Published by
Kenya Projects Organization (KENPRO)
E-mail:
kenpropublications@gmail.com
Website: www.kenpro.org
ISBN
978-9966-069-13-9
First Publication 2012
KENPRO 4-04/012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or
mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or information storage and
retrieval) without prior permission from the author or publisher.
1.1 The Passing Away of My First Born Son
1.2 In the Police Custody Experience
With all human uniqueness, each person has a story to tell. The Hustler in the City is a compilation of sixteen different stories drawn from life experiences. These experiences, as narrated by the author are series of misfortunes encountered in the Nairobi City. They depict what life means for any growing youth who is trying to find a place in the society; these are stories that symbolize the tale of a boy child, who is trying to find a place in the society that appears to care less. The book is organised in parts. Part 1 unveils the journey to and experiences in remand; part II covers Experiences in the City. These include being conned, working on odd jobs, life in the slums and hawking in the city. The stories are captivating, leaving the reader with a wow feeling and some sense of sympathy mixed with amusement!
Anthony M. Wanjohi
Managing Director
KENPRO
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1.1 The Passing Away of My First Born Son
My wife Helen (who has since departed and may her soul rest in eternal abode) was due for delivery. Her labor pains started at a night and I had to take her to a nearby hospital. By that time, we were living in Mukuru slums in the outskirts of Nairobi. When the morning came, I left for work as usual since I knew that I had placed her in safe hands. I came back from work at around 6.00 pm and found that she had delivered at home. I was indeed overwhelmed.
How Hellen delivered in the house considering that I had left her in the hospital was one question that still lingered on my mind. I was told that she was assisted by a group of some women from the neighborhood. What astonished me was that the women had actually struggled very hard and used crude means to get the baby out, since they were inexperienced. In fact they messed up causing severe injuries to the baby and to the mother. Naive as the women were, they could do absolutely nothing but wait for their ‘wages’ for the ‘hard work’ they had done! Since we were living from hand to mouth, I had to seek for some financial assistance from my friends to settle the midwives.’
The reality of their damage had not yet downed to me. I was excited to be a ‘new’ father. But was this to last? The new born soon developed some complications and we had to rush him to a nearby medical clinic. The clinical officer examined him and realized that the poor boy urgently needed further medical attention. The next destination was a hospital located 5 km away. The journey of saving a life began. Mother at home, nursing her after-birth-complications and a young father on his feet seeking medical intervention for the helpless newly born son. “I knew too well that it was not going to be easy.”
We started trekking at around I0 pm. We reached the hospital called Huruma nursing home in Embakasi, Nairobi at around II.30 pm. Upon arriving, looking at the boy, I wept. The boy gave his last breath and he was pronounced ‘no more’ I was confused; I did not know what to do next.
My cousin and I decided that we leave the body at the hospital and return home. We also resolved that we should not tell the mother straight away since she could panic and may be worsen her condition. We therefore changed the story to mean that the baby had not died but in hospital though in a serious condition. We had planned to reveal the matter the following day as we were going to the hospital together with the mother.
The following day we proceeded to our places of work to seek permission. Upon returning home at around I2.00 noon, ready to tell my wife the true story, I was puzzled to see a ‘market’ in my house ready to smash me and my cousin into pieces, reason? They were claiming that my cousin and I had taken the baby, chopped off the head, hands and legs and thrown it into the nearby bush! The exhibit was even placed right before my eyes! What an association of happenings? It was like a dream. I could not believe that this was happening. Chopped body of a baby? From where? Who did it? Me? Oh no! I was puzzled and loss of words! When asked to explain exactly what I knew regarding the matter, everything just evaporated; I could not explain anything. This marked beginning of the beginning.
The reward for the coming and eventual departure of my son was to end up in the police custody. This marked the beginning of another series of the untold experiences. I remember vividly about the timing of these happenings – it was in the chilly month of July 2008. This was the first time in my life to test a police cell. Contrary to what I had heard regarding the nature and condition of the Kenyan cells, I found them worse than what I expected. All manner of cruelty and torture by the police officers and inmates characterized the order of the day. It was about survival of the fittest.
Upon reaching the police desk after escaping a mob lynch on that fateful day, I was welcomed by what I could term as very naughty police officers who were on duty. They roughed me up calling me all sorts of names ranging from a murderer, to a blood thirsty, heartless hustler. They didn’t bother even an inch to listen to my side of the story. According to them, the evidence and the exhibit presented before them was enough to link me with the crime.
Upon my reception in the police custody, the reality started to dawn. I found the environment within the cells to be utterly unbearable, inhuman, with problems ranging from lack of enough food, lack of beddings, congestion, diseases, lice, mosquitoes, harassment from police and other inmates… the list is endless. We had to sleep down on the floor with no beddings. The same kind of food was provided everyday. This included what I would call ‘coloured water’ that is some very dilute tea in the morning, half cooked ugali (poletta) and cabbage for lunch. We took the same meal for supper except that some days, there were a few added pieces of what looked and tasted like wild meat.
In the custody, external problems may not be a big issue as such; the real ghost is loneliness. The worst is if one happens to have been labeled not only by the society but his/her very own. I was both! I felt degenerated and lost the taste of life. I saw a world where the unjust are vindicated and the just are persecuted. Paradoxically, the very world that accused me had so much to answer.
I kept wondering why such a corrupt world outside stood against me. I had relatives not only in the country side but also within Nairobi. But no one of them paid me a single visit. They feared being associated with a man who was involved in such an awful act. Hence like the biblical peter, they declared that they knew me not. The only person who visited me in custody was my mother. This confirms the saying: ‘After God, comes our mothers.’ My biological father was among those who disassociated themselves from me.
While in police custody, I looked to the future with hope and expectation. My faith of a better tomorrow kept me on. From the look of things, the light at the end of the tunnel was so dim. My worst fears were being ‘promoted’ to the next level. Two weeks in the custody were now coming to an end …
End of this
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