How would you rate the amount of trust you, as an individual, have in the police force? It’s a valid question, isn’t it? The answer may vary from person to person. In this instance, allow me to take you through my experience with the utumishi kwa wote crew, also known as the police, who are tasked with ensuring that all citizens are safe and orderly.
I was having a conversation with a friend of mine a while back when a mind-boggling statement came out of his mouth. But before I share that, allow me to take a detour.
Some of you may have heard stories about Langas Ward in Eldoret. Or perhaps you haven’t. To put us all on the same page, if you’ve ever heard someone passionately talk about Langas, you’d be terrified. You’d imagine it as the locale for Satan’s side hustles. There, you’d conclude, your safety depends on how lenient the hustlers choose to be. However, if you are unfortunate enough to have an interaction with one of them during your own personal time, just understand that this is as normal as breathing for the locals. You’d be terrified to walk at night, haunted by the thoughts that would plague you if you sat down and listened to someone praise the place.
And yes, this friend of mine hails from Langas. As we talked, I sensed a sort of disappointment building up inside him. A while ago, some hustler in Langas had tried to snatch his lipa mdogomdogo phone from him. Had his grip not been as tight as a “shi fu” master, as one of my friends usually refers to a kung fu master, he would have incurred losses beyond what he already faced due to the snatch attempt.
Now his lipa mdogomdogophone is bent almost from the middle at an angle of about half to a whole degree. I recognise you might or might not relate, but as a mdogomdogo owner myself, I know the torture I’d have to endure if someone took advantage of my good citizenship vulnerability to jeopardise my ownership, illegally, as in stealing.
I’ve been pitying my friend for a while. But what bothers me more is the hint of acceptance I’ve been sensing from him about the issue. It’s a kind of “what can we do anyway” acceptance. That is what brought to my mind the question, “what about the police?” and led me to verbalise it.
Hear me out here. You’d expect that the police would be the most reliable crew to ever exist in your ideal fantasy. The people who come to mind as the aides to run to when you hear or see a case of crime or violation are, of course, those guys, though sometimes, after you shout out for your mother first. Or am I the only one who screams “mama” once in a while when frightened? But my point is, the actual and potential presence of police gives a sense of confidence and comfort to most law-abiding citizens. Me too. Generally. But my confidence is tainted by an incident that occurred a long while ago while I was based in Kiambaa, close to Nairobi.
I’d just turned eighteen. A few beards on my chin were my unfortunate final nail in my coffin this fateful day. It was around Christmas time. My younger brother and I were sent to shop at odd hours. Ten PM was actually a normal time for last-minute shopping, especially for families living hand to mouth, where supper money could show up at any time it pleased. Yeah, it could stall until the latest possible hours of the night or might never show up at all. But God is caring, so it generally did.
As we returned from our last-minute purchases, I noticed a dark figure moving in a shadowy section of the path back home. I sensed it was a cop. But I was young and still a child. Right? Wrong. Yet that was the naivety that probably got us walking on. Then suddenly, we were stopped.
“Kijana, mnaenda wapi?”
“Nyumbani. Tunetoka shopping.”
“Wapi ID?”
I’d left it at home.
“Sina.”
“Bass kaeni chini!”
We sat down among the rest of the unfortunate pedestrians as another sharper passerby ran off, escaping the cops. I felt like a fool. But it was done. I was already trapped.
I borrowed a phone from a guy sitting with us and called home. My mum came with my ID, and they let us go.
As we walked off, I spoke curiously.
“Thank God I had an ID for sure. That’s why they let us go. Right?”
“You think they’d let you go just like that? I had to give them two hundred shillings,” said Mum.
That revelation pinched me hard and painfully. A family that had just escaped sleeping hungry, by the thickness of a cat’s whiskers, was now wrung out of two hundred shillings. They say the pain of a child is known by the parent. What they forget is that the pain of a parent is seen and felt too by the child, unless I’m the only child capable of that superpower. Anyway, it was an obvious robbery with intimidation by the police.
Our miraculous, probably sweat-and-pain-laced provision was snatched away by inconsiderate cops with guns carrying out a holiday “patrol.” Such misuse of privilege and breach of trust. But what do you know? It’s the devil’s world, and we have to learn and grow and outgrow trust and naivety. In this demon-infested world, utter trust is definitely akin to naivety, I now realise. Perhaps that was my lesson. Put shortly, don’t trust anyone. Not the police, for sure.
Now that I think of it, I’m starting to feel I need to forgive. But you get the gist of my story.
That day was the shaking down of my wall of Jericho of trust and confidence in the police force. Some have faced worse, but it’s the tiny blocks that build a house. I confess that these days I mostly harbour fear, hate, and other mixed feelings towards the utumishi kwa wote, depending on the uniqueness of my encounters with them.
So now back to where I began. I mentioned at the start that my friend said something simple yet profound. Something mind-jogging that spoke more than what was said. We’d been talking about the insecurity in Langas, and I was asking about the option of involving the police. And this is how it went.
“What about the Police?” I’d asked.
“Sasa na wao ndio wanaflash hizo masimu!!”
Meaning the cops were even helping to flash stolen phones.
