Bhangi sio terere PART II: Shaking open Central Police gates for Carol
- April 14, 2018
Click for PART I
Yes my friend. Where were we…yeah, why I am in jail.
Bhang! It’s the simple answer. Weed and me don’t get along very well. Makes me do crazy stuff, is what the illegal smoke does.
The last time I smoked weed before last Friday, I crashed into a wedding reception shirtless, convinced the bride had run away from our children. Three, is the number of kids I accused her of fleeing from.
The pretty woman was speechless. The groom didn’t know what to make of the whole situation and appeared ready bolt. Everyone was frozen for a lengthy moment, of course, apart from my ultra-active mouth.
The MC was the first to thaw. Fellow was the size of my nephew Jeremy. However, he had a wider body, massive shoulders and a huge head that had a chin of bushy beard. He looked stronger too, way stronger –but that’s understandable, Jeremy is seven or thereabouts.
Before I could demand divorce papers from the woman sweating makeup on her white gown, Jeremy-mwitu’s humongous head rammed my tummy launching me into a backward flight, my intestines safely tucked in my ears. My friend, the little bugger could head-butt. My flight was arrested by the multi-tier cake standing with a touch of delicate arrogance in front of the dais. Sunk into it with a “splooonge” sound, is what I did.
For a few, lengthy seconds, I could neither breath nor move. I stared as the dwarf’s baby steps hurried the hairy ramming ball towards me and decided I had enough of my umbilical being stuffed into my spinal cord. So, I stuffed as much of the gooey niceness in my trouser pocket, activated my racers and lit from there. Vowed to keep off the illegal smokeables in future.
But as we say where I come from, “Nkoma tĩ kĩbĩchĩ”. If he, the devil that is, attempted to lure the Son of God into sin, what chance do I, a suffering Kirundiro son of Mwobithania stand? I don’t fight losing battles.
So, this fateful Friday, my buddies Kirungustu, Masengele from Kitui and I staggered out onto the downtown streets from Wanja’s liquor joint pretty late, pretty drunk. Empty, is what the streets were, apart from a street family here and a chokora dazed by glue there. Deserted and silent. Until the howl of a strangled animal pierced the darkness.
It was Kirungustu. And he was writhing on the pavement holding his groin. A few metres away, a crazy dude was brandishing what looked like a metal piping. Promised to open up our skulls if we, too, attempted to pee on him.
I stumbled towards a nearby corridor, one hand hanging onto my Carol’s shoulder, the other inside my pants, trying to coax the sleeping giant out of the slumber he was in.
“Idiot looked like a dustbin,” Kirungustu grumbled as we wobbled away.
“Didn’t need to bust my onions now, did he?” he was still complaining as we crossed Grogon street. Then in front of us emerged a scene from the devil’s private collection. Never before had I seen so many girl-skin and babyfood containers on display. Not even the banned movies we secretly downloaded in college could match this.
It suddenly dawned on me that my tanks had not been emptied for a unhealthy length of time. Could burst any moment, was what I reckoned, judging from the pressure I was suddenly experiencing. Urgent action was needed.
I isolated the quality I thought would make my first prostitute encounter worth. Mountainous past, hilly future… the rest I could live with. Told me her name was Carol, I think. She wanted 200 bob upfront. Agreed to take 90 bob –after the job –perhaps, because I started eyeing her colleague with open interest.
I stumbled towards a nearby corridor, one hand hanging onto my Carol’s shoulder, the other inside my pants, trying to coax the sleeping giant out of the slumber he was in. Very stupid ding-dong I have here. Has embarrassed me before, that it has.
We had drunk busaa laced with diesel. I know because the dealer later confessed when frustrated wives confronted him. Perhaps Wanja did the same to her booze because my entire body wanted, was demanding some explosive action. But the one software that was supposed to ensure that happens refused to transmute into a hardware.
“Harakisha…” I think is what Carol said when we got to the darkness of the corridor. And then it happened. One minute, I was struggling with the Maasai belt, hoping for a miracle, the next, there was commotion and I was out cold.
Don’t know how long I lay on the cold veranda on Grogon but when I came to, a village of mosquitoes had drained half my blood. Holding a party, must have been what the silly biters were doing, getting high for free on my changaa-laced plasma.
I stumbled out into the open to learn that cops came around and arrested a pick-up full of drunks and prostitutes 20 minutes before. Didn’t spot me snoring on the veranda after I knocked myself out in the fall. Carol was not lucky.
How would they take my Carol, I remember wailing as I stared at the protrusion threatening to tear open my trouser. How could they? I was devastated and sniffing the familiar acrid smell of illegal smoke in the air, decided I needed urgent consolation.
So I rounded the block, following my nostrils to a corner where some street boys were smoking weed. Yes, they had an extra stick and of course I had 20 bob. I puffed and shared my sorrowful tale with my new buddies. We agreed cops are meaner than Lucifer and puffed some more. Only city council askaris are worse, we decided and got stoned some more.
I do not know at what point the dubious idea to go get back my Carol, who by now had become a wife, entered my dome. But as I said earlier, weed and my oblongata don’t mix well.
But presently, I found myself, new buddies in tow, shaking awake the cop dozing at the closed gate of Central Police Station. Nearly fell off the seat, is what he did, before he quickly recovered and pointed his gun at me. I reached for it through the gate but missed.
Asked what we wanted, the confused cop did, and I said we had come to get my wife who they abducted an hour before. Told us to disappear into the hole we had crawled out of or else…the cop did. I was not leaving without my rib, is the top secret I divulged to the officer through the gate. If they were not willing to hand her over amicably, then I would get her forcibly, is what I said as I attempted to climb over the gate.
Must have been the dew, or the illicit in my system, or both, but was soon flat on the hard corrugation. Very slippery, that gate was. I wasn’t giving up. So I mounted the squeaky thing, careful this time not to go higher than four inches, and shook it like a mad man. The ruckus must have been great. Besides bringing out more cops from the station, the guards manning the University also emerged, rubbing dreams out of their eyes.
If you are Kenyan, I guess you can tell how the next scene played out. If you are a foreigner, let me assure you that locating that Malaysian airplane will be easier than finding a sense of humour in our boys in blue. Buggers are known to extract pain out of a stone, true story. It took a platoon to peel me off the gate, after which I spent the few remaining hours of darkness in majestic discomfort.
And that’s how I found myself writing this on an upturned pail of shit after the government decided I had disturbed the peace and attempted to free a suspect from lawful custody. As it turned out, the State doesn’t like that. I hope the judge hurries up before my cellmate, Golgotha from Kayole, does me in, or makes me his wife. Gosh, I’m so terrified right now. I swear I’ll never, ever, ever touch weed… Perhaps you, too, shouldn’t!