Africa without any Africans.

Reading about Hillary Clinton in Africa seized my sensory memory.

The aides were experts at the camera spray. In eastern Congo, we needed to use two planes to land at a small airport and Mrs. Clinton’s plane circled in the air for 15 minutes so journalists could land first, set up their cameras and get the arrival shot of her, the first secretary of state to swoop into Congo’s conflict zone, despite the fact this very area has been a killing field since the mid-1990s.

In Liberia, though, she missed a great opportunity: Her motorcade drove right past a muddy soccer field where all the players were on crutches and had one leg. It was an amputee soccer game, a spirited match between war-injured men who refused to give up. Bill would have definitely jumped out and charged across the field to commune. Had Mrs. Clinton, that might have been the enduring image of her Africa trip, not the irritated response in Congo.

But the convoy moved on, through the lashing Liberian rain. It’s strange to be in Africa in a bubble. I live in Kenya. I know how it can take two hours to get from the American embassy in Nairobi to the airport. But when the Kenyan government shuts down the main highway for Mrs. Clinton’s motorcade, voila!, it takes only 16 minutes. That day, as we raced to the airport in our air-conditioned vans, we passed thousands of Kenyans lining the road. These people weren’t waiting to wave goodbye. They were stuck in traffic. We looked at them and they looked at us, separated by glass and speed and unable to share even a word. In a way, it was like being in Africa without any Africans. Even most of the big-time hotels we stayed at had windows that didn’t open, denying us that distinctive African pleasure that might have jolted us back to reality: catching a whiff of woodsmoke.

I’m so glad only one night out of three weeks in Africa was like this for us.