On a chilly day in October 1982, a young man sporting dreadlocks walked into the office of the Nairobi Provincial Commissioner in a patriotic response to a government directive for University of Nairobi students who “may be still alive but unidentified” to report to their respective chiefs.
In Nairobi, however, they were to report to the powerful PC for “vetting”. In those days government ruled by fiat. Since the likes of the 24-year old were deemed to be coup plotters on the run, the reception was rather mundane, but turned into an ugly nine-month detention.
Not so in the early evening of Monday this week. I was dragged, kicking and begging for my rights, from a masandukuni and thrown head first into a lorry by balaclava-wearing men who may well have been assassins, but turned out to be policemen.
I only found out this after a two-hour harrowing drive around Nairobi, when we drove into a police station. I was sure that my lifeless unidentifiable body would be found mauled by hyenas. The idea that I would not be mourned by a pretentious clan and friends but just be pronounced missing, and my children’s agony, kept me going. That I would not be the first or last ‘lost and found’ in the hands of police, what lawyers call extrajudicial killing, was of no comfort.
I pictured those harrowing nine months of detention and the most degrading interrogation by the Special Branch at ‘Carpet House’ just to blame somebody for the “failed” August 2, 1982 coup. That’s when I stopped shouting and mentally began writing this column.
I had the presence of mind though, in my comical madness, to send a quick SMS to my editor at 2am before my phone ran out of battery. “I’ll be a little late kesho with filing. Just left police station on late hour drinking charge! I wasn’t”. I lied, however, about the “just left” bit.
The incident took a hilarious turn when the officers ‘realised who I am’. In Kenyan parlance this means a notorious politician or tenderpreneur – I’m a political animal. Suddenly the leader of the gang that had raided my hideout cracking a sjambok, something I last saw in a slave movie, became overall protective.
“Mzee, why did you make so much noise? This is normal,” he said, as he led me to an office to “talk”. From “drinking after hours” he hinted that I was being held on the nebulous charge of talking too much. The officer was not about to admit he had carried out an unlawful arrest. As a matter of fact, he insisted I was at fault for talking, hence I needed to “behave” to be let go.
In the office, my colleague was helped to recharge his phone and M-Pesa. You see, he’s what you call “police reserve”. He pinched me when I offered hard currency. I suspect he wanted the bribe on record for future leverage. But I wasn’t having that delaying Samba dance.
Now I admit that Kenyans who bribe police do not do it out of habit, it is ‘either that or...’. Any argument you make is in contravention of some rule; “don’t argue, you’re making your case worse”, is the modus operandi. It does not matter that you have no case, neither have you committed a crime. Your crime remains arguing not “talking” with police. And that’s what I finally did. All the fellows I was with were freed.
Quite intriguing was the offer to “drop us somewhere” to take a cab home. Resisting the urge to bolt on my wobbly legs, I let the sjambok wielder help me back into the lorry for the return trip. This column is to let you know I’m safe and alive.
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The MPs’ demand for Sh3.3 billion severance pay would be ridiculous were it not serious fraud. Their greed haina kifani (has no comparison). Their moral authority is wanting and their lack of principle has been revealed.