by Peter Kimani
“Once you have been on this beat long enough, you will come to realize it’s futile trying to arrest every petty criminal in the valley, unless the idea is to empty it,” Sergeant Odieki said, now in a more friendly tone.
“How long have you been on the beat, sir?” the corporal asked as they sloshed through raw sewage crisscrossing their path, running in rivulets, and stumbled over unseen ditches and rocks.
“Three years.”
“Three years! Doing this?” the freshly recruited youth asked.
“Well, I did traffic for three years before that.”
“Traffic!” Corporal Senga stared at the sergeant in the semi-darkness. Then his voice lowered into a longing whisper: “I hear that is where the money is.”
“If you have no qualms fleecing the motorists,” the sergeant growled, his mind reluctantly back on his days flagging down motorists and pinning them with violations, hopelessly trying to reach his target.
The corporal remembered the meetings later after the shift. Often it was in some bar-cum-restaurant, and he and his fellow traffic cops would fall over one another competing for the boss’s favor, buying him nyama choma and Tusker. Then the day’s collections would be quietly passed under the tables. He remembered the nodded approvals when he met his targets, and the cold warning looks, and the final threats: Corporal, pull up your shorts or your ass will soon be warming the chair back at the reporting desk. You might even find yourself doing beats in the Northeastern Province where you have to be constantly on the move lest your ass got shot off!
“Why did you leave?” persisted the young recruit.
“Enough questions, corporal,” said the sergeant stumbling on, and Senga hurried to catch up, swearing to himself never to fail if given a chance.
The cop’s word was the last at the magistrate’s court. Corporal Senga could always color the nature of the offense, real or imagined, until the difficult motorist had to choose between the slammer or spreading “something small” around to the magistrate, the clerks, and Corporal Senga.
* * *
Their heavy boots alternatively pounding gravel and sloshing through the endless muck, they marched on, Sergeant Odieki’s face still grim. He was now recalling his sudden transfer to the desk to handle the Occurrence Book. It had come just after he got married—at a time when money was needed most.
He remembered how devastated Edith was knowing they were stuck at the bottom of the ladder, destined to live in a cone-shaped tin shack while her husband’s fellow recruits resided in modern apartments. Some had cars, and others even pieces of land. Yet others had built, or were building their own houses.
He remembered how she had borne it bravely at first, encouraging him when he was low. Then later, he was the one doing the encouraging, telling her things would work out, that sooner or later some boss was bound to recognize his dedication and kick him upstairs. It was useless. Edith had already withdrawn into herself, and while she dutifully made his meals, she hardly spoke to him.
Thinking of this depressed him. If there was anyone he had loved, it was Edith. Her parents reluctant at first, wondering how he could feed a wife; he had waited two years, and when he graduated from Kiganjo Police College, he had given the proposal another shot.
“So where will you be located?” her old man had asked him.
“The traffic department, sir.”
The old man’s hard glare had softened. He had seen enough potbellied cops manning roadblocks while the thin ones did neighborhood beats bearing heavy G3 rifles looking for illicit brewers and other petty criminals. His daughter would be well cared for.
* * *
After months of silence, Sergeant Odieki had figured that if Edith had a child to keep her busy, she might cheer up. Two years later, it was time they both visited the doctor to find out why she was not conceiving.
“And how do you intend to support a bigger family when you cannot even afford supporting just the two us?” she had flared, speaking a complete sentence for the first time in weeks.
Deflated and wounded, he had not uttered another word until rumors started circulating that she was having an affair with one Senior Sergeant Lagat at the camp. He confronted her and she turned away, confirming the rumors had substance. He slapped her and she sneered at him with such loathing that his anger dissolved into shock, then despair, then finally acceptance.
After she had fled—no doubt to Senior Sergeant Lagat—he threw her things out, in the process discovering a packet of birth control pills. Then, before his fresh anger and shock were over, there was a loud bang on the door and two policemen stood there to make an arrest for domestic violence. Following his short stint in the stinking cells, they moved him from the desk to night shift, his area being the sprawling slum where the only thing certain was trouble.
* * *
Up ahead, a scream rent the air. “Alert now,” he warned, flicking the safety catch off. “Could be a robbery.”
They stalked toward where the scream had come from, Corporal Senga all set to make his first arrest. Then he cursed quietly at female laughter coming from the shanty.
The sergeant signaled and they burst inside, at first blinded by a TV screen showing porn, nevertheless registering that there were about a dozen assorted characters in there.
“Police! Freeze!” Sergeant Odieki shouted uselessly. Already there was a scramble for the back door, and the sound of breaking glass. “Don’t shoot, you fool!” he roared, hitting the barrel of his gun just as the corporal fired. The bullet flew heavenly, together with a chunk of the tin roof.
The sergeant stared at the hole, then at the back door. It was still swinging after the last customer. Finally, he turned to the large woman seated on a torn seat staring up at him with no fear. On the table were some CDs. He flipped through them, then turned to an array of illicit gin on a makeshift bar.
“I am taking these away as exhibits,” he said, sliding a few bottles into his blue raincoat.
At the crack of dawn, they staggered past the last shanty overlooking the magnificent office blocks which had recently come up around Mombasa Road. At that early hour, only a few vehicles were on the road. Then they spotted a crowd gathered.
“Some murder, I bet,” the sergeant said.
* * *
It was chilly and almost totally dark in the alley where the victim lay after being mugged. The first person to arrive was an office cleaner, and she almost stepped on him. “Ngai!” She jumped back gasping, then hurriedly threw a khanga over him, according him some dignity.
The next one along shook his turbaned head, muttering: “Werry bad.”
Soon, the crowd of city workers was milling around the body, craning their heads to see, while thieves searched their pockets.
“Aliwekwa ngeta,” one of the thieves offered knowingly.
“A proper stranglehold, from the look of it,” agreed another, his hand busy in someone’s pocket.
“Is he dead?” someone asked excitedly, sounding hopeful, but the victim was still alive. He was dreaming he was hiding from deadly men, and could hear distant voices approaching. He was struggling to run but his limbs were nailed down. Then one of the killers was grabbing him.
The dream snapped and he shot up screaming, throwing off the khanga, looking around wildly, then up at over a dozen strange faces staring down at him.
“Kindly give him some trousers,” someone said, addressing a mali mali man who was on his way to peddle secondhand clothes in the streets of Nairobi.
The mali mali mumbled something about hard times, so there was an impromptu harambee, people contributing whatever they could to buy the victim a shirt and trousers, in the process some of them discovering their pockets had been picked.
A commotion broke out instantly amid shouts of Thief! Catch him! Then blows were rained on one of the culprits as two others tore down the alley, disappearing around a corner.
“Let’s burn him! Weka taya! Someone fetch a tire!” one person called out.
Another sh
ook his head in disapproval. “You nuts? Right next to the highway? It’s bad for tourism!”
“Where am I?” the victim asked after a semblance of calm had returned.
“In an alley,” said the cleaner unhelpfully.
“You got robbed,” said another person.
“Who are you?” asked a third.
“I’m the chief accountant at Leaknot Pipe Manufacturers,” the victim replied with some pride despite his possible concussion as he massaged his bruised neck. He searched his pockets, suddenly remembering his money, and forgot them all, shooting to his feet. “Ngai! My money!”
“Cops!” someone warned, and they turned to see the two policemen approaching. They stared for a few hesitating seconds at the pickpocket sprawled on the ground, not sure if he was alive, then at the victim, and fled. None of them wanted to give the story of how it all happened, or who did what.
* * *
Sergeant Odieki and the corporal reached the crime scene breathlessly. “You’re under arrest!” the sergeant informed the robbery victim, who was standing rooted to the spot. Then he studied the pickpocket on the ground, covered in dust.
“I can explain, sir,” said the accountant.
“You will have all the time to do so at the police station.”
“Now up, both of you!” snapped Corporal Senga, kicking the accountant, then the pickpocket, feeling like a cop for the first time since his graduation.
They prodded the two captives toward the police camp three kilometers away. Then, half an hour later, a closed-cabin police pickup came by, headed for the city. The commandant’s wife and kids were in the backseat looking all smug.
Sergeant Odieki nudged the two suspects harder with his gun, his mood foul afresh. They went staggering ahead while he took another swig of the illicit gin and threw the empty bottle into the bushes.
“Saw that?” the sergeant growled, turning to Corporal Senga. “That was the big man’s madam and kids on their way to work and school. Next time you figure you need police backup, try to remember police vehicles have loftier things to do.”
Corporal Senga nodded grimly, ticking off another compelling reason why he must not allow himself to wither away doing beats. According to the regulations, cops on the beat were supposed to be dropped in their areas of operations, then picked in the morning.
Sergeant Odieki went on, telling him about more ills at the station, freezing in his tracks as a courier van came racing from the industrial area, shooting past other motorists recklessly. Its full lights were flashing, then it braked sharply at the roundabout, its tires screeching, and the sergeant saw its window on the passenger side was broken and the security wire mesh covering it had been torn off.
A man was waving a gun at the stunned motorists, motioning them to give way. Then the man saw the cops and the gun swerved in their direction.
“Dive!” Sergeant Odieki yelled, dropping into a ditch, the corporal following suit as bullets razed the grass around them.
The corporal recovered his senses and shot back, but if he hit anything, only the Lord knew. Sergeant Odieki fired a volley as the van broke out of the jam, shooting forward. It careened, hitting a post and a bus stop, then all was eerily silent for long seconds.
The two cops climbed out of the ditch and moved forward warily, guns at the ready. The hissing of the radiator spewing steam was the only sound coming from the vehicle.
“Go check it while I keep the crowd away!” Sergeant Odieki shouted, the two captives forgotten.
The corporal approached the van, no longer feeling like playing tough cop. He peered inside and gasped. The gangster was sprawled over the gear stick and the driver’s head lay on the steering wheel. Both were obviously dead. The corporal turned to the rear compartment. There was another man, this time a uniformed one, lying on the floor, also dead, but this was not what shocked Corporal Senga. He was staring at piles of money in an open safe.
Then he snapped into action, yelling: “Keep the crowd away, sergeant!” He scrambled to the back of the vehicle and hurriedly unfastened the belt of his trench coat.
He scooped the bank notes, frenziedly stashing them into the deep inner pockets, then froze for a second as distant sirens caught his ear. Finally, his pockets bulging, he jumped out, slamming the door of the van and hurrying to join the sergeant who was still busy waving his gun to ward off the gathering crowd.
* * *
They were sitting at a table inside the police canteen, now dressed in civilian clothes, Sergeant Odieki nursing his drink, the only thing that kept him going nowadays.
Every now and then, Corporal Senga stole nervous glances at him, wondering if he had spotted him taking the money.
“What’s the matter with you?” the sergeant snapped at last, irked by the recruit’s strange looks. “Never seen dead bodies before?”
Corporal Senga stared down at his feet swallowing a lump, then geared himself for the final lie. “There was at least two million in the van!” he whispered.
The sergeant stared at him. “Corporal!” he hissed, looking around self-consciously. The other officers were busy with their own conversations. “Corporal,” he hissed again, now gripping the sides of his chair, “why the hell didn’t you tell me? You let it all go?”
“Sir,” the corporal said apologetically, “I thought you wouldn’t want to know—seeing how you dislike dishonesty, unlike the other cops—”
“Fool!” The sergeant slumped back against his chair, breathing hard.
“Sir, it seemed the right thing to do then,” the corporal went on warily, and Sergeant Odieki nodded glumly, looking deflated.
“Young man,” he said finally, “when you and I were doing the beat last night, I was ticking off points why I should never have allowed myself to be allocated the beats! Then, just when the big break comes, you blow it!”
The corporal blinked, shocked. “I’m sorry, sir. I feared how you would react if I suggested we take some money—”
The sergeant gripped his bottle, growling from deep in his throat, his face purplish: “Corporal, get lost!”
“I’m sorry, sir—”
“I said get lost before I cause actual bodily harm!”
* * *
Half an hour later, seated smugly in the backseat of an Uber, the corporal watched the Athi plains unfolding as the vehicle raced toward the sprawling maze of residential houses where he was certain it would be a miracle if the cops found him. By his side—not in the boot, hell no—was a large bag containing his entire legal worth as well as four million shillings he could never account for.
* * *
Back at the police canteen, Sergeant Odieki was through cursing at Edith and Senior Sergeant Lagat, and harboring specific thoughts of harming Corporal Senga. He was now through cursing the world at large, and was idly watching the seven o’clock news on the small TV anchored to the wall a safe six feet from the dartboard.
A commercial was trailing off, then the newscaster with heavy makeup was back on. “And now for the latest update.” She smiled winningly but Sergeant Odieki’s mind was settled darkly on his sad life—courtesy of that fool corporal. Still, looking at her, he could not help wondering if she would ever develop a worry wrinkle in her life. What he was as certain as hell of was that she had never stepped in the kind of muck he had been sloshing through on countless nights.
“It has now been confirmed that the security van hijacked by two robbers along Mombasa Road early this morning was carrying six million shillings, not two. The police now suspect . . .”
Sergeant Odieki choked on his beer. “Six million?” he whispered, then with a gasp he sprang up, knocking away the drinks, ready to sprint into the darkness after Corporal Senga.
A burly officer stood in the doorway. “Thought I might find you here. You’re under arrest, sergeant!”
“I can explain, sir.”
“I’m sure. You’ll have lots of airtime for it back at the station. Perhaps you will even tell us the whereabouts
of the stolen money and your junior colleague.” The senior sergeant narrowed his eyes at him dangerously. “One Corporal Senga? His mug shot is all over the film we recovered from the van’s security camera. How much did you share?”
Sergeant Odieki shook his head violently, gagging on the word none.
“Move on—to the station!” the senior sergeant barked, prodding him with his baton, sending him stumbling forward, his pistol at his fat waist, within grasp.
At the gate to the station, the senior sergeant stopped, his manner changing abruptly. “Sergeant Odieki,” he sighed, “I have known you since our graduation days. You are a good man.”
Sergeant Odieki’s eyes widened with surprise.
“You might not remember but we joined the forces at about the same time, even did traffic like you for a while.”
Sergeant Odieki was dumbfounded as he now remembered the paper-thin recruit who could not shoot straight. The man had turned into a barrel, and the long thin face the sergeant remembered was round as a ball. “I remember you!” he said with fresh hope.
“Sergeant, considering the money in question, I cannot see how you can wiggle out of this one—”
Sergeant Odieki groaned in despair
“—unless I talk to the top brass.”
“Please!” Sergeant Odieki responded.
“He will need a cut of the money you stole. I don’t see him accepting anything less than 1.5.”
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
Stanley Gazemba’s debut novel, The Stone Hills of Maragoli, won the Jomo Kenyatta Prize for Literature in 2003. It was subsequently published in the US as Forbidden Fruit. He is also the author of two other novels, Callused Hands and Khama, and a collection of short stories, Dog Meat Samosa. His articles and stories have appeared in several publications including the New York Times, a Caine Prize anthology, and the East African magazine. Gazemba lives in Nairobi.
Ngumi Kibera has written over twenty-five books to date, ranging from preteen to adult. He is a past winner of the Jomo Kenyatta Prize for Literature and a Burt Award. Prior to taking up writing as a near-full-time occupation, he held senior posts in various major companies mainly in marketing, an area he finds quite in tune with his creative bent and love for travel.