Pinch Me

Who amongst us hasn’t occasionally thought of shooting a watchie?  Come on, be honest…  Seldom has a week passed without my getting the urge to bust a cap in some blue-suited twit’s ass.  The thing about ‘security personnel’ in this city is that they seem to go out of their way to make your life just that much more difficult.  Now while I am disturbed by DCJ Nancy’s foolish behaviour, to a certain extent I can feel her pain.  That said, Nancy did you really have to pinch her nose?  Really?  That’s just rude.

I was in the city not too long ago and I thought to stop by a friend’s office, and it took me all of 20 minutes to get past security at the reception.  Why?  The building’s owner/management woke up that morning and decided to start issuing security passes in the lobby.  Seems simple enough, doesn’t it?  It wasn’t.  The lobby in question can’t be larger than 3x3m square, and the building has over 10 floors spread over 2 wings, and of course it only has that one entrance open at any given time.  Picture the scene, a tiny desk shoved in a corner, manned by 2 guards (very courteous, by the way), handling the ‘just after lunch’ rush into the building, a loose fifty plus people all late for their 2.00 pm meetings.  It wasn’t pretty, allow me to describe…

The process starts off with you clawing your way through the masses to get to the little desk, just the sort of exertion you need on a hot afternoon.  Once you manage to work your way to the front, that’s when the real fun starts. 

You hand over your ID to the first guard at the desk, he then fills in your details into his brand new ledger, pausing every other minute to inquire about information required but not stated on the ID, phone number, car registration number, ATM pin number, blood type… such like pertinent details.  If you are fortunate enough, you might be the first person on a new page and thus will also get to witness the column creating process, as he meticulously draws each line with his plastic ruler (reminds me of animal kingdom…), a real treat for an idler like you.

Guard Number One then passes your ID to Guard Number Two, who then looks for a security pass for your floor, a process made complicated by the staggering array of pigeon holes on the wall, all clearly labelled 1, 2, 3…, but not in any discernable order.  Pass found, she turns back to you, but doesn’t hand it over.  Noooo…  She proceeds to fill in the details from that pass onto a random slip of paper that looks like it was typed and printed by a one armed secretary, in a moving vehicle, on a dusty road.  Now because the two guards only have the one pen between them, this process may take a while.  Once the charming lady with excellent penmanship (she remembers to dot every i and cross every t) is done, this slip of paper, plus your pass are handed to you and you are instructed to move on to the third guard.

Guard Number Three is the muscle of the group, the bouncer.  He/She will need to scan your body and bag with his/her high-tech hand-held scanner, that which beeps when he/she so much as shakes it.  This to make sure you are not carrying any incendiary devices and such like, building such as this one must be high up on the list of possible targets, no?  Not convinced by the intermittent beeping, Number Three Guard might feel compelled to pat you down, and by that I mean feel the suspicious bulge in your pocket (is that a gun or are you just happy to see me?).  Scan complete and assuming you are not in possession of any grenedi like objects, you then move on to the fourth guard.

Yes, there is a fourth.  Guard Number Four, clearly the diplomat of the bunch, will wave his electronic pass and beep you through the turnstile.  ‘One at a time please,’ he tells the ignorant natives all trying to rush through the gap, now that the end is in sight.  ‘Ngoja kwanza madam,’ he waves his pass dramatically in front of the sensor, but it doesn’t work, forcing him to demonstrate his smooth backhand style, again, ‘Ingia sasa…’ 

Bursting through with a sigh of relief, you confidently walk up to the elevators, eager to get into the cool box with shiny mirrors that will deliver you to your final destination.  But wait, there are no buttons to push, what the…?  Ha ha!  Gotcha!  You didn’t see Guard Number Five, did you?

You track back to the turnstile, to Guard Number Five, who’s standing right next to, nay, practically in the shadow of, Number Four.  He grins an evil grin, he’s the brains of this outfit.  He asks for your random slip, the one you’d already forgotten about and crumpled up in your sweating palms (the lobby has no AC, of course) and then punches your floor number into the lift console, the same console carefully hidden in a dark corner, away from the natives who may want to play with its fancy gadgetry, all day long.  The console spits out a letter, directing you to the appropriate lift. 

20 minutes, that’s how long it took me to get to 6^th floor.  And why was I going to see my pal?  For a chat, I had half an hour to kill. 

Next time I’ll just pull a Nancy and pinch someone!