Dreams Buried: Building 18, Street 644, Al Rayyan, Qatar

My country has an unemployment problem; by some estimates, between 50 and 70 percent of Kenyan youth don’t have suitable jobs. The available jobs pay minimally, and even those jobs, often, people have to acquire through bribery and nepotism. 

In 2017, my friends trooped to Qatar when it required manpower to realise their lofty ambitions for the World Cup. My friends got decent jobs that paid minimum wage, their dreams came true, and it was the start of a new beginning. During the same period, at the age of 25, I was hospitalised for depression. 

For us, a job in the Gulf offers respect, dignity, and security – you are at once able to escape unemployment and find security in a two-year contract that gives you a tax-free income. One would be able to take care of the needs of their family and sometimes even that of the extended family. I had tried many times before to make the journey, but I either lacked travel documents or lacked the resources to pay the huge fee demanded by Kenyan agents.

My mother worked for the IOM in the 90s, and she helped many refugees relocate. I would visit her office and go to understand how basic humanitarian assistance works – that distant memory helped me later while seeking help. After she lost her job and died in 2002, I ended up living with relatives and in the slums of Mathare, Nairobi. That is where I joined a children and youth photography club where we would take pictures, tell our stories from the slums, and hold exhibitions in the slums. Most of the friends who came to Qatar in 2017 were a part of this programme. I won several awards, and I was a rising star in film and photography. After high school, I worked for Kenya’s oldest newspaper, a job I loved so much and was devoted to, but without a degree and dwindling revenues in print media, I was let go by the company. 

I had also worked as a freelance photojournalist for two Kenyan newspapers right out of high school. The pay was not the best, and it wasn’t consistent. There were months I would make money and months where I would not. I had extended family who were my dependents and an uncle who was paraplegic. I had lost both my parents before I turned 10; my cousins and uncle were my family. I needed to help them. The nature of dependencies varied from school fees to hospital bills. I hedged all my bets on a Gulf job. 

Paying for a job

Paying money to do a job is still a concept not many would understand… I don’t understand it myself. I paid a recruitment agent in Nairobi almost US$1600. That is a lot of money in Kenya — enough to start a small business or buy a small piece of land. A business would have been most viable, but it requires patience and time to grow. If I had taken a loan to start a business, it would have had to pay me right away. That would not have been possible… same for buying land, agriculture would have taken time to yield profits. So many of us take the decision to borrow money to fly to countries in the Gulf and pay it back slowly. I must also add that it is more difficult to convince someone who is a loan shark to lend money to invest in Kenya. They know the risk of default is very high.

Decades ago, most of the agents were genuine, but with increasing desperation for jobs abroad, many agents have turned into swindlers. Some of us are lucky, but some of us lose huge amounts of money. This money is mostly borrowed from loan sharks or acquired from the sale of family property. I borrowed the KES180,000 (US$1400) to travel – in fact, I begged for the money from a loan shark, promising a 7% percent interest per month. I had to pay back KES12,000 (US$93) per month as interest alone over six to seven months. For me as a Muslim, that was not something I was supposed to do, but that was the only option. My colleagues paid a lot more – even as high as KES40,000 a month, so I was lucky. 

I paid the agent, Hellen Dolly Konya of Mulinya Manpower Agency Limited, but I never met her until the day before our departure. She just arranged everything remotely and set up medical tests for STIs, tuberculosis, and any other disability that may come in the way of my productivity. It took three long months from receiving the offer letter to securing a flight. The offer letter was in the name of ‘Styt Byldynj Lkhdmat Altawsyl’ (State Building Delivery Services). On the day of my departure, I was very excited because taking a flight itself was a perk, something everyone envied and aspired to. 

I had prepared and manifested for many months, I had studied the laws of Qatar and spent hours looking at content made for the country, from the airport to the metro. I really wanted to join my friends who went in 2017. They went during a good time; they benefited. We grew up together, and hearing their stories, I felt I was missing out on something. This was a lifetime achievement. Success would mean I get to buy a plot of land, build a small house, or at the very least buy a motorcycle – climbing one rung at a time up the social ladder.

There were 10 of us who came together, though we didn’t know each other before that day, and we were all going to work as ‘dabbabs’ – delivery riders. I had never even ridden a motorcycle before I got the offer. I rode it just once in April when I knew I had to go do this job as a desperate attempt to get a hang of it. Of course, when I landed in Doha, I realised they ride on the other side of the road, and it was pretty intimidating as we are not used to that. 

Except for me, none of the others were given a contract until we reached the airport. And even the offer letter I was given had no date or signature. We were given a 10-page document that included the contract, agency details, visa, and tickets. We were only expected to sign it there; they could not even read it then. Only when we reached Doha were we allowed to read it. Many of the others were first-time fliers and were anxious and didn’t know to ask the right questions. The only reason I was convinced was because I had gone online and checked my visa validity – issued on 18 March 2024 and valid until 3 September 2024 – and the employer was stated as ‘Shabwa for Trading in Food’ (which was a subsidiary of the company we received the offer from). Though the visa said labourer, I was informed that it did not matter and that all of us would be riders. Seeing the visa online convinced me of its legitimacy.

We flew out from Nairobi on a sunny afternoon on 4 June 2024 to Sharjah, UAE, on an Air Arabia flight. As soon as we landed, we were segregated – Africans in one area and Asians in another. There were about 500 Africans cramped into a space – those coming to the Middle East to work and those who were returning after finishing their contract. They were mostly women, from Kenya, Uganda, Zimbabwe, Malawi… The guards at Sharjah were harsh; we were treated like we were subhuman, but we were dazzled by the bright lights and spectacle that is the UAE. 

We spent the night, around 12 hours, at the airport. We didn’t eat anything but a small sandwich on the first flight and had to sleep on the floor. Air-conditioning is not common in Kenya, so we had to endure a very chilly night. On 5 June, we boarded a flight at 8 am and arrived in Doha at 8 am. It’s the first time I was aware of crossing a time zone, as I had slept through the flight from Nairobi to Sharjah.

From the doorway of hope to hell’s gate

I was excited – the airport was clean and organised. Everything ran smoothly. Little did I know that it was the beginning of a nightmare. We spent eight hours at the airport. If we had spent any more time, we would have been deported. The officials had already started questioning us about our long stay at the airport. Kennedy Maina, a Kenyan national, was the supervisor – or at least he introduced himself as such – who was supposed to get us from the airport had finally arrived. He claimed that the car had broken down. Kennedy was the one in touch with the agent in Kenya and arranged all this.

So we were taken from the airport in two Ubers. I watched as we passed the glitz and glam of Doha to the Industrial Area in Al Rayyan, where it’s not as fancy, where people who don’t fit the aesthetics of Doha get housed. It was not posh or polished, but I came to work, and I was determined to make ends meet. I was prepared for success.

We got off at street 644, beside a dumpster. “It’s a ghetto, it’s on the wrong side of town,” is what my friend who stays in Doha would tell me, but that didn’t affect me one bit. We got into a room where we found mattresses on the floor and Kenyan cornmeal flour, cooking utensils, and chicken. To us, chicken is a luxury, so we prepared a meal with excitement, and we rested on the floor. We had to be fast learners, the kitchen was communal, and our foods and habits differed from our fellow flatmates.

The accommodation

Kennedy later came with bunk beds, and the group of us assembled everything. We drifted slowly to sleep with dreams of a bright future. Ten of us, sleeping in one tiny room. 

At 3 am, I was woken up by the call to prayer. As a Muslim man, it took me by surprise to see the sunrise at 3 am. I went to pray, the Quran recitation at the mosque had a heavy Bengali accent, and by the time I got back, the sun was out and scorching. The Bengalis and Pakistanis were very interested in us because we were a strange sight. It’s not common for Kenyans to be seen in these areas; there were misunderstandings and hostilities initially, but that later changed to brotherly support – they would offer us meat, fish, and Arabic bread whenever they had surplus. As a Muslim, I thought I would fit well in Qatar. I thought my 14th-century basic Quranic Arabic would help me assimilate. But it didn’t.

Kennedy also told us that we would not be paid for the three months we spent getting the licence, and the fee would be deducted from our salaries – QR533 (US$146) per month — for three months, when we will receive only QR1267 (US$347) cash in hand out of the QR1800 (US$493) promised. We were not expecting to be paid. The offer letter also stated that we were not entitled to any food or medical cover. We had carried food from Kenya to last us for a couple of weeks. Flour, dried fish, and dried vegetables. We were ready for anything and everything. 

We were to do a medical test on arrival, paid for by the employer, and then after we got our Qatar ID (residency permit), we were supposed to sign up for driving classes. Even the salary of QR1800 was contingent on us doing 300 deliveries per month, and then we could stay off work. All the riders we spoke to after we arrived said it was not possible and that it was less than the norm.

Kennedy visited us only at night, and he gave promises upon promises for the first two weeks, but he later claimed that the Chadian partner, Abdoule Djidda Idriss, was on pilgrimage to Saudi Arabia. He then sent us a video of the boss at a wedding. As the weeks went by, we took every story with a pinch of salt. To get by, we would receive mobile money transfers from Kenya and then convert it to Qatari riyals. The money changers were Kenyan bootleggers who sell moonshine. That’s where Kennedy had taken us. That was a big red flag about Kennedy.

I only had 1000 shillings, and I changed it to 27 riyals (US$7). I negotiated with the caretaker of the building, and he installed WiFi for QR25 so that I could connect with my cousins back home. With the two riyals left over, I bought two cigarettes.

Two weeks in, Kennedy had abandoned us completely. I would walk around in the evening to look for Kenyans or just go look to have a conversation with anyone. I was anxious. I noticed during my walks that I have not seen a female or a child in two weeks. It was a very strange world. By now I was supposed to have done a medical test, and my residence card should have been processing, but I was stuck, and there seemed to be no information coming to us. I spent the next two nights hungry. That’s when it hit me – there was no job. 

I spent hours browsing the internet for details about the company to no avail. Kennedy was nowhere to be found; our agent in Kenya kept reassuring us that we would soon find jobs. Whenever he called me, he changed his tone and became more aggressive and threatening. He threatened to have us deported, so we clung to every word he uttered. We lived in fear and uncertainty. My colleagues included people from different walks of life, some from rural areas and others from the city, with different upbringings and different ethnicities. They all wanted a job, but now they were abandoned in a strange country where everything was bewildering – I was almost run over by a car while crossing the road because I wasn’t used to right-hand driving. 

Once I reached Qatar, some of my old friends did meet me and tried helping me. I would go out every day, job hunting with them. They guided me. I clung to my faith, I prayed five times a day, hoping for a breakthrough. This was an elaborate plan to swindle Kenyans. Fleece them in Kenya and abandon them in Qatar. Kennedy was one link in this scam. Slowly we pieced together information about him – he was fired by a security company and now does illegal deals to survive, we heard. He is also known to be a distributor of moonshine in Qatar. Rumour has it that the reason he is never seen in daylight is because he is undocumented. We were also told that he has a wife and a child who live with him.

Complaint documents and requirement list for job change

List of requirements to get another employer and a new visa

The official complaint document. It cost QR15 to obtain from a cybercafé. Printed, signed by the complainant, and then submitted to the labour office. Once received, the complainant and the employer received a summons via sms

Qatar’s complicity in trafficking and abuse

After the third week, I realised the Kenyan employment agency, Kennedy, and other Kenyans who lived in Qatar didn’t have the answers I wanted. I would spend hours on the rooftop just planning and budgeting the QR1800 that was to be my salary. Meanwhile, I had also called 999 and was advised to go to the labour department and file a complaint. That’s when a Nigerian friend also advised me to go to the labour department. I took a friend who I trusted, and we went the following day. Kennedy had intimidated everyone and warned us against going there. I filed my case, and I was confident I would get a hearing where I finally would meet the employer.

I walked all the way to the labour office – it was a 14-kilometre walk in total that took us more than 2.5 hours each way. We risked getting heat stroke in our quest to hold the employer accountable. The Kenyan security at the Al-Rayyan labour office gave us hope; we explained our case in Kiswahili, our national language. I admired the clean and pristine looks of the male guard; I wanted to be a security guard like him. We felt like our struggle was finally over. I felt like a superhero getting to solve our problems so that we get our jobs and go on with life.

Two days later, I was summoned to the labour office by text message. Upon reaching, I was informed that because I don’t have a QID, I was prevented from seeing any official at the labour office. To this day, I still wonder why I was prevented from seeing a judge just because I did not have a QID, yet it was the same government that issued my visa. I had no way of issuing a QID for myself. It was hard to comprehend.

On my second visit, I was given a document written in Arabic by a lady at the labour office to go job hunting with – it had a list of requirements so I could get another employer and a new visa. The employer who brought me to Qatar never showed up. I tried job hunting in shopping malls like Vendome, Tawar, and Villagio, and private security companies. But no employer was willing to hire me with a different visa because they did not want to bear the cost of the paperwork for the transfer of sponsorship. I tried pursuing legal action, but I couldn’t report the crime without a QID.

I went job hunting every day for a month. They would all say the same thing: No QID, no job. I blame the Qatari government for being an accomplice to my stolen dreams because how can an individual or business import labour without proving that he has an office? How can my agent not know that the company doesn’t exist? And finally, I blame my desperation: How did I fall for all this?

Using a fictitious registered business, Kennedy, Idriss, and two other Qataris were able to get visas and sell to Kenyan employment agencies. The agencies know, but they take advantage of people’s desperation and look the other way. The Qatari police and authorities turn a blind eye also because they can’t prosecute a fellow Qatari, while companies like this keep trafficking workers. There is even proof of two money transfers to Idriss’s Qatar account on 8 April and 28 May for sums of US$3500 and US$3600.

Even as I pondered over all this, I kept trying and dropped off my CVs in so many places, but the summer period and the recession in Qatar did not help. Only illegal construction work was being offered. They would promise to pay but disappear after the work was done. 

Money transferred to one of the partners for the jobs

Justice is a joke

I became a regular at the labour office. Many workers there had disputes lasting eight months. That’s when I gave up and contacted several international human rights groups. One month in, in the middle of all this, seven others were picked up in a truck from the airport and dropped off to share the already cramped room. When 10 went up to 17, we had to sleep in shifts while others were sleeping on the rooftop. It was so pathetic even by African standards; the accommodation was also not hygienic with so many of us sharing the space. Of the many organisations I reached out to, just one had responded, offering to help. They connected us to a regional rights organisation, Migrant-Rights.Org. The two together helped us pay rent for a second room, with provisions to tide us over a few weeks.

I became the unofficial leader of the 17 people. It was in July, and things were terrible in Qatar, and Kenya was in turmoil. We were suffering. This all happened in a span of two months, but for us it was very long and very stressful. 

The Kenyan embassy didn’t offer any assistance, and they categorically said that they don’t offer repatriation assistance. In any case, we didn’t want to go back home because we were already in Qatar and we wanted jobs. But we were left with no choice but to return. At this time, members of the group would vent out their frustration by fighting, smoking, and drinking. Fights would get out of hand. I would try to just ignore and lose myself in social media to distract myself; isolation worked best for me.

I didn’t like the idea of going back home empty-handed, but the wait was taking a toll on me. I assumed the role of a leader, coordinating food rations, rent payments, attending to the sick, quelling fights, assigning chores, doing translations, providing counselling, not forgetting – giving basic Islamic teaching to two converts who converted at the airport. I became loved and hated in equal measure. 

I was willing to stay and fight to the end; I wanted to sue the company and its partners for engaging in trafficking. I wished to pursue the case. I wanted someone to be held responsible, but seeking justice in Qatar is not the easiest task. I called 999 for a non-emergency complaint, I went to the police twice, I went to the Criminal Investigation Department (CID) once, and finally I approached an Al Fazaa (enforcement) officer on the streets. I explained that I wanted to report a crime, but he never wanted anything to do with our complaint. That’s when I gave up.

I came, I saw, I failed.

On 2 August, I boarded a plane back home paid for by the organisation that helped me. I took one last Karak chai, then one last shower, and set off for the airport. I came back broke and broken. I don’t think I really want to go back to the Gulf. At 32-years-old, I am not as young as I used to be. I needed solace, and I took two days alone at a guesthouse in Nairobi to think and ponder about how I will pay back the money I owe people. I travelled to Western Kenya to see my extended family… I found the hibiscus plants I planted have grown, and my cat is also bigger. I never want to go back, and I will have to make a life here in Kenya despite its challenges.