The guard must not have heard me. I banged the door again and called the two phone numbers painted on the sign. The first rang ten times with no answer; the second was disconnected.
I was at a loss: my bed and dry clothes were on the other side of the wall. I considered breaking in.
With theatrical timing, a motorcyclist pulled up, with a small woman on the back seat. They spoke Swahili, but while that made me more comfortable it didn't dry my clothes. The man banged forcefully on the door and waited for ten minutes.
He then strode to the tiny general store behind our guest house and bashed at the window.
"Open up, there's a white person out here, you have to look good for the white person!" he said.
After about five minutes of impatient rattling, the guard in the shop groggily opened the window and exchanged two cigarettes for a coin. He then closed the window and dissolved into the darkness behind the counter and the rain.
We stood and waited for the cigarette to burn out.
Another half-hour of clanging and waiting, and the man leaped over the wall, stormed down the steps and caused a ruckus.
And so, at 3 o'clock, I got my room.
Then the power went out.