Days like these!

What a day! The errands spelled out for me on that fateful Saturday in the month of April proved to be daunting. Pen in hand I sat on my bed going through my checklist with a keen eye. Start with the bank, then go to the fish market, then go to the vegetable market, drop the items off at Aunt Monica’s, proceed to Janet’s house, grab a quick shower, change and join the chamaa ladies for our monthly meeting and finally meet up with Dan for a quick drink.

I had a quick shower, dressed and left the house with a purposeful mind to accomplish all that was set out. I made in good time to the bank, cashed in the cheque and with a happy heart headed to the fish market. A few minutes later, arms full with fresh tilapia and scallops I was on to the vegetable market, Kariorkor. Spinach and mushrooms were in season and I was able to secure a good price for the bale I purchased and it was on to the potatoes, carrots, onions and tomatoes. With a satisfied sigh I made my way to the bus top that would allow me board a matatu to Aunt Monica’s house. A strange sight greeted me at the bus stop. There on the dirty floor between two matatus lay a man stripped down to his underwear and bleeding from various orifices. As I gazed upon him with pity, the sight took me down memory lane to an incident 2 months earlier.

“Shika huyo mwizi….. Shika huyo mwizi” screamed the raging crowd that pursued a man into the alley. The crowed bayed for the blood of the man they had caught stealing from an elderly woman and chased into the alley. Without any hesitating they began to pelt rocks at him and beat him with anything they could put their hands on. His screams drew no mercy from the crowd.  Shortly a tire was brought into their midst and the chants “Burn him!! Burn him!!” filled the air and brought tears to my eyes.

Surely there was another way to punish the thief apart from burning him to death. Another voice in my head pleaded that the days of all thieves are numbered and hence it was right for the man to die at the hand of the crowd. Yet another voice implored that the thief’s human rights were being violated and surely the Geneva Convention was made for moments like these. The tension and conflict in my heart was palpable. Should I speak out for the thief’s life and suffer the wrath of the already irate crowd or should I walk away in silence? A sense of shame filled me as I cowered away in silence. Later that night as I tossed and turned I knew that what I had done was wrong. I should have spoken out for the life of a man and begged the crowd to allow justice in the hands of the Kenyan law through the police and court system to be administered. I wished I could reverse the hands of time and swore should I ever be in the same situation to do what was right.

On to the moment at the bus stop and I watched as a crowd formed around the naked man. After a heated discussion it was established that he was the victim of a mugging incident the previous night. Well-wishers at the scene gave him a blanket and the matatu conductors nearby offered to pay his fare to a place of his choice from where he could make a formal report to the police and get in touch with his loved ones. Thank God, I thought to myself and proceeded to Aunt Monica’s with a resolute heart.