Stereotypically Kalenjin?

I am in Java, in Nairobi, we are drinking coffee then he tells me:

I like Kalenjin chicks like you you know, there’s something about you girls, you understand family you know, community. There’s no way I’ll expect you to be wearing a top that’s showing your cleavage, there’s just something about the way you’ve been raised.

I am in Oasis, in Eldoret, my favorite restaurant from my childhood days, and I’m taking pictures of the surroundings, remembering the corners and crevasses, the hideout spots, when she sees me, and asks me where I am from:

Are you Kale?

I think for a second.

I laugh.

No…hapana…

Ama wewe ni Mkikuyu?

I laugh again.

No…hapana…niko na damu nyingi. I say. I am mixed.

Ei kweli? She asks. Her colleague is seated next to her, and she looks at my skin then she says, Wewe ni Mkale.

Mimi ni mixed. I insist.

Anyway, wewe ni msupuu. You are beautiful. She says finally, and I turn away, amused. So this is where the conversation was going.

I am in Kisumu, I am panicked, I have just lost my purse and I think I dropped it in a tuktuk that I boarded from Oginga Odinga street, so I rush there and meet the tuktuk men and explain my angst, and the chairman assures me that he’ll get to the bottom of it, meanwhile he invites me to seat on a green Kenplast chair under the shade as he works on my case, calling the driver who carried me John Brown, and speaking in rapid fire Luo, then he later seats next to me, facing me:

Wewe hutoki hapa. You are not from here. He says.

Hapana. No, I reply, my mind elsewhere.

Wewe ni Mkalenjin.

Ndiyo. Yes, I reply, my mind elsewhere. I think of my purse. I think of my Kalenjin mother who speaks fluent Luo.

Usijali, sisi tuko organized sana. Hiyo kibeti yako tutaipata saa hii, halafu lunch utatununulia leo…Don’t worry we’ll find your purse right now, then you’ll buy us lunch.

I am still in Kisumu, I am looking for the County Commissioner’s office when he sees me looking around, looking lost. He’s an AP officer and I ask him where the Customer care desk is, so he points to a room that I have already passed, and when I turn to leave he stops me:

Naweza pia kukusaidia. I can also help you.

I tell him I am looking for the County Commissioner’s office, so he points to a tall building at the end of Jomo Kenyatta Highway with a mast on top. Across hapo ni ofisi yake, he says. I will find the building right across.

But before I leave he asks where I am from in a Kalenjin dialect that I barely understand, but I still understand. I say Eldoret. He prods further. Eldoret ono?  Eldoret where? So I say Iten, down there near Iten. Then he says he comes from around there too. And I try to move away, and he points me down again to the building I am now walking towards, and I say kongoi, thank you in Kalenjin, and I walk away quickly.

An everyday story about the ethnic identity markers. Sometimes we don't realize how much we scrutinize each other, or maybe we do and it's so ingrained in us that we no longer notice the many ways we other and categorize each other. This is an everyday story, a common experience. What is yours?