CHAPTER FOUR - Nairobi Cocktail, The sleaze

Nairobi By Night

           

That some Catholic priests are rumoured to break their celibacy vows often, perhaps much too often, is whispered and only spoken aloud by the very brave. Father Joshua was not a whisperer of rumours, he was one of the priests who broke his vows often enough. None of his congregants or peers has ever confronted him about it, but he had no doubt they suspected him. Father Joshua was careful about the women he slept with; he preferred hit and run, his clandestine activities conducted far from his parish. Every encounter with a woman left him with some guilt to reckon with, the guilt got less and less with each encounter. Recently, he has had to force the guilt upon himself. In the small, dark confession box, he confessed his sins, but to himself and to God. 

Father Joshua had served church from as far back as his memory could remember. He was an expert pageboy by the time he was nine years of age. He was a catechist by the time he sat for his secondary school exams. Becoming a priest was the next natural thing and everybody who had watched his obsession with the pulpit.

He was a good priest. That he had the gift of the gab was never a matter of doubt. When he started preaching, all eyes were on him. He had never caught anyone doze off during his sermons, his audience responded with claps, head nodes and some were unable to keep down the hallelujah. Besides that, he loved the life he led. No wife to answer to. No children to disturb his precious peaceful evenings. No girlfriends to worry about. All he had to do was give daily masses, and that he could do with his eyes shut, then wait for the gifts from the congregants.

Perhaps, if their house girl had not been doing tricks on him when he was a little boy, making him discover the little and big pleasures of the flesh, he might have been a model priest. He genuinely believed in God, certainly in the power of forgiveness, perhaps why he kept sinning. He also knew he was not the worst sinner. Listening to confessions from congregants made him feel like a better person. At least he had never forced himself on a woman, which was more than could be said by some of his congregants. He didn’t touch little boys or girls, which was also more than he could say of some priests. There was always a worse sinner next door.

***

           

Nowhere in the Bible is it written that one may not go out to join other people having fun – in fact, Father Joshua loved the anecdote where Jesus went to join the sinners because they were the ones in need of redemption. Unlike Jesus, Father Joshua had no interest in helping redeem anyone in those drinking dens, least of all himself.

Thus, every Friday or Saturday after the six PM mass, he would remove his priestly regalia, have a shower, dress in jeans, a T-shirt, a dapper jacket and shoes that always matched his belt. He loved good shoes and good belts. He liked to go into the big city, a little far from his congregation in Tigoni. He had been lucky, not having once bumped into anyone he knew. If any of them had seen him, they had never called him out.

Nairobi by day is as chaotic as Nairobi by night. Throngs of people, all in a rush to get somewhere. In the evening, all in a hurry to get to the pub. Then it would be time to rush to the bartender, not a moment to lose in Nairobi. There was too much to do with too little time. Father Joshua knew all this, and he loved the buzz.

It was eight PM when he took his favourite corner at his favourite pub, at the heart of the city centre of Nairobi, on Moi Avenue. All around him were groups of people. Everybody was loud because the music was loud. He sat alone, a lone ranger, just the way he liked it.

Holding a beer with his hand, he scanned the crowd around him, zeroing in on a couple of women, each sitting alone. The pub was not especially popular with prostitutes but like any pub anywhere, there was always a random one trying their luck with advantage of little competition. Father Joshua could spot a prostitute from a mile. It was all about the body language. One of the women was a prostitute, he knew which one. In front of her on the table was a bottle of the pub branded water. She was tense but trying hard not to appear so. She was scanning the crowd, trying hard not to be obvious.

Her name was Kiki, and Kiki liked Nairobi by night. It matched her dark heart. Her nocturnal activities thrived under the cover of darkness.

At night, she wore more makeup than she thought was healthy. That was not because she liked make up – in fact, she would rather never wear a speck of it, but the total facial transformation makeup provided was necessary. She needed to be in character, like an actor on stage. The transition included covering her bald head with a long, blonde wig.

She was light skinned, as light skinned as they come without the influence of mixed race blood. She was blessed with smooth skin. Her eye makeup matched her outfit of the day, so did her lipstick. Red. Somewhere along her career, she had discovered fake eyelashes which, combined with the kohl brought out the best of the look of choice.

The pub was well lit, perhaps too bright for a pub, but it served her purpose. Her eyes locked with Father Joshua’s illuminated figure, close to where she sat. She sat up a little straighter. What a handsome man, she thought and licked her lips. He was tall. His skin was chocolate brown. She squinted her eyes for a better look and scanned the rest of his body. Definitely well toned, perhaps too well groomed.

He did not fit into her usual picks, but he was looking at her and she knew that look only too well. She flashed him a two second long smile. If he was interested, he would join her. If not – you win some, you lose some.

Ten minutes passed. The two sized each other. On and off. A smile here. A shift of the body there. Then he stood up. For a moment she thought he was about to make a beeline for her but instead he walked away. Well, you lose some. With a shrug, she went back to scanning the room for another potential customer.

He returned in two minutes. He hovered above her, smiling and exposing a perfect set of teeth.

“Hi, is this taken?” He was pointing at the chair next to her.

“Yes, by you…” She knew all the lines. She flashed him another smile, he flashed one back and took the seat. He was even better looking at close range.

“Hi, my name is Paul.” Paul was his chosen sin name; he would have wanted to use Saul, because the story of Saul of the Bible gave him hope that one day he may be Paul – a changed man of God in all ways.

“I am Kiki.” She was Kiki, but only by night.

She offered her hand. His were very soft. They were hands of a man who knew no hard labour. They were hands of a pampered man. She turned his palm over to look at the nails. Short and clean. She smiled. She liked this one. If it was not business, this one she may even consider dating even though she had never dated in her life. In her line of work she had encountered so many unkempt men, clean ones were always a welcome treat.

“So…do you come here often?” He asked when he settled.

“Nope.” She was lying. “Do you?”

He shook his head. He was also lying. He would confess later.

“It’s quite noisy in here, would you like to go somewhere less noisy?”

Ah, this one was not willing to waste time.

“Sure. My choice though…”

He shrugged. He didn’t care, he just wanted to feel a woman’s body next to his.

She led the way out of the pub, giving him the opportunity to study her from behind. Athletic body and gait. She wore a black flared skirt and a tiny red top that left her midriff bare, exposing a flat tummy. She wore a pair of two inch knee-high boots. In her hand was a clutch bag. He licked his lips with anticipation and walked faster.

Kiki had learned early. To never get into a man’s car unless the man was personally known to her and number two, to always chose the hotel or lodging. There was a lodging house along Koinange Street, the staff knew her well. She had a special room that she paid for five days a week.

And that was where they ended up after a short taxi ride.

***

Father Joshua was often all business. Get the dirty done, pay up and leave after an hour or two, drive back to Tigoni in the middle of the night to get ready for his six AM mass. Not tonight though. He would worry about his late night drive home on a lonely road but for now, he was going to enjoy himself without looking at his watch.

He had been with many women since he became a priest. All prostitutes. A few had fascinated him, had challenged him mentally, had taught him an important lesson; that prostitution was not exclusively for dumb women. He had met women so bright, they should have been the ones running the economy. Kiki was one of those women. He had known she was one of the special ones even before having a conversation with her. There was an aura about her that made him wonder if she was perhaps an undercover cop.

Whenever he bumped into such prostitutes, he would take the opportunity to ask them why they were selling their bodies. He had heard all sorts of answers.

I am trying to raise my children and there is no work out there.

I like sleeping with men for money.

I love sex. I may as well get paid for it.

It is family business. My mother was a prostitute. And her mother before that.

All women are prostitutes, we are just the honest ones.

My father kicked me out of home, I have to survive.

He wondered which category Kiki fell into.

She let him into the room and even before he removed his shoes, she stretched out her hand and asked for the money. “I like to get paid first.” She said with a shrug when he glared at her.

“How much?”

“Three thousand shillings per hour.”

“That’s a lot…” He protested. It was. He paid a third of that although he would have paid for the room.

“Take it or leave it. I do not negotiate so if you will not pay that, can we just leave right now?” She said, walking to the door.

He put up his hands. “Okay. I will pay.”

“Also, do not imagine you can trick me. The reception and security down there already know you are here with me. If you try to leave without me, they will not let you…”

Joshua sniggered. “You take your security seriously, don’t you?”

“With a good reason. Women like me have been robbed, or killed.”

He nodded. “I guess you have to be careful…”

Kiki turned round, bent down to unzip her boots. In that instance, she exposed her white underwear. Father Joshua shivered and slumped on the bed.

“You are beautiful…” He whispered.

She turned around and shrugged. Next she removed her blonde wig and placed it on the bedside table. “You are still beautiful,” he whispered honestly. She removed her top and danced down her skirt. She stood in front of him, wearing a white bra and a white thong.

“So, how do you want to do this?” She asked with a husky voice. “Do you want bang bang bye or do you want to pretend to be romantic?”

He chuckled, genuinely amused. “How do you want it?”

“You are paying. Just remember we are already ten minutes into this…” She glanced at the clock on the wall.

Father Joshua looked at the clock and panicked. One hour suddenly felt like a few minutes. He needed more time.

“Okay. Sit here…” He tapped the bed. “I want to remove the rest. Would you undress me, please?”

“You are paying so you make demands.” She reminded him, slightly amused. She was not used to gentlemanly customers.

“Oh yeah. Okay, I will remove yours, you will remove mine…I want to pretend I am being romantic. Pretend the same too…”

“I do that for a living…” she said with a smile.

“Can I kiss you?”

***

They had made love. Father Joshua could not think of it any other way. He should have slept right after, but he did not. He was holding her naked body, running a hand over it once in a while, but he was staring at the clock. Ten minutes to go before his time was up. She had set the alarm. “Hey, Kiki….” He nudged her.

            “Mh…” She had fallen asleep.

            “How much would you charge me for the whole night?”

            She sat up on the bed, yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Why, do you want to stay the whole night?” She was amused and not hiding it. This was no unusual for her; customers asking for an extension was something she pretty much expected. All she usually needed was to get a man to bed, after that, even if he had every noble intention to leave, he would end up staying. But there was something about this particular man. She wanted him to stay, and it was not entirely about money. She had, for the first time ever, managed to enjoy sex. She had loved it. It had made her curious, made her wonder if it had been a freak accident, if she could manage another orgasm.

She knew exactly how to fake an orgasm, the girls at Queen’s house had taught her well. Queen had told her over and over that it was paramount to fake an orgasm. “I do not know how to do it though because I have never had sex,” Queen had said with some amusement. “Ask the other girls.” She had. They had told her how to work the muscles and when. “Most men are self-absorbed during sex. They will not know the difference especially when it is someone they do not care about, like a prostitute.”

            “As a matter of fact I do.” Father Joshua answered, lightly pinching Kiki’s small breasts.

            “Well, for an hour, I charged you three thousand shillings. Let’s see…how many hours do we have?” She looked at the clock. “Six hours to go. You want to stay the night, you get a discount. Ten thousand shillings.” She looked at him defiantly.

            It took Father Joshua five seconds to make the decision. “Okay.” He reached for his wallet and counted the notes, handing them over to Kiki. She put the inside the drawer on her side.

 “Now I own you.” He declared as he ran a hand over her thigh. “First though, I need to make a phone call to say I cannot make it to work tomorrow…”

“Oh dear, who works on Sundays? Are you a priest?”

            He laughed. “Guilty as charged…”

Kiki burst out with laugher. “No way!” She made a sign of the cross. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…”

“Are you Catholic?”

She was giggling as she nodded. “Was. A lifetime ago. All the five times I went to church, it was a Catholic church.”

“It’s your lucky day, you can confess to me.”

Kiki could not believe he was joking about it. Did he not fear the Supreme Being he served? The omnipresent? She knew some of Queen’s clients were pastors, and they discussed them enough times with the other girls. She often wondered about sinning men of God. Were they not supposed to fear God most because, after all, they were supposed to know the details of what God can do to those who went against His will? Was there was a clause in the Bible they all knew about, a clause they were not willing to share with the rest of the ignorant population? A clause that allowed them to mock the religion they subscribed to?

He retrieved his phone, searched the phonebook and called a number.

“Father Matthew, this is Father Joshua…” He heard Kiki giggling. He ignored her. “Look, you might have to take the six AM mass for me. I am out of town and having car trouble….yes. In Nyeri…perhaps I can take all the afternoon ones? Oh, thank you very much. May God bless you.” He disconnected the call and winked at Kiki. “Done.”

“Yeah, and God knows you are a liar and you will go to hell…”

The night passed too quickly for both of them. Father Joshua was sure he was in love, with a prostitute. He had to stop himself from making all sorts of promises, promises that included marrying her and giving her every material thing she ever wanted.

Kiki had two more orgasms that night. It left her wondering if she would ever manage to be detached from sex again, if she would from now henceforth be chasing orgasms. She could not imagine ever again having sex with Kaggai and his clumsy ilk, ever again.

Kiki was Kiki at night, and Naliaka by day time.

***

A Thief Is Born

Just as Father Joshua believed he was destined to be a priest, Otieno, Oti to his friends and foes, believed was destined to be a thief. Stealing was the only thing he ever did well. He had never viewed stealing as something to be ashamed of; to him, it was a means to an end. He did not view himself as a bad person. In fact, once in a while, guilt about stealing people’s hard earned money bothered him so much, he would take the day off.

He grew up in Kibera in a large family of ten children, each separated from the one in front by a year. Being so many children was bad enough for him because each and every brother and sister he had irritated him, but to add salt to an already bad injury, they were poor. Dirt poor. As poor as anyone could get. There was never enough of anything at home from the clothes to the food to the space. It was survival for the fittest. His family reminded him of vultures. They behaved like vultures, vultures that pooped acid shit.

Oti, being the sixth born, had the unfortunate task of being the middle child, a perfect place to be ignored. His older siblings hated playing with him because he was too young for their games. His younger siblings behaved like feral cats and he kept out of their way. His parents hardly ever looked like him. He felt like a vacuum, believed people could see right through him. Like a ghost. From as young as he could remember, Oti could disappear the whole day from the house and when he returned in the evening, he would be hurt to realize that nobody had missed him in his absence. Nobody ever remembered to save food for him. Nobody ever acknowledged his return.

He was now in his early twenties and living on his own in Kibera. He never checked on his family, but once in a while he spotted them. He did not care because every time he thought of them, he cringed. He hated children in general and could not understand why anyone would choose to have a child. Two children. Ten children. What was the point of children? To scream when you want quiet? To fight for food as you watched helplessly? To punish oneself (and the children) for nothing?

Oti was eight years old when he had first stolen. It was his mother’s purse, stuffed with money he later learned was intended to pay for rent. He had stolen out of anger. He had felt vindictive.  On that day, he had been playing outside, only to return to the house for lunch and find everyone licking off their plates. His siblings always licked their plates and many times when it was his turn to do the dishes, he would just dip them in water and put them away. That day, he had stood at the door and watched his family watching him, near menacingly, like they were challenging him to dare to demand for food. He had looked at the sufuria that had been used to prepare the ugali and cabbage. Empty. His own parents had not left him food.

He had walked out and cried silently, hunger pangs fuelling every tear drop. He had gone back inside when his younger siblings, with full tummies, ran outside to look for their friends to play with. He had entered the house and sat on the floor, ignoring his older siblings who started taunting him for crying, like a baby, they said.

Then they had walked out, one by one. Only when the room emptied did he look up and spotted the purse. It had been an instinctive act. His mother had left the room before his siblings and he calculated that if he walked out before she returned, she would never be able to know who had taken the purse.

He hid the money under some stone behind the house. He returned to the house, lay on the floor and played dead. When his mother returned, hell had broken. On that day, he ticked the only advantage of belonging to a large family. His mother could not guess who the thief was. She had accused everybody but Oti, “he is innocent,” she had declared in a shrieking voice. “He is the only one who never left the house. The rest of you are suspects, and one way or another, you will return the money.” Oti had smiled. It was the first time anyone in the family was in his corner but he did not miss the irony, that it was the one time he was guilty.

His mother had summoned all the children back to the house and went on to cause a ruckus big enough to attract the neighbours. She had beaten them all, except Oti, indiscriminately. She hit them with anything and everything she could dislodge from the floor or the wall. She had made them all strip, checked in the cracks of their little bottoms, all along demanding to know who had stolen the money.

No one owned up, because no one had seen anything and by a stroke of luck, lying was not something the family did. The mother would use the father’s belt mercilessly and for long on anyone suspected for lying. Oti thanked the stars for little mercies because he knew, without a doubt, he would have been the natural one to front the line of suspects, or false accusations.

The beatings had not yielded. Oti smugly watched as each sibling was whooped. In the end, nine of them were heaped at the centre of the room, on top of each other, the youngest one at the bottom enjoying the protection of the older ones on top. He had enjoyed the show, he felt they deserved it for being nasty to him, for eating all the food and leaving him none.  In the end, the mother had concluded that she may have misplaced the purse, perhaps dropped it on the ground on the way to the toilet.  

The following day, Oti had disappeared, as usual. He had spent the money on chips, soda and chocolate. The joy. Unfortunately, he never had another opportunity to steal from his mother because she no longer let her purse out of sight, it was always tucked in the safety of her bra. “Thieves” was an insult she often threw at her children, except Oti. Oti, because he had loved the taste of fries and soda and chocolate and they had made him not worry about not finding food at home, had had to look for other avenues.

He had become a bully. It was easy for him by virtue of his size. He was larger and stronger than other children his age, especially his classmates. He started demanding protection money, protection from himself, otherwise he would beat them, and often took the money by force from those who resisted.

Oti’s older siblings had moved out. He had no idea where his two elder brothers lived but he knew his three older sisters were married. He had seen them, little babies trailing behind them. His sister were starting to look his mother's age. Poverty, Oti decided, rushed life, and it had a bad sense of humour. Why the poor had more children than the rich was a mystery he had no hope of solving. One time, as he watched one of his sisters being trailed by two children who could have or not been twins, snorty-nosed, eyes teary and feet in desperate need of washing and their mother wearing a defeated face, Oti made a decision, that he would not be having any children. Not only was it unfair to subject them to such living conditions, but it was also stupid to subject himself to a life of frustration.

When his older siblings moved out, Oti got more attention from both his parents and younger siblings, just by virtue of being the oldest child. He hated the attention and often missed his spot as the ignored child. He did not want to answer questions like if the children had eaten, or washed, or slept. When he turned eighteen, he got a job as a construction worker and with his first week’s salary bought a thin mattress and two blankets. He spent the second week’s salary on paying for a room, within Kibera but as far away as possible from his parents’ room. He considered buying utensils then quickly changed his mind because he did not know how to cook. Oti ate in hotels.

For months, Oti was content with his life. He woke up at dawn, had a body wash, went to a roadside hotel for breakfast, walked to work, worked all day, stopped by the hotel for supper then sleep. Sundays, the only days he had nothing to do, would be long, but he was happy to spend them indoors. He bought himself a tiny radio, one he would listen to all day, one that helped him muff out sounds of the ghetto. He was saving money to buy a television set.

Fate had other plans for him, as he discovered later. It had rained so much, and he had decided to board a matatu home instead of walking. Like the first time he stole that purse from his mother, becoming a pickpocket had not been premeditated. An opportunity, like his mother’s purse, had presented itself. The passenger standing in front of him in the matatu had his wallet protruding from the back pocket. Without a second thought, he had taken it and quickly alighted from the matatu. In the safety of his candle-lit one room he had counted the money. With every note counted, a drip of sweat would drop from his brow. It had amounted to what he got in a month as a construction worker. The following day, instead of reporting to work, he had gone to an electronics shop and purchased a television set and spent the whole day watching it. Oti never returned to work, but he boarded matatus almost every day with no clear destination, but a clear plan of targeting careless passengers.

He was not always as lucky as the first day. In fact, some days were so bad, the wallets would be full of business cards and bank cards, useless to him. Sometimes, he got coins. Other times, he got enough cash to make up for the bad days. Then he started stealing phones. Those ones were easier than he had thought. The first phone he stole, he kept it for himself. Those that followed, he befriended the ghetto broker who sold them and gave Oti a cut from the sales.

It was on a rainy day as he queued for matatus with throngs of other passengers sharing umbrellas when he first came into contact with Kamau. By the time he stole Kamau’s phone, he had already stolen three others because when it rained, people stopped worrying about anything that did not involve rain. Oti loved the rain, prayed for it with the same ferocity farmers did. Kamau had his phone in the back pocket and with the feather touch that Oti had mastered so well, slid it out. Just before he walked away, Kamau grabbed Oti’s hands so tight, he yelped. He readied himself for a lynching.

“Give it back…” Kamau growled. Oti returned the phone. “Thank you…” Kamau said as he put the phone inside his front trouser pocket. “You are good, but there is room for improvement.” Kamau whispered, releasing Oti’s hand.

Oti was shocked and confused. He could not seem to find the strength to walk away. He was sure it was a trap, that as soon as he started walking away, his failed victim would scream thief! So he folded his hands across his chest and locked eyes with Kamau. “Don’t you want to leave?” Kamau asked casually, removing a pack of gums from the same pocket as the phone and slipping one in his mouth. He offered Oti one. Oti took it, eyes still locked on Kamau’s. “Come on, scatter and get busy elsewhere…”

So Oti scattered. Only when he was about twenty metres away did Kamau realise his phone was missing. Only when he looked at Oti waving at him with a hand holding the phone did he burst out in laughter. He waved back and decided he was not as good as he thought he was. He had been outdone.

Oti felt guilty about robbing the man. He was nice to him, he saved his life, but he had challenged him. At some point, he almost returned the phone but decided that only fools pushed their luck that hard. Instead of selling it to the broker, he started using it for himself.

Oti should have stuck to pickpocketing where risks of getting caught were low. But fate was providing him with another opportunity. He was walking home, along a dark street, behind a sluggish looking man carrying a backpack. Those backpacks, Oti had learned from the broker, more often than not contained laptops. Very good money in that, the broker had encouraged.

But he had underestimated his victim on the basis of his sluggish walk. As soon as he reached for the bag, the man seemed to transform into some super kind of man. He moved so fast to grab Oti’s hand, for a moment he thought it was a dream. But dreams were not painful, and he was in pain. The man floored him and he was stumping on him, with his large frame, over and over, and he was shouting thief!

The distress call was answered. He no longer felt pain. The hits on his body started feeling like light taps. He could no longer see. He was sure he had broken both arms and legs, and a few ribs. He would die this very day. The police arrived. If he could, he would have laughed at the irony of the situation. All his life, he had avoided law enforcement officers. He always crossed the road when he spotted them. He never passed outside police stations. He could pick out undercover cops in crowds. Now, he was happy they were here to save what was left of him.

Oti had no memory of falling sick, had never even met a doctor, but he was sure he needed urgent medical attention. He was blind, he was sure he was bloodied, and he could not move. The police seemed to think otherwise. When they saved him from the crowd, they hauled him into the back of a police pick-up where he landed with a thud against the aluminium floor. At the police station, they dragged him down from the vehicle and dragged him some more to a cell.  

It was his first time in a police cell. It stunk. He threw up. Someone kicked his head and cussed at him. Within minutes, he started wishing the policemen had let him die. He would die anyway, just slowly and painfully. If his cellmates did not kick him to death, the smell would.

***

Oti and Kamau meet again.

From his vantage corner of the cell with enough space to spread out his legs, Kamau nonchalantly watched the police dragged in the bloodied Oti and wondered why they bothered to bring dead men walking. It would have been easier to abandon them at the gates of a mortuary.  

With the same nonchalance, he watched other inmates roughly push Oti’s body away from them. He watched him throw up, get pushed by another inmate, and somehow end up right next to Kamau’s feet. Kamau pulled his legs closer to his own body to avoid the blood and the puke.

The new guy was a mess. It was obvious he had just survived a public lynching. Kamau wrinkled his nose at the smell of freshly clotted blood all over the newbie’s body. His eye sockets were so swollen, they had swallowed the eyes, whole. His lower lip had been cut into two and the upper one reminded Kamau of a banana. He could not close his mouth, and he was drooling bloody saliva. His clothes were in tatters – a sleeve was missing, and the only thing intact of his trousers was the waistband. He had one torn sock and no shoes.

Kamau wrinkled his face again. But he was not shocked. In two weeks, three thieves had been dumped in the cell, in similar state. One was still around, healing, but slowly. The other two were likely dead. They had not been moving, and they had not appeared to be breathing, when the police finally listened to the inmates’ complaints about them.

Kamau was a privileged inmate. He went out of the cell three times a day, during meal times. He never ate in the cell, but whenever he returned, he would bring food for the other inmates. Everyone wanted to be in his good books. That evening, when he returned from having his dinner, he came back with a first aid kid.

Then he worked on Oti, swabbing every wound he could locate, which was just about the whole body. He checked for broken bones, there were none. He fed Oti water, tried to feed him some fries but his mouth was too injured to chew. The other inmates watched in fascination. They wanted to know if he knew him, Kamau said he did not.

“So why do you care for him and not others?”

“Because I am bored…” Kamau answered as he put disinfectant on cotton wool, cleaned around Oti’s eyes, ignoring the flinching and the moaning. He was telling the truth about being bored. Sitting in the cell, counting seconds and losing count in seconds, trying to ignore the constant foul smell and only succeeding in doing the opposite. He hated watching other inmates doing nothing except watch each other, once in a while bicker. He was fed up of wondering how much longer his boss would punish him by keeping him in this hell-hole. Had he not paid enough for his misdemeanour?   

***

For three days, Oti had no awareness of his surroundings, the pain was numbing every other sense. He just existed. He was mildly aware of someone working on him. He turned when ordered to. He used the toilet when ordered to. He opened his mouth for Kamau to feed him when Kamau ordered him to.

In that cell, Kamau nursed Oti back to life. In three days, the swelling had gone down and Oti could open his eyes. On the fourth day, he had eaten the dreadful soup and ugali they were served for food. He had felt energy pumped into his body with every sip of the meal. He had moved his body, glad and surprised he had no broken bones. On the fifth day, Kamau gave him a pair of trousers and a tee shirt. Only when he removed his old, torn clothes did he laugh.

Oti’s swelling went down, leaving his dark face botched with darker patches and torn skin. His eyes finally opened, but that they were bloodshot did not stop him from taking in the surrounding. The smell no longer bothered him, it had become a part of what the cell was. He did not talk, but he observed, a lot. Within hours of gaining back his vision, he had worked out that Kamau was the undisputed alpha. He, Kamau, was much smaller and possessed a soft look than the majority of the inmates, he should not have scared anyone, but he had more space to himself, space he shared with Oti. When he spoke, everybody paid attention. When scuffles broke out, Kamau stopped them. Because of Kamau, Oti was left in peace. And he looked familiar. Very familiar.

Once in a while, Kamau would pace the cell in agitation but mostly, he seemed at peace. As if being in the cell did not bother him. He behaved like a man who was on a much deserved holiday. Every meal time, a policeman would unlatch the cell locks loudly, shout Kamau’s name. He would be gone for a while, return wearing fresh clothes and enough food to feed the entire cell. It was clear that Kamau’s alpha status had nothing to do with his physical abilities, but his ability to hand out rare goodies like chicken and fries and nyama choma. Who was he? Why was he here? Those were the questions that were burning Oti.

On this sixth day, Oti had gathered the guts to ask Kamau some questions.

The other inmates were gathered at a corner, playing a game of cards loudly, a game that had been a donation from Kamau. Some were smoking, cigarettes provided by Kamau, filling up the small cell with smog that choked, but the smell of cigarettes was better than the smell of urine and faeces.

They were sitting side by side, knees pulled up, watching the men. Oti shifted and leaned closer to Kamau. “So how come you get preferential treatment?” He whispered.

“What treatment?”

“You know what I am talking about. How come you get to go out of the cell, change clothes and come with all the nice food?”

Kamau turned to Oti, studied his face, felt a little pride in his patchwork on the face, then shrugged. “Maybe because nobody else has someone out there to do the same for them. Do you have anyone?”

Oti sneered and laughed a short, bitter laughter. He thought of his family, who obviously had no idea he was missing. He never kept in touch, by choice. No love lost on either side. He did not have friends. The only person who may have been missing him was the ghetto broker. He shook his head.

“So maybe everybody here is like you…” Kamau said, observing him closely.

“But,” Oti said, not giving up. “But why do they always bring you extra food?”

“Because the people here love it, and I can afford it, so why not?”

“Why have your connections not saved you from this hell hole?” Oti sounded bitter.

Kamau shrugged. He knew why he was still in the cell, but he was not going to tell Oti. Kamau was an employed thief.  Employed thief, he always thought with a smile. His employer was a car thief, a strict car thief who had a set of rules that every thief under him was expected to follow. One wrong move, and you would find yourself languishing in a cell, or in a grave, depending on the crime. Kamau had broken one of the rules, this was his penance. His penance also included recruiting someone from the cells, someone who would join Ali Baba and his thirty nine thieves so they would be forty. Oti looked like a perfect candidate.  

“Don’t you worry about that, but I will be leaving soon. Does any of your family know you are here?”

Oti scoffed and shook his head.

“Do you want to tell them? I can speak to someone who can call them for you.”

He shook his head. He did not even know telephone numbers of any of his family. “No. They will not care.”

Kamau turned away and smiled. This was going better than he expected. 

***

Kamau was a happy thief since he found a permanent job with Boss. Officially, he was a car salesman with a salary. He even paid his taxes. As far as the government was concerned, he was as legitimate as they came. But the car salesman title was just a front, although once in a while he would make appearances at the car yards his boss owned and attempt to sell a car. He has never sold any.

Kamau was a carjacker under strict instructions to never shoot anyone. Not that there has ever been a reason to shoot any of his victims – they were always scared enough just by the feel of a cold gun barrel on their temple. Boss made sure that the guns his employees used never had any bullets in them. “If you are good at what you do, you never need to ever shoot anyone. You are the only one who knows the gun is  not loaded.” Boss would tell them during initiation.

It was a risky way to steal. Sometimes, victims were armed, and their guns had bullets. Kamau had bumped into a couple of those. In fact, it was the very reason that Kamau did not have a partner at the moment. Wafula, his partner of four years, had been shot by an intended victim. Kamau had only escaped because the victim was a bad shot who had got lucky with the first shot. Boss’ argument was always “stealing is a risky affair anyway, with or without a loaded gun. The life of a thief is like that of a law enforcement officer; you are always knocking on hell’s doors. Take it or leave it.”

There was another rule, that no carjacking would take place unless Boss knew about it. That was the rule Kamau had broken. It was the reason he had been stuck in a police cell for close to a month. He blamed his now ex-girlfriend for his predicament. She had wanted to furnish her house, and Kamau had needed extra cash. He had reckoned that doing just a single side job would not hurt. But it had hurt. The job was a success, he, with the help of one of the people in Boss’ network, had dismantled the car and sold it as spare parts. He had furnished his ex-girlfriend’s house, but two weeks later, Kamau knew nothing ever escaped the Boss.

He had been watching a karate movie, an empty plate next to him, when someone knocked the door. He had clicked his mouth and paused the movie, swearing to punch whoever it was at the door. It was the Boss, his frame somehow filling the doorway and smiling down at him. Kamau felt the food he had just eaten threaten to eject. Kamau did not even know the Boss knew where he lived. He lived inside the chaos Umoja. “Kamau, I could just kill you here and now.” Boss said, pushing Kamau aside to let himself in. His two burly bodyguards followed, one of them roughly pushing Kamau to the ground before shutting the door behind him.

 As he shivered, both from the cold and the fear, wondering how long Boss had known where he lived, wondering if he was just about to die. Boss’ guns were always loaded.

Boss, with arms crossed, towered over him, his men standing nearby with clenched fists. “Sit up.” Kamau did. “Remove your shirt.” Kamau did. Boss slapped him, Kamau did not rub his cheek. He felt immobile.

 “I have a very strong urge to just kill you, but I hate to spill blood, it is often so unnecessary.” Boss started pacing the room, slowly. He spoke quietly, Kamau had to strain his ears. “I really hate to spill blood, I hate death, but I hate betrayal. You betrayed me, Kamau.” He stopped just next to him.

“Sorry…”

“Shut up!” This one, Boss raised his voice. “You thought you were clever, but I knew within hours what you had done. The only reason I waited for this long was because I wanted to see if you would do it again. For not doing it again, you gain some of my favour…” He started pacing again. Kamau wanted to sigh loudly. He stifled the sigh. “I cannot let you go scot free though. I am going to have you arrested.” Kamau gasped, attempted to talk and quickly changed his mind. “You are going to spend time in a police cell. The official story will be you are my brother, and I caught you stealing, and I want to teach you a lesson.” Kamau gave a soft sigh. “I will feed you in the cell, but only because I do not want you to be too sick to work when you come out.”

Kamau nodded.

“Think about your life as a thief – I am trying to make an honest thief out of you.” Kamau could have laughed, but he knew better. “We lost Wafula so while you are at it, find me someone to replace him among the delinquents you will be sharing the cell with.

Kamau found his perfect delinquent in Oti.

***

“What do you do?” Kamau asked Oti. They sat at the same corner, next to each other, as they almost always did.

“What do you think, I am the boss of Kenya.”

Kamau laughed. “You know what I mean…what sort of stealing do you do?”

“Why don’t you tell me how many types there are, then I can pick one.”

“You are sensitive…” Kamau said, but not angrily. He was liking Oti more for his courage. “Do you grab bags on the streets, do you threaten people with weapons in dark alleys, do you break into houses, do you hijack vehicles…?”

Oti laughed but instead of answering, he asked. “Which one are you?”

“I asked you first.”

Oti thought for a while. He decided he had nothing to lose and anyway, no one had ever taken a personal interest in him like Kamau was. It felt good.

“Do you remember a time when someone stole your phone, twice?” Only that morning, Oti had realised why Kamau was familiar to him. He could never forget that face as long as he lived. Over the years since he picked Kamau’s pockets, he always hoped to bump into him.

Kamau turned to Oti so fast, he felt his neck snap. And he studied him. He cocked his head, this way and that way. Oti was still full of wounds, his swelling had not completely gone, but his bloodshot eyes were familiar. And he laughed. He laughed so loudly and so long, everyone in the cell stopped what they were doing to study him.

“Share the joke! We want to laugh like that…” They called. Kamau laughed for five minutes until everyone else but Oti lost interest. Oti smiled throughout.

“Wow. Ain’t life funny? I saved you and you still went to get yourself caught…I have always thought of you. I keep wondering how you managed to rob me twice…”

Oti cackled and shrugged. “You challenged me, I took up the challenge. You relaxed too much, too confident that I wouldn’t do it again…so you did.”

“Yep. You taught me a good lesson.”

“I slipped my fingers inside your pocket," he held up two fingers, the index and the middle finger. "When you started putting gum in your mouth…”

Kamau laughed. “You are good. How did you get caught?”

He shrugged, carefully touching his still sore face.

“I took on a huge guy, he overpowered me…”

“Happens to the best of us. So, are you going to stop stealing?”

Oti gave a sarcastic laugh. “And do what? It’s the only thing I know how to do. I do not have any education, I am a primary school dropout…”

“So this did not scare you?”

“What are you, a priest?”

“Answer me.” Kamau insisted, looking at Oti straight in the eye.

Something in the look he got made him talk without further persuasion. “It did scare me, but like I said, the only other option is to die of hunger…”

Half their cell mates were now sleeping, they almost looked dead. The others were having a loud conversation on one corner, having been well fed nyama choma and ugali by Kamau.

Two hours later, Kamau had Oti’s life story. Oti had no memory of ever talking about himself for so long.

Kamau could not help thinking how similar their stories were, with a few differences here and there.

He was the first born. There were nine children behind him. They were all born two years apart. He was certain that if his mother had not died while giving birth to the last born, there would have been more kids. Giving birth was all she seemed to do. Going hungry was something they did collectively as a family.

His first memory of stealing was from six years old. A neighbour’s food that had been left cooking in the charcoal jiko outside, and he was hungry. It was downhill from that point.

He stole farm products and sold them at giveaway prices. He pick-pocketed people in public transport. He stole from his family and relatives and friends. He got jobs as a shop assistant and stole from his employers.

Then he had met Boss. By the time they met, Kamau was a great pickpocket. He, like Oti, loved boarding matatus, especially during rush hour when people were more concerned about getting in a matatu than guarding their pockets. He also loved pubs, especially after two AM. That was the time a lot of people were drunk, they would be careless about their pockets. Many of them would black out on their seats, and those are the ones he loved.

Until the day he tried to pickpocket Boss.

He had spotted him dozing off in his chair. He was alone. He looked rich. Kamau had approached him, sat a few meters from him, but every minute, he would inch closer to the sleeping man. Eventually, he was right next to him. He had looked around, the waiters were too tired and sleepy to notice him, and everybody else seemed to be in a similarly drunk condition like his intended victim.

But how was he to know that Boss had bodyguards sitting a few meters from him, pretending not to know him? How was he to know that the bodyguards had been watching him, and pretending not to know what he was doing?

A big pair of strong hands had grabbed his neck from behind as he was tracing the sleeping man’s pockets with his fingers. He had yelped. To date, Kamau had no idea how it happened, but within minutes, he found himself rolling down the stairs, and by the time he got to the bottom, he found someone waiting for him with a big food and equally big boots, and they were kicking him.

“Stop that!” Through his half shut eyes, Kamau had worked out that the stopper was the same man he had tried to pickpocket. “Take him to the car, I am in a nice mood.”

“Yes Boss.”

And like he weighed the same as a feather, he was picked up and thrown into some car boot. He remained quiet, afraid of breathing.

He had no idea how long the car was in motion, he was too worried about his body breaking into pieces because the driver seemed to enjoy accelerating when he got to bumps, but finally, the boot was opened and he was ordered to come out. He did, and he was roughtly led inside a house. He remembered the cold, tangible cold. For the length of time he worked for Boss, he never did work out where the apartment was.

He remembered being ordered to remove his shirt, and later he would come to know that the boss ordered those he was unhappy with to remove their shirts. He was made to kneel and not look at the Boss. He obeyed.

“So, you tried to rob me…”

It was not a question.

“Sorry…”

“Shut up. Do not talk unless I ask a question.”

Kamau wanted to say another sorry, then remembered why he was asked to shut up.

“So, you tried to rob me…” Boss repeated. “You are lucky I am in a good mood, otherwise you would be in some graveyard looking for an apartment as a newcomer in death-land…” The bodyguards giggled. Boss did not.

“What is your name?”

He said his name.

“Anything else you do apart from stealing?”

“No.”

The questions came quick, but they had gone for hours and the sun was up by the time they were done. His knees were aching, he was shaking on his knees. Kamau had been recruited into the network. He had been ordered to shower, given clothes to change into, then they had fed him.

“And if you try to cheat me, I shall kill you, you better believe it.”

He believed it. He could see the killer instinct in the man's eyes. 

That was five years ago. Kamau had come to love Boss like a big brother – if Boss was older, he would have been like a father. Never before had he been dishonest against Boss, until that one time. All because of a girl. Look where it landed him. He never wanted to see his girlfriend, ever again. He knew where his bread was buttered.

_______________________

Corrections? Suggestions? Opinion? Please email thevillager254@gmail.com