Mwizi! Mwizi! Mwizi

By Ess Waceke

“Mwizi! Mwizi! Mwizi!” That was followed by the banging of doors and harried footsteps.
“Hebu funga mango!” Mum yelled from her sleep.
We stayed inside the house, waiting and counting hours for the commotion to end to
ask for Moshene.
We reduced the sound system.
All we could hear was:
“Maliza yeye!”
“Leteni tyre na mafuta!”
“Wametuzoea!”
We were happy that one had been caught.
.We had been living in fear, like Adam and Eve when they ate the forbidden fruit.
“Wametupeleka mbio, wacha wapate funzo,”Mum said.
That statement and happiness were drained out of our souls when Mama Solo
yelled:
“Wakanja! Wakanja! Ni Kanja wako anapigwa!”
“Ngai! Ngai!”
Barefooted, we rushed out, meddling through the crowds, begging like Jarius, trying
to see and save our mother’s “precious son”.
He lay bare, with his favourite Ceeks T-shirt torn up into pieces and a tiny piece
covering up his manhood.
The atmosphere changed when Mum wailed his name, trying to raise him back to
life.
Every part of his body had been disorganized.
They had no mercy on him.
Mum lay beside his lifeless son, getting some first aid.
With neighbours whispering all sorts of sweet nothings in our ears:
“Kalianza uwizi lini?”

“Kanja amebaki na meno moja tu.”
“Kumbe cute boy alikuwa mwizi.”

We remembered Mum warning him of his South ways, Dad bailing him from the
police station, and Kanja stealing money from our purses.
His forty days came to pass.
Dad’s glaring eyes portrayed pain as he called the mountain, asking them to prepare
a place for Kanja.
We are left with pain and memories of our 20-year-old Kababa.
When we stand before God on judgment day, I hope He has evidence of our hushed
conversations in our tiny kitchen and efforts begging him to change his ways.