Does customer service have to be an extreme sport?

There is a very special kind of heartbreak reserved for customers in Kenya. It is a special service, labelled Customer Care, only it is far from it. It comes neatly packaged with a fake smile, a bored sigh, and a side of, “why are you even here?” In this land of deplorable customer service, I am fast becoming a reluctant partaker.

Take, for instance, the great Perfume Fiasco of the Year. I walked into this chic little store, holding my half-used, very expensive vintage perfume. I am not expecting a refund or a standing ovation, but just hoping someone will listen. You know, like those well-trained staff in the customer service videos my kids binge online that say, “Welcome ma’am, I’m so sorry this happened, how can we make it right?”

Well, not in this, our Nairobi. The moment I uttered, “I have a complaint about my last purchase,” the salesperson’s smile evaporated like cheap cologne on a hot day. She morphed into a cross between a customs officer and a courtroom prosecutor. My children, who had accompanied me that Saturday afternoon, looked on in horror. Not because of the drama, but because their understanding of customer care and this reality on the ground was vastly different from the Savannah grasslands and the Tundra of Antarctica.

Suddenly, I was on trial as she scrutinised the perfume bottle.

“Where’s the serial number?”

“It must have rubbed off.”

“Do you have the receipt?”

“No. But I have the payment statement.”

I even called the bank when she looked doubtful. “What time exactly did you buy it?”

“Uhhh... around lunch?”

Thirty precious minutes later, I asked to speak to the manager. Out stepped a woman who looked me up and down like I was the reason her cat died. Granted, I was in tights and an oversized T-shirt, but come on, does perfume require formal wear now?

Then, with the warmth of an iceberg, she said, “Perfumes should be stored away from light. The light affects efficacy.”

Did you need to put me through all this DCI-level interrogation to teach me one sentence about storage?

Just when I thought customer service had already reached rock bottom, I encountered another experience from a bank after I requested back-dated account statements. They said five working days. Three weeks later? Nothing. I follow up, and they email me two pages of blank space, and then - just for laughs - a repeat of the same two pages.

At this point, I started to wonder if I was the problem. Maybe I had slipped into an alternate universe where service means doing absolutely nothing, and hoping the customer dies or gives up trying.

The ultimate Dead Customer Service platinum medal goes to a telco store in one of our big malls. My grandmother’s phone line had been deactivated, but her ID number was still tied to the old line, now being used by someone else. She was advised to purchase another line, which she did, with the assistance of her caregiver. The new phone line could not activate, so when I next went to Isiolo, grandma and caregiver gave me all the details to come and have it checked in Nairobi.

“Where is the owner of this ID and Sim card?” The customer service officer asked me as soon as I had explained everything.

“The owner must present herself, in person.”

“I just told you; she is past one hundred, and her movements are limited.”

“Even disabled people come here in wheelchairs.”

“That is extremely rude and insensitive.”

I know about data protection and fraud, but surely, is that reason to be unreasonable and quite rude about it?

“You want an elderly woman to travel five hours for this?”

“Well,” the customer representative said, adjusting her non-existent halo, “if she wants help.”

I had to pause. Not because I was shocked, but because I could not decide whether to weep or scream.

“Fine, can I speak to her?”

“Yes, here’s her caregiver's number, but they both only speak Kimeru. “

“No. I can only speak to her through her own line. “

“You want to talk to her through the line you deactivated?”

“You could be a fraudster.” At this point, I felt hot, and it had nothing to do with premenopausal symptoms. It took me four time-wasting visits in that store before Victor, who recognised my frustration on the fifth visit, stepped in and did a two-minute SIM swap process, and I was sorted out. Three minutes, three, and just like that, the line was working.

Customer service seems a game of survival, where complaining is an extreme sport, and results depend entirely on whether you meet a Victor or a Villain.