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MOMBASA, KENYA - As I lifted my leg to haul myself over t he side of the *mahindra I met my mum's eyes - mine filled with tears as time stood still. I'll never forget that moment in my life - I couldn't believe I was getting into a police vehicle to be driven to court! She insisted that the cops give her a few minutes with me.
Moraa Gitaa "Moraa," she said my name gently, "we don't have to do this. You don't have to go to court. Your dad and I have just come from seeing Karinga to pay off the money, but he refused," she said referring to the security officer at the casino where I used to work.
"I don't understand," she continued "Why is he refusing the money, yet the OCS (Officer Commanding Station) told us to settle this out of court?"
"Mum." I replied "it's personal, as I told you. And, frankly, right now I don't care, I'd rather meet them in court."
And with that I heaved myself into the back of the mahindra. I started musing and mulling over in my mind the events of the last couple of months... This was the second time I was being arrested.
My thoughts switched to the altercation of the previous evening between myself and the OCS.
"You see, my problem is that I don't kiss ass and I don't lick boots. I know my Fundamental rights and you are violating them because you've held me here for three days without any charges being preferred against me, you either take me to court this morning or I'm going to sue you and the state for unlawfu l detention and infringing on my human rights.'
The OCS had stared at me - shocked.
Seems like he was used to trampling on people;s rights - but I wasn't one to Take any nonsense lying down. Especially not after what I'd seen him subjected to by one of the inmates Being held for an alleged murder last evening.
"Matako! Mavi wewe! Mimi nikifungwa ole wako!" ("Ass hole! Woe unto you if i'm jailed!")
Next morning the inmate was released unconditionally.
I started thinking about my arrest three days ago. That three police officers could be sent to arrest a harmless lady was beyond my comprehension. There was so much crime being commited out there - and the police force is always complaining of shortage of man-power. Yet they had come to arrest me because I had not yet paid a few thousand shillings that I had lost while on duty at my now former work place. I had promised to pay back the money after spending a couple of days in the Cooler a couple of months ago, but had been unable to because I had not secured another job yet.
My five year old daughter had been in the house with me when the boys in blue came calling, but I thank God they had not been in uniform, but plainclothes like any ordinary civilian. When I realised who they were, I'd silently prayed for them not to use handcuffs on me. Such a scene would have traumatised my little baby. I pretended that there was an emergency at work and that the men were my colleagues who'd come to pick me up.
My daughter was used to such emergencies due to the nature of work shifts when I used to work at the casino.
My house girl was on her off day so I asked the cops to drive over to my parents so that I could drop Tracy off. Her grandparents were not in so I left her with their neighbours after alerting them of the situation ... You never know with Kenyan cops, you may go and never come back ...
I was jolted slightly when the mahindra came to an abrupt halt, my remininsing stopping with the jolt. We had arrived at the Mombasa law courts. I was stunned when we prisoners were bundled into some sort of underground cells where you're supposed to chill your bones while awaitng the magistrate to make his majestic entrance.
This was the second time in as many months to see walls with grafitti - reminders of who had been here at what time and date. Boy! Was I glad to be finally in court to be formally charged.
As we waited in the underground cells I looked around me. I was sadd ened all over again - because I was faced once more with the desperation and hopelessnes in the eyes of most of the inmates from police posts. The convicts from the remand prisons were worse ... I've always thought the whole point of imprisonment is to rehabilitate offenders and re-integrate them into a decent, crime-free life once their term ends, but the eyes of these jaded cynics did not spell hope but a hollowed dis-illusionment. It pained me to realise just how deeply ingrained into the very fabric of our society injustices were being woven.
I stared round the cell ... mothers with babies strapped on their backs ... arrested for some slight misdemeanour, maybe a fight with a neighbour; young girls some as young as 12 on charges of alleged prostitution, some real, some trumped up charges. Some of us brought to this place because of personal vendettas being waged against us. And yet we were mixed up with die hard hordes of jailbirds and bunches of hardcore criminals, some on capital charges.
I had spent three days and nights in police custody in the filthy cop station with these people and I felt like I knew them. Yet some had come from * Shimo la Tewa (the maximum remand prison in the north coast of Mombasa; Swahili for 'dark hole in hell.') for the mention or hearing of their cases. It was scary to listen to them talk. Even scarier to listen to their harrowing tales. Some were even welcoming me to the fold before hand, saying I may not be released on bond. What an induction! I cringed inwardly at such a possibility - I could not imagine such an outcome ; that of going to a palce they described with such terror.
They talked of the dehumanising congestion at Shimo. Rooms meant for 5 were accomodating 50, while those meant for 70 were holding up to 200! The women and girls talked of women warders with sadistic streaks and how they would yell at you to "Kaba!" (Swahili slang for 'squat!') in your birthday suit while they checked you for contraband, especially after visiting days. The men talked of bullying and forced homesexuality, especially from the older and stronger inmates who preyed on the weaker ones. Women talked of being asked to grant sexual favours in exchange for better food than what was on offer from the kitchen. They talked of food being diverted to staff quarters as the inmates faced near starvation, being fed on half cooked meals.They talked of the tattered prison uniforms ... Talk of justice being for sale was rife as I was sooner than later going to find out.
It was painfull, and especially so for the ones who said they were convicted for crimes they did not commit. They desperately talked of brutality and corruption, due to the fact that some inmates have been in remand prison for so long they now called the shots. Some stayed put until they were released to go and die at home of AIDS, tuberculosis and other chronic infections too far gone as medical facilities were almost non-existent. The sick would be taken to the provincial hospital only to be given Panadol for all ailments. It was a miserable no-go zone and I was so terrified of ending up there ...
I was startled out of my reverie when I realised we were being called to go upstairs to the court house. We all trudged through alleys of the underground cells and found ourselves in a court room - now I understood where imates used to pop from when I was siting in a court room, and they would seem to appear out of the blue!
I was later to learn this was Court Number 5, and in the coming months I was to become synonmous with it. When we emerged from the staircase leading up from the dungeons called cells, we found ourselves in the dock.
I glanced around the packed court room and saw my Mum - I heaved a sigh of relief at the familiar face.
Another hour long wait and His Majesty came in. I expected him to wave a wand or something to t hat effect, but he only had his gavel. Charge after charge was read out, and pleas entered. Finally my turn came.
The lawyer my parents had engaged for me entered a plea of not guilty on my behalf. As the magistrate talked, I just managed to get wisps of some words,so bemused I was ... bond ... surety ... mention date ... hearing ... And then I found myself out in the beloved sunshine once more, after more than three days in the dark cells of the police station where I had been held. I could not wait to get home to my baby, I had not seen her for three days.
1st Mention
Little did I know that I was going to spend almost the whole year at the law courts.Mention after mention. Hearing after hearing. Every other week. All because I was accused of 'Theft by Servant.' The term never ceased to shock me! Never in my life had I imagined that I'd be associated with such a term, leave alone having my own 'docket number.'
It's an open secret that emissaries reign in Kenyan court corridors. Middle men for hire and brokers par excellence. The one placing the highest bid goes scot free; it doesn't matter what you're accused of . The wananchi (local Swahili parlance for 'citizenry') -- especially the hapless, poor ones mostly victims of circumstances -- watch them hanging around the court corridors. Of course the wananchi know right down to the minutiae of who hangs around t he chambers and court corridors on behalf of whom and for what favour. No wonder disillusioned wananchi coined the phrase 'why hire a lawyer when you can buy a judge?'
At the end of the day I could not believe that I'd spent the whole morning and afternoon in court only for the magistrate to declare an Adjournment later ,and fix another date for my case!
I went home dejected. I needed a job desperately. But how was I going to get one if I had to come for mentions in court every other day? And if I got one, how was I going to manage to hold down one, with a possible conviction hanging over my head like the Sword of Damocles?
Several times while awaiting my case to commence I would wander into other court rooms and listen to on-going proceedings ... the one billion Hashish case and how scapegoats ended up in jail while the real culprits, the [politically connected] Drug Barons got to go scot free ... The case involving the disappearance of containers at the Port and tyres worth millions of shillings --- and yet again scapegoats on parade!!!
Some of the scape goats are our neighbours and we know they are innocent. But what to do? Everybody has her or his cross to carry. Fats cats involved in corporate fraud, money-laundering, fishy off-shore investments and drug dealing would stride nonchalantly in the court corridors with big grins, knowing they would soon be set free.
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GLOSSARY:* police vehicle - pick-up style, covered in the back (said to have been imported from India, hence the nickname)
MORAA GITAA says of herself: "My names are Moraa Gitaa. I am a Kenyan Lady of African descent in my early thirties born to Kenyan parents. I am a single parent with an adorable nine year old daughter (Tracy) who is a blessing in my life and keeps me going as I struggle to carve a niche in the world of writing, but to no avail, especially here in Kenya where even getting a call from a Publisher is like manna from heaven." This is her first article for The World's Magazine.
& copy; 2004, GENERATOR 21.
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