It was 12 a.m. East African time, Kip Edwards, a sprightly athletic young man in his late twenties drove a white metallic BMW past the gates of his plush. Muthaiga residence, a leafy estate for the Kenyan ruling elite. Derived from the populous Agikuyu word meaning “a magical charm”, Muthaiga estate has relentlessly continued to charm Kenyans of all walks of life.
Apart from the ayahs, cooks and gardeners who are seen walking with minimal cares in the world, the residents of this estate, as if in an unspoken rule amongst them, rarely venture outside their sleek cars, choosing instead to remain opaque inside their glass tinted vehicles.
There is no doubt to the minds of many Kenyans that Muthaiga represents real, unassailable power.
This is the power Kip Edwards felt behind the wheels as he brought the mighty machine to a halt. Men of power have their set ways of doing things and so with time, Sir Kip as his house help would condescendingly address him, came to represent every thing connected with power and powerful people.
The most agreeable thing, Sir Kip thought to himself, was never to associate with the poor. “Poverty stinks” he blurted, as he eased himself out, keys-in-hand and headed towards the imposing mahogany door-of his kingly palace.
She lay motionless on a huge metallic bed. The only indication that rigor mortis had set in was the deathly protruding eyes that held the secret of her death.
“Professor” Dan Miriti, a local cobbler in Kawangware, a poor suburb at the outskirts of Nairobi earned this title due to his skillmanship in the trade. Known for his zeal, camaraderie and zest for life, Miriti good-naturedness naturally made him famous. Born in the slopes of Mt. Kenya among the Ameru people, Dan Miriti grew up in a very poor family. His father, the great Ntibi’ri, an acclaimed herbalist, died a poor man despite the rich heritage he bequeathed his people. Asked why he would not transform this great wealth of knowledge into a profitable venture for the sake of his poor family, Ntibi’ri would always say: “My people’s health is my wealth”.
This philosophy troubled young Miriti. He had the eerie feeling that his daddy did not love them. After all he never taught any of his eleven children his art!
After his circumcision at the tender age of 18, Miriti decided to venture out on his own. Upon circumcision, a young Ameru man can get married and begin a family. But Miriti thought otherwise. Equipped only with informal tribal knowledge, he left home for good, one Sunday morning. This was the perfect time to escape as old Ntibi’ri loved his late morning sleep to care for the world.
At first he thought the stench emanated from the garbage pit. But after careful examination, Mr. Gavex Otieno, a retired mortician, became convinced that the acrid smell was from decaying flesh. But whose? Where? Certainly not an animal’s. Of this he was dead sure. Having handled dead bodies for quarter of a century, Mr. Gavex had come to master diverse types of smells. He estimated the owner of the smell to have been dead for at least 3 weeks. Knowing the wacky Kenyan Police System, he had to take the initiative before they begun knocking at his door for God-knows-what-answers!
“Good afternoon Mr. Detective” said Gavex after adjusting his shirt sleeve to read the time in his ubiquitous rolex watch, purchased during his student days in West Germany.
“What Good is in your afternoon stranger?” shot back a commanding voice.
“Not much, my name is Mr. Gavex Otieno, I am calling from Jamhuri estate house number Z774X. Your men need to be here very fast. There is a strong stench of dead human flesh seeping through my neighbor’s house”.
“We’ll be there right away!”.
With those few remarks, the line went dead.
The flying squad detectives are the most dreaded police unit in Kenya. They have earned their name from the lightning speed with which they respond to distress calls
. Barely 10 minutes had elapsed after his brief talk with the police boss before he heard loud bangs on the door to the main house.
“Fungua hapa haraka sisi ni polisi”, demanded a husky-whiskey-laden voice.
No sooner had he set loose the main lock than a contingent of heavily armed and mean looking men stormed in, overturning everything as swarms of locusts would in a good day.
After devouring all the edibles in the huge Chinese made fridge, the head of the contingent, a heavily built pot-bellied man in his early 40’s snorted out in a strange English accent:
“Al you mester Ngovi O. Wherever?”
“No, my name is Mr. Gavex Otieno, not Ngovi – wherever!”
“You ndeya insalt ambrois mboss?”
“No friend, it is you that has insulted me by desecrating my family house with your uncouth behaviour. Nonetheless, this is not the place of death, your concern. The house is over there, number 2775X. Good luck”.
The lead man was taken aback by the elderly man’s recollected poise which momentarily unbalanced him.
“Bunt wan moro queshon”. The boss shot Gavex a penetrating glance as he instinctively massaged his potly belly.
“Ord man, what ara you provessionally?”
“A Mortician” came back the soft reply.
That did it. The contingent left as hurriedly as they had come.
Mr. Gavex broke out in a guffaw. He had encountered this kind before. Proud before men, humbled by death!
“The news we have just receiveid say that the Police have discovered a decaying female body in Jamhuri estate. The police are appealing to members of the public who have information surrounding her death to volunteer this information to any police station. This information shall be handled confidentially”.
This ended the 1 o’clock news announcements on the national TV channel. It was Tuesday August 2000. Macho man had barely finished his lunch when he heard the news. Raised up in the sprawling Mukuru kwa Njenga slums, Macho Man grew up in great poverty. With no formal schooling, he began working at the tender age of 15 as a casual labourer in the countless Asian run industrial concerns adjacent to the makeshift structures that he called home. With time he came to detest the insults hurled at will by the Asian bosses towards the African employees. One day an adolescent Asian boy, the son of his boss, called him “Ghasia takataka” (trash, rubbish) for coming to work 20 minutes late. The hurt pride that had eaten him for years suddenly and with volcanic proportions broke loose. With a flurry of punches he floured the young man, breaking his front teeth as a result. His fellow Africans cheered him on and Macho Man disappeared from the scene of crime unnoticed. His diminutive stature gave him the advantage of appearing and disappearing unrecognized. From this episode, he learnt the first rule in the game of survival: common sense prevails after war. But that was long time ago.
And so when they asked him to abduct the brown girl for them, he thought it a silly joke. He went for spicy jobs not abductions. But if they could give him 200.000 shillings for the job, why not? After all the bottom line ischapaa, money. This he believed was the source of all respectability.
He sat meditatively outside the manicured lawn of his two-bedroomed mabati house. Since he was young, he had made the decision never to emulate his father. He wanted to give his children the best he lacked in life-education. And so through hard work Prof. Miriti ensured all his 3 children went to school. His favourite child was his first born daughter, Irene Kathure, a third year medical student at the University of Nairobi. He had named her after his mother following the customary naming ways.
And now she has been missing from home for three weeks and no one had any idea where she could be...
His wife, Maria Kanini, a stolid stocky middle-aged woman interrupted his train of thought.
“Baba Irene, I was at the market when Maria Atieno told me about this news report on a dead female body discovered in one of the estates. I must immediately depart to get details at Muthangari Police Station. Do you have the guts to come along?”
“Who said women are weak?” thought Prof. Miriti. “If ever there was a strong gender, the female it was!” He did not require a University degree in Psychology to know this. Standing right before him, was the basis for this amazing human knowledge. “Let’s go mama watoto”, came the subdued reply.
Mrs. Maria Kanini, a semi-retired school teacher, was an unflinching disciplinarian behind her public mask of meekness. Besides, she was calculating and revengeful, never allowing anybody to cross her path. But her vengeance was effected with such precision and cover-up as to make George Bush squirm with envy.
The word forgiveness was never part of her operational vocabulary inspite of her position as the secretary general of her local church. Her greatest idol was her daddy, the lethal colonel N’thamburi who fought the British colonialists in the vast Mount Kenya forests as a Mau Mau insurgent. Together they fully subscribed to the Old Testament Principle: “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”.
They did not need a matatu to carry them to the Police Station. The 40 shillings fare for both of them was way above their day’s budget. All their life, they have been used to walking even longer distances than the 5 km they had to cover.
Their hardy bodies had become accustomed to years of toil hunger, turnmoil and failure. Rather than drift them apart, this painful reality brought them closer together with each passing day. Their yang and yin united in an amazing fusion as to make angels marvel at such rarity amongst men.
The plain receptionist at Muthangari Police Station immediately ushered them in after brief pleasantries.
Behind the huge mahogany desk was Chief Inspector Juma Baridi, a slim bespectacled man in his early 30’s. His meteoric rise in the Police force owed partly to his excellent academic and professional credentials and to his maternal uncle, a cabinet Minister in Government. It was the Minister as a person that he owed his maximum allegiance. He had long ago learned that in Kenya no one scales up the ladder minus a godfather.
“What can I do for you Mzee and Mama?” he offered in his sweet alto voice.
“My dear wife heard about this news announcement from one of the TV channels, about the discovery of a female body. Our daughter Irene Kathure, a medical student has been missing from home for the last 3 weeks. She wanted to be sure she is not the one”.
One quick glance at them convinced Chief Inspector Juma that the folk before him, notwithstanding their ironed mitumba (second hand) clothing, had seen fewer better days in their life. And so to ask them whether they had a vehicle would be an unimaginable insult to their dignity.
“Mzee and mama, if you do not mind, I will drive you in my vehicle to the city mortuary after you fill in the occurrence Book”.
“Most obliged sir”, came back a joint reply.
Already the autopsy report was out. Since Miriti and his wife were not conversant with the law, they therefore did not know that there was breach of law in conducting a post-mortem in the absence of next of kin. As he alternated his gaze from the affable Chief Pathologist to the frozen body lying before him, he was seized with an animal desire to tear and consume in seconds but who?, what? where?
“Is she your daughter?”
He was miles away in utopia. It took the nudging from his wife to bring him back to reality.
“He is asking you, proceeded Mrs. Miriti, whether this is our Irene Kathure”.
“Yes Sir, she is our daughter no doubt. I want to be sure of one thing. Did you say that she was raped, and then shot through the left temple?”
“Yes Sir”, concluded the Chief Pathologist. “And now if you may, I would like to return the body back to the fridge”.
Soon thereafter they left the city mortuary each in their own world of thought.
“She is dead. It is a fact. Brooding will not help you. Be a man. Save your pride”. These remarks from his wife stung him like bees. Yes, he had to save his pride. The only way was to get to the killer, but how? One thing he was sure of. He will avenge his daughter’s macabre killing, even if it will take a life-long mission. He had no business with an effete legal system. The killer or killers had dug their own grave. They had triggered the venom of the son of Ntibiti’ri. The ancestors will not welcome him in the spirit world if he failed to defend the helpless, his own daughter.
Being a faithful traditionalist his first stop had to be on Kiraithe’s doorsteps. Kiraithe was the acclaimed Meru herbalist-cum-diviner, who was reputed to have answers even to the most complex of human puzzles. He would need a whole week for this mission, but he was prepared nonetheless.
It was now official. The parents of the deceased girl were a humble folk from Kawangware slums. The news had become the talk of town. As he listened to the breaking news in the comfort of his settee, Macho Man felt a strong sharp pain cut across his chest. They lied to him!
His criminal activities were never directed at the poor. The poor were his blood, his people. He had never expected them to murder the pretty girl. He thought they only wanted to have fun as they had assured him. How could they eliminate her so brutally? Why? Why does one kill a poor girl? What is the gain? As he saw the distraught parents on his TV screen, his anger turned to rage. His mission had always been against the stinking rich who got their wealth through circumventing the legal system and feeding on the blood of the holloi-polloi, the wretched of the earth. How could they?
He had not touched the 200,000 shillings. As was his practice he could only use money paid to him after fully understanding the motives of his payers. This money was bad money. He had to do something real fast. Common sense prevails only after war. The war had begun.
Tracking down the brown tall man was easy for Macho Man. He knew the ways of the rich. They mingled in specific and exclusive joints in and around Nairobi. And unlike the poor folk, they operated on fixed schedules. For the rich, time was money while for the poor they had all the time in the world.
After unsuccessfully scurrying the city and its outskirts for two weeks, he finally made a decision. He would trust his instincts. More than once, his instincts had salvaged his schemes. This time he was sure, they will not fail him.
And so be decided to drive towards Chizika Night club in Kileleshwa Estate a populous joint for spoilt kids of the rich. He was early. Save for two Toyota saloon vehicles, the parking lot was deserted. As was his practice on such missions, Macho Man thoroughly surveyed the place before settling down in a dingy corner that served the purpose of concealing him but which had the advantage of opening up to all entry points to the club.
It was 6 p.m. East African Time. In an hour’s time this cold place will be teeming up with life. His mission was precise. Like an African Cheetah waiting for her prey, he had to be sober, inconspicuous, alert and above all quick, very quick. His height was an advantage now. The tall waiter showing his back toward him stood leaning on the cypress pole oblivious of any human presence behind him.
At about 10.00 p.m., he arrived in the company of a slender fair complexioned lady. He was definitely in high spirits. Now Macho Man was all eyes on the target, and the carnivore mood now reaching a crescendo could not distract him in the least.
At about 11.05 p.m., he bid fare well to his table mates, got hold of the lady’s arm and gracefully left the pub. Macho Man had already left for his car the minute he stood up. Macho had always trained his mind to think ahead of his target. In manners uncharacteristic of most African men, the target opened the door for his female consort closed it after him then sat on the steering wheel of his white BMW switching the ignition on. Macho Man maintained a safe distance in his dark decrepit Mazda. Suspicion was the last thing he wanted to arouse.
At Moi Avenue, near the Barclays Bank, the long-legged lady eased herself out of the vehicle. The change of direction towards Koinange street indicated to Macho Man that the occupant was heading home. “The rich were slaves of habit and that was why they were such an easy target”, thought Macho Man to himself.
From a distance, Macho Man saw the car slow down with its headlights on towards a black imposing gate.
“So this was the home”, thought Macho in bewilderment.
He knew the house like the back of his hand. The earlier owner was Kimji Asan, the Asian drug-baron, who was assassinated two years before. This was the place Kimji used to meet his criminal buddies for evening briefings and endless midnight cocktail parties. Macho had the architectural plans of most rich city homes in his breast pocket. He parked his vehicle under a thicket and carefully rummaged through the various maps. After 5 minutes he located the architectural plan for Kimji Asan’s palatial home. It was time to act.
Armed only with his Somali sword, Macho cut through an opening in eastern end of the fence. After easing himself through, he found the spot he wanted; a secret underground entry point concealed by a flower pot. Upon removing it, he eased himself down the mangy tunnel leading to the house. Surprisingly the handle easily gave way to usher him inside the palatial home.
He sat himself down, on one of the sofas, with all his senses on high alert. Then he heard the front mahogany door open and the lights come to life. The look of surprise on Kip Edwards face almost made Macho Man laugh. He had seen that look before.
“What the hell...?” asked Kip Edwards.
“Take it easy kjiana. I want you to follow my instructions and you’ll be ok. Give me an empty CD, now”.
“OK, I will”.
Kip Edwards retrieved the CD from a pack of books on one of the shelves.
“Thank you. Now I want you to tell me everything that happened after I got the damned girl for you. I will not ask you any other question. You’ll be speaking and the CD player will be recording everything. I need a copy for myself. I love historical collections, you know...”.
Kip Edwards knew this kind. No one played about with them. They were dogs of war. And so he began his narration of the events.
“The girl was good but dumb. After we took her with my friends Maina Kimani and Amstrong Kunte, we raped her in turns. But when I was about to make a second go, she insulted me. She called me a coward. From my tribal perspective, that is the highest abuse a woman can level at a man. I did the necessary, I pulled the trigger of my western colt revolver and finished the lady off”.
After this evidence, Macho Man, switched off the CD player.
“Where is the firearm?” He casually inquired of him.
“Here it is”.
Before handling it, Macho put on a pair of gloves that he retrieved from his pocket trousers.
Then he began to address him.
“Mr. Kip Edwards, have you ever had the saying, - common sense obtains only after war? - You have been quite foolish. You killed an innocent poor girl. That is not how I operate. I don’t harm the weak. They are my blood, my people. You have killed my blood relations. You will suffer a similar fate. Here is your 200.000 shillings, I do not need a penny more or a penny less of this money. Common sense must prevail. Do you understand me?”
“Please Macho Man, what are you driving at?”
“I can’t answer you, Kip, I want you to write the following dictation in that note book over there”.
Pen on paper, Kip began to write the dictation:
“I, Kip Edwards, have desired to pay the full price for being insensitive to the poor and especially Irene Kathure whom I extinguished with a bullet after repeatedly raping her together with my friends. I agree to this common sense justice”.
The minute he put down the pen, a bullet pierced through his left temple leaving his mouth agape in surprise as he tumbled down the carpeted floor to begin a journey to eternity.
It was the neighbour who called the police hot-lines after hearing what sounded like gun-shots. And within minutes the police had arrived. There was ample evidence to make sensational news. By day break, all the news channels were a buzz with news that Kathure’s killer had succumbed from an assassin’s bullet. It was obvious now that the police did not have a clue about the killer’s details or whereabouts.
At Prof. Miriti’s home, the burial preparations were in top gear when the news trickled in. Mrs. Miriti was content somewhat. But she had to ring her husband to share the news. As she strolled toward the local phone booth, she afforded a smile after a month of agonizing torment.