999 say Mungiki Man might have been killed by XYZ

Some events are as predictable as me getting an erection from watching porn. I notice not many people have come out to publicly moan the murder of Mungiki spokesman Njuguna Gitau, and don’t expect me to either. That would be cynical considering I didn’t know the man nor do I knowingly associate with the Mungiki. Ever since he surfaced last year I often wondered for how long he would continue to freely front a proscribed group whose members have been accused of running extortion rackets whilst carrying out the most despicable of murders.

And yet something about the circumstances of his demise unsettles me: Perhaps because his killing has all the hallmarks of an assassination and elements of tacit endorsement by dark forces. This explanation of infighting within the sect lacks imagination and seems to me like a cop out. You’d have to be spectacularly foolish to carry out a crime of this magnitude in broad daylight, on a busy street that normally has a high presence of armed uniformed and plainclothes police and then casually saunter away.

‘Inconceivable’ doesn’t even come close.

The handsome policeman calls me

Today I received an sms from the traffic policeman with killer looks from last week. Ever since I handed him my bogus business card with my mobile number printed on it, I have used a different route to work so as to avoid seeing him. I analyze that I was wracked by the guilt of him not being interested. Also I figured that to see the object of my secret desires too often may have led me to do something reckless which could place me in jeopardy. I don’t want the complications that such a situation may bring. You can say again ‘once bitten, twice shy’, but that’s a story for another day. And yes, my moral compass hasn’t completely broken down yet.

The message in Sheng, that delicious blend of Swahili and English spoken mainly in urban Kenya was brief, just to say he was that policeman from last week.

‘Ni mimi yule karao wa juzi, Please call me so we can meet’.

I should confess to experiencing an aching twinge of excitement from the prospect of a clandestine conquest. However I checked myself and hesitated: Policemen here are in the news lately for very sinister reasons.

So I saved the message that came in at 11am and only responded to it as I left the office this evening. My wait also serves to give me leverage as I would not want to appear overly keen. Ok, desperate. I chose my words carefully, editing ruthlessly before sending, ‘I am away in Mombasa; I’ll call you next week’.

I get to retain the power of play as I plan our rendezvous to my advantage.

Policeman Stops Me

There are many wonderful sights one sees across Nairobi. One such lovely vision is a traffic cop who directs the flow of traffic. He stands most weekday mornings at the junction of our lane and the busy dual carriageway that I join for the 20 minute drive to the office. Stuck in the queue of cars I watch his motions which seem to be synchronized with the music from classic fm playing on my car stereo. He’s like the cute black dancer from Madonna’s Vogue video and watching him I normally tap along on my steering wheel…

‘Strike-a-pose’ has been my little treat for the last 6 months or so and is the highlight of my morning commute. Our routine was interrupted this morning when he motioned for me to pull over. I did as instructed and Mr Gorgeous Dancer Cop walked up to my car and I wound down the window; he looked even more appealing standing there 4 feet away inspecting the disc displayed on the windscreen. Be friendly Tamaku, I thought, as he then walked up to my side:

‘Habari boss. Kila kitu sawa,’ he said, flashing a glorious set of teeth but it sounded like a question to me.

‘Ndio Ofisa,’ I answered and beamed back the result of a dozen visits to the Italian dentist from Corner House. He smiled again. It’s when I coolly said to him he seemed too young to be a policeman. In that moment he cast me the knowing eye to let me know the chase was on.

‘You don’t look much older yourself’.

I have learnt in my secret dealings to recognize the code beyond what is said. To hear him utter those words I seized my moment and handed him a bogus business card that has one of my Safaricom lines printed on it.

‘Call me’, I said. ‘We should have a drink.’ He didn’t miss a beat holding on to the card as he waved me along.

Driving away I spied him in my view mirror tucking my card into his shirt pocket.

Later at the office I pondered about that encounter. Intuition -true aficionados prefer gaydar- tells me he’ll call soon…

Disclaimer: If you want to pick up a policeman in Kenya a word of caution, always remember HALT:

• Homosexuality is illegal
• Act aloof. Class and position is very alive in Kenya. Acting aloof will buy you the option to plead misunderstanding when things turn nasty
• Learn the code (not penal, that one is covered above)
• Think before you speak. The risk of blackmail is real – I’ll post my personal pain on this one soon