator to cut through problems. In Belgium things are murkier. Presentation of the right party card on the table at the appropriate moment can overcome mountains. Unlikely candidates and project proposals may win through, thanks to judicious application of a 'piston', a word in the right ear from a VIP mover and shaker. What I don't yet understand is the officially sanctionned but effective way to go about things here.
I've got professional experience in international, local and regional organisations. I've been nominated for prestigious awards. I speak three world languages fluently, and have worked, more or less competently, using another 3 less widely spoken ones. I have professional qualifications and experience needed and in short supply in the Kenyan labour market. I even have potential clients who want to hire me. I'm not a former axe murderer or a potential arms dealer. You might think that might make a difference. No.
I try to tell myself it isn't personal. And sadly, it isn't. I interviewed jobseekers, jobholders and employers here last year for my dissertation. One jobseeker, aged 18, stands out. She'd done well in her KCSE (A level) exams, gaining the top grades which would mean she could get government funding and a place to study Medicine. But she was the eldest child in her family, now responsible for helping find the school fees for her younger siblings. Her former school wouldn't release her KCSE certificate to her, to allow her to apply to university, because her family still owed 14,000 KSh (about £120, the whole of a good monthly salary) in unpaid school fees. All the family's spare cash was now going to her younger siblings' fees, and she couldn't see when, if ever, she, or they, would have enough surplus to secure her certificate. She had found work as a teacher, but without the key certificate, and with her former headteacher unwilling to pick up the phone and speak out on her behalf to explain the situation, lost the job again. I passed her some cash to start paying off the debt, to demonstrate faith that she would one day reach her goal, but its one small drop in the ocean of impeded jobseekers.
Another interviewee, a mechanic, had been searching for work, in vain, for ten years. Searching for work here means tramping, dressed in borrowed best clothes, knocking on doors, engaging in conversation, bypassing gatekeepers, bribing to gain access, presenting certificates, waiting, returning, pressing. Each working day for the last ten years, he's been on the road somewhere in Nairobi, asking for work as a mechanic. In vain. Discussing his situation and the feedback he'd had over the years, it became clear that his training as a mechanic, gained on a Kenyan government youth employment scheme, actually wasn't at a high enough level to gain him work. He had heard this - he bitterly repeated the words of the employer who'd explained it to him - but had so much invested in this future, that he'd been unable to roll with the punches and change direction. Unwilling to seek further training or opt for work in another line. Head down, just keep on trying.
So I suppose feeling that one has skills, expertise and commitment to offer, but no place to go because of insurmountable, implacable, indecipherable obstacles, is part of the African experience. Someone spoke once of a 'wilful obstinacy' and for me, that seems to sum it up. This time does help me identify more deeply with my interviewees, and with other jobseekers, here and elsewhere. But if you ask me, its no way to run a country. No way to make a population feel valued. No way to power an economy to the next level. Its a cruel waste of talent. And a tragic loss of Kenyan potential. And I'd like to be out there, helping support those impacted by it, rather than sitting drinking coffees in a plush cafe, waiting for school pickup time.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please do leave a comment, it is good to hear from you.