Liberties There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence

“This is Jane calling from central Kenya. Sasa, so, I am in a lesbian relationship, and we are hoping to get married, and I would like to pay bridewealth to my partner’s father, but we don’t know how to bring this issue up with him because he thinks we are just friends.” The voice spills from our taxi’s radio, tuned to one of the FM call-in stations that have recently begun to proliferate in Kenya — perhaps Radio Maisha, Lifestyle Radio, or Classic 105 Kenya.   It is July 2018, and my daughter Ada and I are seated in the back of the taxi. Ours is one of at least two hundred cars stuck in traffic at a major roundabout on one of Nairobi’s main thoroughfares. The four traffic policemen manning the roundabout have let the vehicles in the other three lanes enter and exit the circle twice, but we remain stuck, packed as tightly as kernels on an ear of corn. Three rows of motionless vehicles, as still as a parking lot. All the while we are being assailed by brash vendors, both men and women, selling bottled water, peanuts, bananas, padlocks, tea strainers, and all kinds of plastic merchandise from China or Thailand.   Apparently, it is a common practice for the police to rotate the traffic jam on each of the four roads feeding into the roundabout so that the vendors have captive customers throughout the day. It just happens that it is time for vendors to “eat” from our side of the road. We have been sitting in the traffic for almost ten minutes now, listening to the radio.   “So, are you the husband in the relationship?” The male host of the radio asks with a hint of mockery. Before Jane can answer, another male caller interrupts: “This is interesting. So, you are the husband in the relationship, and you want to pay bridewealth. Instead of wasting money like that, why don’t you give it to me, and I will pay bridewealth for my wife?”   “Sasa, now,” Jane replies bashfully. “You don’t understand, but my girlfriend and I are passionately in love, and we have been living together for three years now and we want to get married and make it official.”   Ada and I exchange glances. “Make it official,” I wonder out loud. “But gay marriages are not legal in Kenya.” The government claims that same-sex relations are a foreign transgression and that they pollute Kenyan religious and cultural values. According to the law, the penalty for those found engaging in homosexuality is fourteen years in prison. George, our taxi driver, smiles but does not say anything.   “What?” Another woman caller interjects. “A woman wants to marry a woman and pay bridewealth for her? You people are showing bad behavior for the young people. And this is a sin.” You can almost see her nose curl and her head shake with disapproval. “You don’t realize this but the love between my girlfriend and me is more passionate than that between a man and a woman,” Jane responds.   In the background we hear several phones ringing, but rather than answer them the radio host decides that he is ready to provide a solution: “Take the time and introduce the idea of bridewealth slowly to your girlfriend’s father. And depending on how much money and livestock you are willing to offer, he might be amenable to it.”   I look at my watch. We have not moved for fifteen minutes. “Why are we not moving?” Ada asks me. I redirect the question to George. “The vendors have paid the police to stop the traffic so they can sell their goods.”   Ada still looks a little confused, so I repeat the question. George looks at me and clicks his tongue: “Si hawa watu wamelipa polisi.” These people have paid the police to bring the traffic to a halt so they can sell their goods. “Hawa watu wanatusubua kabisa.” These people are messing us up. George has a gaunt black face, a face thinned by years of overwork, and when he curses his temples tighten. You can feel his weariness; it sinks into you.   July is the coldest month in Nairobi and all the vendors and policemen are clad in sweaters and coats. A female vendor is wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with “University of Iowa,” which she probably purchased from one of the many used American clothing markets all over Kenya now. The bougainvillea bordering the roundabout looks sad. Gray and dusty. The bright pink and orange flowers of April and May are all gone. July in Nairobi is leaden English weather without the rain. Bored and thirsty, confined by the vendors and policemen’s “entrepreneurial spirit,” many of the nearby drivers part with forty or fifty shillings (about fifty cents in American dollars) to buy bottled water, bananas, or peanuts. They might even buy a flashlight in anticipation of a power blackout, or a plastic tea strainer as a gift for their mothers or grandmothers next time they visit the village. Buying trinkets is a pleasant enough way to pass the time, and none of the drivers seem to mind parting with a few shillings. The car next to us is a hulking black Range Rover. When I look over at the driver, I see a prosperous-looking man nestled in the passenger seat passing a hundred-shilling note to the vendor, and the vendor, a man who barely looks to be in his twenties, handing him a blue handkerchief wrapped in plastic.   My daughter leans her head against the window and sighs. I don’t blame her; it has been a long day. We have just spent nearly five hours on the congested train from Mombasa to Nairobi and are eager to get to our guesthouse on the western side of the city. Our taxi is still stuck. We haven’t moved for twenty minutes.   And then, without warning, the police officers instruct