By Frank Bray.
I didn’t know what to expect when I ran outside. Just a few seconds ago, shouts of “Mwizi, mwizi,” had filled the relative night silence.
I put a jacket on and stepped out, hands empty, holding just the courtesy of being involved. Two to three women and a few children were already at the gate, pangas in hand, as if awaiting to chop wood.
I walked past them and made a steady walk along the street as far as my body hairs felt safe to go.
Just a few yards away, I could hear voices among the drying cornfields.
“Ameingia hapa tu sasa! Lazima huyu mtu tumkamate. Hatoki hapa!”
I swallowed. Witnessing a mob justice wasn’t in my tastes for the day.
The men searched through the tiny cornfield plot with an unfathomable mixture of patience and urgency. They’d get him, come rain or sunshine, even if they’d have to search till morning.
“Heri tufyeke hii mahindi,” an angry voice echoed.
I helped the search half-heartedly, circling the tiny plot reluctantly amid mixed feelings.
There’s one reality about being a thief: you get on people’s nerves. It’s a universal emotion, I guess.
“Bring a torch here,” I randomly said, reluctant. Just to play along.
Two dudes brought phone flashlights to where I was and directed the beams into the tract of land in question. Just by the barb, a man lay on the ground, silent. Still. Shaking like he had a date with the devil. Eyes wide in the horror of a trapped mouse.
“Ndio huyu!” someone shouted.
It was unexpected. But the guy had other plans.
He dove further into the small field and again disappeared into the corn. Yet his goose was cooked, and everyone was so sure he was within that field. It’s hard to gaslight a crowd twice.
It took a shorter time to locate him this time. By the time he was dragged out onto the lit street that night, he had been roughed up a bit. They dragged him to the roadside. Then a rainy moment came. I watched, terrified, as a woman and little girl hurled stones in succession while someone thankfully protested against killing the unfortunate intruder.
A stone met his temple and disarmed him. He softened and lay there weak. A subdued predator.
I made prayers, desperate for the man’s sake, and secretly logged on to my phone straight to he internet.
I would call the police, and they’d come rescue him before the busy mob went to their extreme. I wished a patrol car would drive by.
The first search was for Eldoret Kuinet Police Station contacts. The nearest. The second was for Eldoret Central Police Station. To my peril, one contact was unreachable while the other rang on and on unpicked.
By the time I’d finished a third try of both numbers with the same results, the one- to two-hour mob violence had ended. The thief only walked away by the whim of a cat’s whisker, and I was left to contemplate the what-ifs of the occurrence.
As I lay down jn my crib, all I could wonder was why in the name of karma online government pages would have non-functional or non-responsive contacts. Someone was slacking.
I’d like to forget that day. But how many citizens die or suffer unnecessarily, whether good or evil, just because someone couldn’t find a working police contact? I hope the Kuinet and Eldoret Central Police Station have updated their contacts to ones that work reliably.
