I was brought up by a father who was the central judicial system in my family. He tried all cases, from failing to pay the school fees, to fighting with my siblings, and even to why I had roasted so many maizes than an average teenager should. He was a stern man with soft looks and his words were final and amen. And although his foot had never touched the doors of any church, he was a strong believer of the proverbial quote- Spare the rod and spoil the child. Sometimes, and these times were many, he would solve the cases with his sense of justice. The most interesting thing is that as long as you were found guilty, which was almost always the case, the punishment was often the same.
Being a cheeky boy came along with its consequences. One day I would be peeing on the road without care, another day I would be stealing avocados from a neighbor’s tree, and another day I would be stuck in the dam, our silly goat greedily eating from the retired chief’s farm. Regardless of the nature of my mistakes, the same punishment was guaranteed. I would receive some beating right before supper which had slowly developed into a father’s prescription. The type of dose would be administered right before supper. I did not have a say at all. My father never gave time for a naughty boy to defend his mistakes or tell his side of the story. And if he did, the beating had to come before.
Things happened, and I grew up. I refused to go to school because I was scared of the boys that wore sports shoes with spikes. My before-supper dose would be administered and I would be running to school the next day before the teacher had arrived. Eventually, I loved school and even had a crush on the vice class prefect (I was the class prefect). Back then, being a class prefect came along with a silver lining. I punished the noisemakers, assigned duties to those that came to class late, and even led the class in prayers before going home after school. I was not the best kind of prefect because I was bossy and stern.
And just like my father, it did not matter whether you were talking or making noise. You had to wash the classroom under my supervision. Sometimes, the punishments would be so severe that the teacher would come in. Sometimes she would rule in my favor and sometimes she would not. Other times, she would appoint another class prefect and I would fight my way up again. Justice came in handy, like a scarce resource not meant for everyone.
Later, I read stories of the late Professor Wangari Mathai, the Moi error, and how people who criticized the government would be locked in solitary confinements, beaten and enslaved. I read about the assassination of Tom Mboya and the like of James Kariuki. The fate of Pio Gamma Pinto and other people who sought for justice was no different either. Democracy came in with time and everything seemed to be getting better. But just because it seemed better doesn’t mean it got better. Especially when you bring in folks who were trained in Kiganjo Camp.
Mlango Kubwa MCA felt that she had exclusive responsibilities to fulfill her constitutional duties. After a long time, she couldn’t take the alleged impunity, gross office violation, and corruption that Nairobi MCAs accuse Speaker Beatrice Elachi of. With other MCAs who felt that they could not swallow saliva while Beatrice was still in office, they decided to match to her office in protest advocating for her impeachment. Unknown to them, folks that wear boots number 9 and have done hundreds of pushups within Kiganjo’s walls had been called upon to serve the protestors with a sense of justice.
As soon as they reached the office, police officers in very beautifully tailored uniforms did their final pushups inside the Landcruiser you pay tax to fuel. I don’t know if they forgot to pick their sense of humanity inside the police station but evidently, somebody would go home in bruises or spend a night or two inside the walls of the hospital.
When the police officers finally charged at the protesting crowd, MCAs who know this country is not for their mother paddled on their hooves like antelopes fleeing from a monster lioness. Mlango Kubwa MCA felt that she was the actual mother of the country and she ought to handle the situation with a calm sense of justice. Her charmed stopped working when the men in uniform finally caught up with her.
Armed with clubs which are as hard as Lebanon trees and guns which must have been imported from Israel, they thundered blows and kicks on the MCA who did not pull out a revolver to shoot back in self-defense. The officer in blue uniform and very shiny boots had finally found a perfect punching bag to advance his martial arts which must have been poorly taught inside the walls of Kiganjo. His brother (brother because they all feed on the same table and work out their muscles on the same subject) was busy keeping fit with a long fighting stick that looks like a pipe he had plugged out from the kitchen’s sink. There was a third officer with a protruding pet belly, probably because of eating away the good sense of justice he had learned from his training. He was returning the blows from the first officer, his fighting stance serving the blows so squarely. Together, they all seemed like men without wives, daughters, sisters, and worse still, like monsters who had sold their sense of humanity to some dead retail shop.
The poor woman was savagely beaten to a point that she would have to spend some time staring at the blue walls on the inside of a hospital.
Just like the case of Hussein Moyo who was killed by a police bullet in March this year, Samantha Pendo who was killed by a police bullet in 2017, and the many cases which were not reported, no officers were charged with cases of killing. When the images of the MCA’s beating got into the social media, Kenyans and Human Rights Activists demanded justice on twitter and Facebook.
Kenyans who felt the pain of savagely beating a woman for no apparent reasons took to twitter and barked hard to the DPP and CS Matiangi. Something else will come up and we will shift our barks from the DPP to a new saga. All along, the police officers who did this inhumane act went back to the station and had a cup of coffee. I guess they are training for a rematch should those who feel that the justice they served was unfair and take to the streets to protest.
When you are faced with danger, you are supposed to run to the person you know can protect you. But when you come to Kenya, don’t you ever dare run to the police officers. Especially when they have hard wrists and clubs made from exotic trees. Unless you want to smell the scent inside the walls of the hospitals. Because it seems to me like justice is just another lie, I have to get used to it.
Stop police brutality- the cries that were killed and buried in the administration office inside Kiganjo Brutality Training Camp.