To be sure, Zeinab had trailed him to all manner of restaurants, dainty little cafes and nearly every other noisy and quiet corner of the city. Now there was no doubt about it—her husband Musa was seeing another woman.
Curly black wig and tinted cat-eye glasses framing her face and a scarf swathed around her neck, Zeinab threw furtive glances at the pair sitting three tables away. Sinking low into the red leather seat of the restaurant booth, she opened a menu booklet and held it up to her face just like the article she found online suggested. Tip 5 in ‘Who Needs a Private Investigator When You Can Catch the Bastard Yourself?’ stated, “When carrying out surveillance in public or within close proximity of the subject, dress in a manner and style unlike your day-to-day inclinations. However, remember to blend in with the environment. Keep your face fully hidden but make sure that your eyes are focused on the target at all times.”
I was delighted to find my cousin waiting for me when I got off the bus. She’d arrived from Nairobi around 8:00 p.m., dropped off her luggage then returned to wait for me at the bus company’s office from 9:30 p.m. We threw my bag into the backseat and happily chatted on our way to her house.
Settling in for my first night’s rest in the town, I was grateful for the chilly breeze that intermittently blew through the window. That, coupled with the sand made Garissa feel like a nicer Mombasa—weather-wise anyway and if you aren’t into the whole “Ocean” thing. Before completely nodding off, I called family and friends to inform them of my safe arrival as well as to request my sister to urgently courier my National ID.
I’ve had a lot of time on my hands since I resigned from my job this February (a little earlier than planned actually). The plan now is to relax, write and travel for the better part of 2013. Therefore, I decided to kick things off with a short trip to Garissa. My lovely cousin has been working there for over a year as a dentist and I missed hanging out with her. Therefore, just before she travelled to Nairobi for a nephew’s wedding, we planned how I’d make the return trip with her.
As is customary, I was late for my bus. Due to miscommunication and the temporary death of “Sexy Pants: The Sequel” (my cell phone), I arrived in town at 2:00 p.m. Too bad that was also the departure time for the Garissa-bound bus we were meant to travel together in. Thanks to the awesome ability to recall the telephone numbers of family members, I eventually got my cousin’s number and learned of a second bus leaving that same day. The only catch was that I had to board it at the bus terminal in Eastleigh before 3:30 p.m.