Freedom is Just a Word….

Photo credits: https://s-i.huffpost.com/gen/1703279/images/o-DEATH-ROW-facebook.jpg

I walk briskly towards the zebra crossing. I am trying to get across to meet my friend waiting on the other side of the road. The highway is busy, as usual, and everyone goes about their business. The 11 o’clock sun shone brightly and the day was good, so far. I halt so as to do the usual, looking left, right then left again, but suddenly, a rough hand grabs me from behind. Understandably, I turn to see who is it but before I can completely wrap my head around whatever is going on, I am bundled into an awaiting ‘skecha’ (A Land Rover used by police officers to ferry law breakers to the police station). I am under arrest. I am sure you are confused, I am too. It is inside that ugly police pick-up that I start asking myself if I had been flaunting any traffic rules because, as far as I am concerned, I was in the right crossing the road at the zebra crossing. That’s what I was taught in school. It is the right thing. An enervating sadness fills my soul but I know I had to man up.

At this point I was shocked and confused. I normally read and hear about panic attacks and think that it is some white people disease, but shock on me. I started heaving and breathing hard, I was scared stiff. I couldn’t understand a thing, I kept thinking about what I had been doing that morning and who would bail me out. Several other people joined me in that ‘skecha’, they too were in handcuffs and when the policemen were satisfied with the numbers, we were driven to the police station. Upon alighting, we were arranged in a single file and led into the holding cells. I texted my friend and sister and surrendered my phone, shoe and belt to the potbellied police officer who kept making smug comments. As soon as we were done surrendering our dignity, we were crammed into a cell which had a tiny hole near the ceiling. At the far end of the cell where the wall and darkness met was a bucket where everybody went there to relieve their system off toxins. You can imagine the stench.

I felt depressed, hopeless and I stood there in wait of nothing in particular. Some of my fellow inmates had already made themselves comfortable using their other shoes as pillows on the cold floor. One was sitting at the corner and looked deep in thought. His mode of dressing made me wonder what he had been arrested for. This didn’t look like a place for his kind. The rest of us blended freely, and started making conversation. Real talk and not the regular small talk that doesn’t get to the soul. I was the youngest of the men in that cell.

‘Naskia kuna mamorio wawili wamechomoka tukiingia!” (I hear there’re some two escapees) One inmate quipped enthusiastically, his name was Mangi. We all got interested to know how the two managed to escape.

Mangi: Saa hizi magava wamecharge, aki ya nani wakipatikana wataumia! Eeh! Watajua hawajui. Na niliwaona wakicheki left, right nikajua watajaribu, na ivo tu, wakaingia nyasi. Haya, tungoje drama.’

(Right now the policemen are irate, I swear if caught they will know that they don’t know a thing. I saw them surveying and I knew they’d try something and they did. Well, let’s await the drama.)

The images I read in Benjamin Garth Bundeh’s book Birds of Kamiti filled my mind as I pictured the torture that awaited us in that cell. The potbellied officer who’d arrested us came announcing that lunch would be served and that we should make a single file so as to be served. My stomach churned as the image of beans and uji-like ugali flooded my mind. I shuddered with fear at the thought as I fought back tears.

Mangi: Usijifungie brathe, apa tuko pamoja. Usiwahi tense, mlo iko form.

(Don’t hold yourself back, never tense up, the food is good.) And sure it wasn’t so bad.

Potbellied officer: Nani anataka kuniona kando? Shift inaisha. (Who wants to talk privately? My shift ends soon.)

I loathed his smug face that looked like he owned Kenya and her neighbors. I detested how he reasoned that we were to bail ourselves out with no knowledge as to what were arrested for. This smug potbellied idiot actually knew that a good number of the prisoners would do anything to be free and he capitalized on that. He felt so entitled that he couldn’t help rubbing it in our faces that this was his world.

Amid all these, there was one guy, Jango. Jango was napping away when we were brought in and only woke up to have lunch. That’s when I saw the bruises on his face and arms. The ones on his face were still fresh and bloody. He had a busted lip and a swollen eye. As soon as we finished eating cabbages and ugali, he started making a fuss. “Hey you Mr. Potbelly, why wasn’t I produced in court? Why am I still here? Si mgenipeleka niwaseme?” Nobody seemed to mind him.

Jango: You see these idiots, they didn’t produce me because just like last time they beat me up for being homeless. These people are animals and I made sure to report them to the judge when they produced me in court. I managed to get the service number of the afande who beat me up and I told the judge. I managed to walk free. They think people who look like us don’t have rights and are stupid. I am not stupid, I just don’t have anyone or anything but I am not stupid and I have rights. WHY WASN’T I PRODUCED IN COURT, I WILL MAKE YOU IDIOTS PAY. JUST PRODUCE ME, YOU’LL SEE. (Shouting)

I was amazed at his fluency in the Queen’s language, totally unexpected. His threats were interrupted by some kind of commotion outside which felt like a riot. I imagined a riot had broken out and we could escape from these dungeons of hell that we were in. Except this wasn’t a riot but a group of police officers descending on two men sharing handcuffs with blows from their gun’s butt and kicks. As soon as they got in the holding cells, they were freed from the handcuffs but not from the kicks and blows that continued to reign terror on their bodies. We all fell into an ingratiating calm as we watched on. Bile crept up my throat as I watched the duo bludgeoned. Nuts were crushed, knee-joints and elbows were knocked as they let out deafening screams. Jango tried issuing more threats, something about him cramming the officers’ service numbers and he’d report them but they wouldn’t stop. By the time the seven officers were done with the duo, they were a shadow of what they used to be.

They joined us in the cell, bleeding profusely. One of the guys who I found in the cells decided to offer them a blanket which was property of the police station. It was old, dirty and full of holes but that’s all the welcome he could manage in there. Upon offering them, one other guy didn’t find it amusing and he decided he did not want ‘his’ blanket given out. Apparently, he had lent him the blanket and now he was trying to play Mr. Generous Guy. Push became shove and soon a fight broke out. They fought as if they were fighting for survival, maybe it was a fight for survival after all. The silent well-suited guy sitting at the corner suddenly started talking, “You guys are fighting over a blanket as dirty as that? Fighting because you want to be the carrier of lice and bedbugs? How stupid are the two of you? Instead of thinking of a way out of this, or saving your energy as you can see you might need it, instead you are busy fighting for lice and bedbugs hmmmh!” he scoffed and sneered in disgust. The duo stopped fighting and coiled in shame as it hit them that they were being utterly unreasonable given the circumstances. I wondered what a guy like that was doing in this place, given that he seemed such an intellectual, above the cellmates.

There was this Caucasian man sitting patiently outside our cell but within the holding area where we surrendered our possessions. He was having a plate of rice. Jango noticed my curiosity and asked, “Unaona Jungu anaweza kuwa alifanya nini?’ (What do you think mzungu might have done?). I shrugged, I didn’t have the mental strength to engage Jango, as I had resolved to save my strength.

‘Changamka brathe, huku utakufa mawazo ata si noma ilikuleta hapa. Kuwa mstrong man, kwanza yako ni touting, utatoka. Wacha niulize Jungu nini imemleta hapa.” (Ease up brother, in here overthinking and stress will kill you and not the offence that brought you here. Be strong, yours is touting you’ll get out. Let me ask mzungu what brought him here.) Jango said as he stood up and walked to the bars on the cells, he held onto them and spoke to the Caucasian man through the bars. This reminded me of Lucky Dube’s song ‘Prisoner’. I wondered how he knew my charges when I myself had no idea what I was charged for, plus I wasn’t charged alongside him.

Lucky Dube - Prisoner

Jango: Hello sir, why are you here?

The Caucasian man gave him a disgusted look, stopped eating and stood up, he started pacing up and down the corridors. Our cell was like a corridor that had no end but there was a door deep inside the corridor that led to the female holding cells. Their cell was more of a cell within our cell and only pitch darkness kept them company. We ate in turns and we would be ordered to get out of our cell so that the female inmates would come out. There was no interaction between us and them whatsoever. From outside, one could see the male inmates first and you’d think there were no female inmates except when they giggled and their voices announced their presence. I felt privileged to have experienced all the drama as compared to them who didn’t get to see what was unfolding on this side. I waited to hear what the Caucasian man had done. He wore a tuxedo, smelled fresh and his hair was tied in a ponytail. He completely ignored Jango but who, however, wouldn’t relent in his curiosity.

Jango: Come on man, what is the worst that can happen and yet you and I are the same now? I won’t rob you if that’s your fear. We are in the same boat, better make some friends. What did you do?

The Caucasian man looked at him again and answered almost sotto voce, “Rape.” My eyes widened in bewilderment as Jango almost chocked on his own words. The guys inside the cell stopped murmuring and paid attention as if awaiting details, and details came.

Caucasian man: There’s this woman who claims I raped her, I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I love her but she is too demanding. She wants money, a lot of money to boost her business and I told her to wait kidogo I get her the money. She’s framing me.

A voice in the cell: Uongo! Jungu alikuja huku kurape. Ebu anyamaze. (Lies! Mzungu came here to rape. Tell him to keep quiet.)

Jango: So sorry brother, good thing they’ve kept you in that nice room with a mattress and a blanket. Not like us here. Here freedom is just a word with no meaning. But God is for us all.

Caucasian Man: I can’t stand this place, I know those charges will be dropped. I won’t be produced in court. Just waiting for the big man in this place then I will be out.

 I shuddered and couldn’t concentrate on their stories. I had to think of a way to get out of here. The place was terrible and my head couldn’t stand it. I stood up and saw my sister and cousin walking frantically up and down on the other side. Seeing her made my heart warm up but I knew better not to get my hopes high. My name was called out and I knew they had agreed to let me talk to her. She seemed distressed and I had to put up a brave face, she inquired what I was arrested for and true to Jango’s words, I was in for touting. She told me to sit tight and wait. I was led back to the cell, hardly balancing myself as I had one shoe on. I read the inscription on the cell’s wall and felt some inexpressible feeling, a feeling which could hardly be expressed.

Words like, ‘... I was here,’ ‘Stay put, justice and freedom are just words’ and my favorite one which I thought to have been recent was ‘Bora Uhai’ (of importance is life). Several other inscription were there but they were mostly curses towards the law enforcement agency.

Several minutes later, my name was called out again. I was let out of the cell by yet another potbellied officer, this one was shorter than the smug one(it appeared a potbelly was a requirement for the job). It was clear that I was getting out. I was given back my belt and phone, instructed to find my shoe among a heap of shoes and I was led to the reporting desk where my name was crossed out from the Occurrence Book. I could almost taste freedom and couldn’t wait to leave the dungeons of hell. I looked at Jango and smiled at my jail-friend. I felt wistfulness creep up my soul for in a short while we had established a camaraderie of sorts.

Jango: Sasawa brathe, see you on the other side brother, pray for us lest these idiots in uniform kill us in here.

As I was getting out into the outside world, I could hear Jango struggling. I looked back and caught a glimpse of the short potbellied officer kicking him and Jango threatening that he had his service number in his head and unless he beheads him, his kicks won’t keep his mouth shut. I was inspired by him, a man who despite losing everything and everyone still had his voice. Despite being the lowest of the low, still guarded his voice with extreme jealousy. As I hugged my sister and cousin, I felt humbled by life. That I could have people who looked out for me. I was humbled by Jango’s fearlessness, the well suited quiet man oozing with wisdom and the Jungu who thought he had it all figured out. The inscription on the walls of the cells and the giggling ladies in the dark. I noted how complacent I was on the rottenness of the criminal justice system. I appreciated how strong I was within myself. In there, rats kept us company, and we were all equal – at least that’s what I like to think. Time had surely gone by as it was 8.p.m when I took the long breath of freedom.

Freedom is Just a Word...

By Janet Kilel
Click here to view other articles/stories by Janet Kilel