The return

Something was off. He could feel it in every part of his body. The tail end of his nervous brain was glowing and flickering in sporadic patterns. Three times he had tried to reach Farouk. Three times he had failed. He took a long drag off his cigarette. He knew it was haram but in a few hours, all his trespasses would be absolved. The edge that the feeling laid on his subconscious warranted this slight error in judgment. He puffed one last time before stomping it out with his foot . He needed a walk to clear his mind.

            He sneaked a furtive glance towards the Toyota Probox was that packed across the road as he took a left turn in the opposite direction. He noticed a Subaru wagon that he was certain he’d seen earlier on, making a turn behind the Toyota. The feeling of uneasiness he had tripled at the sighting of these vehicles. He quickened his pace, unsure of where he was headed. A bodaboda was just about to pass him. He hailed it and got on.

 “Umoja 2.”he directed.  The rider accelerated towards the Chief’s Camp leaving the suspicious vehicles behind them. He concentrated on the turn at the bend as the bike got closer to the Camp, his mind on the upcoming security installation and his instinct firm on any vehicle that came up on the bike’s rear view mirror.

“Ni fifty boss.” the rider announced as he got off the bike. He produced a hundred-shillings note and scanned the entrance of the Camp. He was keen, trying to figure out if the local police were aware of any operation mounted by their Anti-Terror colleagues. As the rider gave him his fifty shillings change, he noticed two Administration Police officers harassing a Forward Traveler matatu driver. Great! These fools are in the dark, he thought. Or maybe there was no operation targeting him and his posse. He briskly crossed the road and bought a soda. He casually sipped it while trying to unravel changes in traffic coming from the direction of his hide out. There was none.

            Pinji knew better to be safe than sorry and on this, he decided to board a matatu and alight a stage from his nest. This way he could scan the scene and make away in case there was heat at the nest or on his tail. The five-minute ride from the Chief’s Camp to his nest seemed to take an eternity. And as the FT matatu took the bend and started for C, he knew his goose was cooked. He spotted three more Subarus strategically parked near the building that rented him and his posse their hide out. A temporary road block had been mounted a mere hundred meters from the Subarus. Uniformed police directed traffic to the outer lane, the one furthest from the building. He instinctively lowered his body into his seat as the other passengers craned their necks to get a glimpse of the impromptu roadblock.

“ Nini inaendela hapa? Mbona waeke roadblock hapa?” one passenger asked.

“Si ni pesa tu wanataka, hii ni Kenya.” the conductor dismissively answered.

They were directed past the road block, the old minibus roaring as it drove away from the Subarus that were unoccupied except for a driver who sat with his eyes glued to the window that served as Pinji’s nest for the last one month. That was his last confirmation. The stop that he was to make at Peacock stage so as to snake his way back on foot to C, quickly turned to be Kawangware Roundabout, the last stop on the route. The loud reggae music that he had learned to dislike when he discovered Allah and Jihad went unnoticed. His mind was racing too fast. He knew it was Farouk that had betrayed him. He said a quick Salah for his two soldiers that would be arrested at the nest. Anyway, they knew the risk. But Farouk, in this life or the next, would have to pay.

            At Kawangware Roundabout, he boarded another matatu headed to town. He had entertained the idea of seeking out his old contacts from his days of petty theft and crime but quickly abandoned it. The infidels and their apparatus being on his tail was not a big enough excuse to risk sliding back to his old ways. He walked into a hawala on Kimathi Street and asked to see Omar. An old man of Arabic ethnicity welcomed him into  a small back office.

A quick and nervous ‘Asalam Alaikum’ was exchanged before Pinji announced that he was a friend of The Teacher. Omar gave him the widest grin before getting up and giving him a hug.

“How’s The Teacher my brother?” he asked, obviously elated to be in the company of The Teacher’s student.

“He is doing quite well, his following has grown a lot in the recent past. A school that is far from distractions for the students is a good fit for The Teacher’s work, Inshallah.” he answered, a bit relieved that he was in revered company. Omar was a legend in the camp north of the border. He was a myth at times.

“That’s good. I was aware that he has some of his good students searching for attachment opportunities in the city. You must be one of them. The group leader I presume?”. His eyes were now somber, grimly fixated on Pinji’s. if the person sitting across from him was a government spook and not a student of the Sheikh, he would know by his next answer.

“Yes. I am”. He produced a Canadian passport and laid it before Omar.

“Unfortunately opportunities have been quite elusive. I was told to report to you with that in case things did not go our way.” Pinji continued, pointing at the passport.

Omar accessed it, the import of its production becoming clear on his complexion. His cheeks attained a red-brown hue as his brow suddenly became wrinkled. Pinji knew he understood. The Canadian passport was to be handed to Omar if the mission went south before the day of its execution. Omar would handle their exfiltration.

“How many students?” he asked.

“For now I assume I’m the only viable one.” he answered, anticipating that the news would unsettle Omar. If only one person escapes a police operation, chances are he’s working for them.

“One of us decided to defer his studies two days before graduation. The Teacher’s pet in fact.” Pinji added before Omar could pester him for details.

“The Teacher will not be pleased.” Omar sighed. He stood placing a duffel bag on the tiny table. He fished out an envelope from the desk drawer and handed it Pinji. Pinji opened it and estimated the notes inside to be about one hundred thousand shillings in value.

“Keep this on all the time.” Omar instructed as he handed him a Nokia cellular handset.

                                                            ***

Four years it had been. It took him a year before he could make peace with the order forbidding him from pursuing the traitor Farouk. Two years after his soldiers were gunned down, The Teacher told him that Farouk had met his deserved end. Now after four years of hide and seek with the cops and a half-full Dua, he was about to complete his mission. The infidels would cry to the high heavens for what was about to befall them.

#LIFE

What if the last light just died?And its you alone in an unending darkness. What happens? You’ll have to make peace with who you are,right? You like where you are? Who you are? I hope I’d do.. It’s scary being who you are. No matter how much you try, you’ll never be comfortable pleasing no one. That’s the conundrum life deals us, please someone or be no one… So when you lose the faith of all the ones you attempted to please,what happens? No flag, no blood, no history to keep alive,no philosophy  to cultivate? What next? Who are you past that?
Scary as it is, that should be the dream. To be comfortable with who you are when the lights go out.

Love is Patient. Love is impure

Taint me with your love
I’m yours if you’ll have me
This face is a facade
It’s blemish that decorates thee
And my heart feels old from all this callousness
The wind blew past me today
Its destination felt promising
So let’s get lost for awhile
Let this reckless feeling lead the way
And you know my mind has had its share of malice
And you’re the same handsome devil I remember
So I won’t try and stop my heart from beating in this rhapsodic manner it has known
It screams caution to my ears
But the years have made me reckless
And there is no hiding how flushed you leave me
By all means hold my hand
Your lips on mine is the torture I know
And when you finally fling me aside
I won’t drown in this salty tears
I’ll relish in the shared sunset
Your hands on my waist as we danced the conga
Your blazing eyes as they pierced through mine
And the beautiful scar you sketched across my heart.

Nancy sat on her bed pondering the man that had motivated the poem ages before. Back when she was still a good college kid with worries about fashion and music and love. Space in her mind for that now had been replaced by concerns about her young son’s medical check ups, bills and legal write ups. Her son would turn two in a month, her baby daddy had witnessed very little of those two years. He wasn’t the text book example of a dead-beat dad but he was quite elusive in presence. As a legal secretary for an N.G.O situate on David Osieli rd in Westlands, her work included interviews with citizens who’d claimed they had been subjected to torture. In this regard she had become quite good at learning truth in people’s stories. Inferring backgrounds from the way they talked and acted, but where her baby daddy was concerned she could never figure him out. Nonetheless he had her. It was almost 7 months since the last time she saw him and her skin was tingling to have his touch on her. Her heart rate wasfaat and her beathing was irregular, sporadic even. She’d received a call from him early in the morning saying that he’d drop by if she could have him. She didn’t think twice to cancel the date she had with Steve from finance. The timid guy had been heartbroken by the news, he’d been expecting a lot it being the fourth date and all. By five she was already home, her red lacey bikini on under the tight little back dress. Dry fry beef was in the hotpot waiting for the baby daddy to get home. The lack of a ring on her finger was not because of her being a mum or the lack of eligible suitors, it was because of how much she treasured these perennial visits from her son’s dad. Stuff from a telenovela right? Not even the half of it. She remembered the first day they’d met like it was yesterday.
She was a 2nd year law student at  University of Nairobi Law Campus in Parklands, out to get herself noodles on a boring Thursday night because the hostel food was crap on that particular day. While at the till she noticed two boys about two or three years older than her in line with a bottle of what had the lookings of extremely bitter liquor. She gave them no mind, though it was obvious that the shorter one had his sights trained on her. While walking down the steps of Chandarana Supermarket with a FoodPlus paper bag in her hand she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. “Excuse me. Halo.” The young man with glasses and a scruffy beard said. “Hi.” She answered back, her face wrinkling up in both concern and curiosity. She wasn’t used to strangers walking up to her with such blatant confidence. ” I know this will sound weird to you but ,” he paused, his eyes fixed on hers, almost like he was trying to impose a hypnotic stance on her with his eyes. “Do you believe in love at first sight?” Did this nigga just ask me that?! She thought to herself. “Uumm…” She stammered scratching her brains for an answer that wasn’t rude but blunt enough to get the guy away from her. She didn’t get the chance to do that. “Well your answer won’t really matter but I’m sure by the time I get you to fifty metres to your hostel you’ll be curious enough to want to find out whether love at first sight is real.” He went on. At this juncture she got concerned. She had heard stories of such stalkers before. Her hands instinctively crossed before her chest bringing the paperbag to the side the young man was. “Relax, no harm will come to you. I’m not a stalker or anything close to it. You are wearing slippers, your age is probably fit for first year or second year. You are not Indian so in this neighborhood you must be either a college kid or a hooker. You don’t have the attire for the latter so I’m guessing you are a college kid trying to avoid your crappyass hostel food. I’m I right?” At this she smiled and started the slow stroll towards her hostel. He was right at her side with the usual ‘ where you from where you school what music you like’ types of questions with the occasional joke being thrown in the mix. True to his word about 50m from her aboard he had her curious enough to let him have her number. He politely said that she was the hottest thing he’d ever seen and wanted to get to know her better. Naughtily biting the corner of his lips he said bye and slowed down to wait for his skinny tall friend with the big bottle. After that the guy that had introduced himself as Maleek Juma would be a constant though sometimes perennial feature on Nancy’s WhatsApp application and texts. Every once or twice in a rare unannounced fate, he’d call and drop off a quick hi. This went on all through her second and third year of campus. While she was on her long vacation before her final year he made a surprise visit to her in her parents home. It was quite a surprise to her and such a gesture that she grew even fonder of him.
She was stooped over a pile of dishes relentlessly scrubbing them. Her father was on the front porch of their house that stood on the slopes of the magnificent Cherangany Hills deep in Trans nzoia county. She heard the sound of a vehicle from a far but didn’t bother to look. The honk came when the Isuzu Pick Up truck was at the gate, about 50 m from where she was.”Sasa huyu ni Chambasi kanii tena?” Her father muttered after carefully examining the truck and not recognizing it or the driver. A farm hand quickly slid the gate open and it rolled in. Then Malik jumped out of it and walked towards the man on the porch with a round godfather kind of hat and a nylon jacket. All this ranchers in this county had the same stylist, Malik thought as he shook hands respectfully with the man. “Habari mzee?” He said. “Hapari yako kichana. Weh ndio nani ?” The man answered, his Kalenjin heritage evident in his accent and the stare of authority he gave the young man that was obviously an outsider. His name was Kipkelion Koech, a resident big fish in these parts of the hills. “Mimi ni Malik, classmate wa Nancy toka Nairobi. Nimeona nimsalamie kabla ya kurudi Nairobi.”
By now Nancy was already standing next to Malik, her amazement written in bold ink on her face. “What the hell Malik, you never said you were coming. How did you even get here?!” Her hand was outstretched for a sober handshake, hugs and pecks did not fly on these slopes. “Well I thought I’d surprise you. And your GPS locater on your phone brought me right to the gate!” He answered, his eyes curiously sizing her upcountry outfit. He wasnt surprised but rather turned on by her look. He said he’d drove overnight from Uasin Gishu County to see her. When it was time to see him off he managed to convince her to pull a Prison Break later in the night. They spent the night in Chebarus, a small township 20kms away from her home. It was bliss and Nancy found herself in that same room in Chebarus every night for a fortnight. When they said their goodbyes she couldn’t wait to get back to Nairobi to be with him. The month remaining on her vacation seemed like eternity, but by the time she got to Nairobi she found out she was expecting. She told him about it and the man was elated. She moved in with him when  she was four months expectant. The baby would come a month after her final exams. Three months after it was born Malik told her about a job he’d been called to in Mombasa, he was very sketchy on the details. She didn’t mind it, half the time she never knew what he was up to , all that mattered is that he knew he’d do anything for her and the bundle of joy they’d christened Shakur Juma Kipkelion. When he left for the job he became very secretive. He’d talk to her via email mostly from different accounts each time. Every end of the month she would find money on her M-Pesa Acc from unrecognizable agents, except for once when the sender’s name had shown Hassan Muchiri. She had a feeling it was him. She tried to call hoping to hear his voice but the number was off. Then whenever she’d least expect it, he’d call to say he was coming to see his queen and his son, with wild declarations of how bad he’d missed them. And she always believed him,why she would never know. He always stayed a few days , three being the longest. “Hey love?” He’d fondly wake her in the middle of the night. “Yes baby” she’d respond waking to find him holding their kid, an exact replica of himself. “I gotta go. It was great seeing you guys and I wish I didn’t have to leave you yet again. But duty calls.” He’d say,sadness loud in his kind eyes. She always tried to protest, but at this he would put the baby back in the crib, turn to Nancy and passionately kiss her. An hour later she’d be subdued and content with waiting for the next time he’d call. “I hate your boss!” She’d always say. With a grin he’d reply,”You sure? You voted for him if I remember correctly! ” And that is as much as she knew about his job. And today as she lay there waiting for knock on the day, she hoped wholeheartedly that the script would be different. She wanted him to stay, for her and for Shak her son.

Meanwhile..

The Toyota Fielder with the inscriptions Pewin Cabs on the side took a left turn off  Waiyaki Way through a gas station and on to a dirt road. The Kikuyu driver with the green company shirt hadn’t shut up about Arsenal since the cab left Harambee Avenue in town. Farouk Fattah sat at the passenger watching the guy’s mouth blubber on. His yellow gums and teeth  from constant smoking weren’t visible to Farouk’s,oh wait, Malik’s eyes cause his mind was already in the tiny one bedroomed apartment tucked away somewhere in the extensive Mountain View Estate. When the fielder started to battle with the dirt road is when the driver realised that his passenger wasn’t paying attention to his woes about Arsene Wenger and whom he should buy come next season. His mind was on the occupants of the house where the taxi would leave him. The only true thing in his life, his family. When the cab came to a halt Malik shoved two crispy 1,000/- notes in the hands of the cab driver. And was out. “Oya hutaki change?” He looked back at him for a second. “Nikupee hadi jina yangu?” He almost said to the guy. He smiled and walked into the gate, wishing that he could so easily give away the tag ‘Farouk’ as he had the 500/- balance. “Home sweet home” he thought as he rushed up the stairs, three at a time. The phone in his breast pocket had two unread messages. He knew the numbers to belong to Kassim Pinji Omar, national security was persuasion to read them. He looked at the screen before knocking the door. “Not today Satan,not today!” He thought to himself as he switched it off and knocked the door gleefully…

End of Part 3.

Credits to my dear friend Lucy for the beautiful poem and the motivation 😛

To all readers that have taken the time to read these wild rantings, Thanks a Millie yoh, I can’t come close to how grateful I am for the feedback. All said, valentine ibambe wenye watu, wengine tutakua tukicheki game ka weekendy yoyote tu

These streets don’t love you.

He was born some twenty odd years ago. His mum and siblings was all he knew. Them plus the streets. A low clogged culvert was what they called home in his formative years. When the rainy season came they immigrated to the steps in front of Kirinyaga Millers. That was a roof over their heads but it dealt them a bad hand. Here they could be harassed by Kanjo askaris, and the occasional rape by bigger older street boys. He couldn’t recall how many times his mum had been raped as he watched when he was younger. But time flies, on the steps or in the culvert. By the time he was sixteen Michael was a don in his own right. He ran a ten-man gang. He had Intel on all intended swoops by both Kanjo and central police station. His mum was off the streets, but still within earshot if he needed advice and the occasional spot for exile. He’d rented her a mabati shanty in Kariowa B, a small linear shanty near Makini Herbal Clinic tucked between a biscuit factory and a garage. Here she ran a successful Changaa outlet. On the side she sold fat-finger Marijuana joints to matatu operators and college kids. It wasnt Park Avenue or Argwings Kodhek drive but shit, she could avoid the kanjos and her last born daughter wouldn’t be subject to predators on Globe round-about and Grogon mechanics. Michael, or Pinji as he was called had done right by her mum in all ways.
His crew was bad. All were street boys hailing from Machakos country bus through town to Globe where the kingpin grew. His word was law on these streets. His crew and everyone knew better than to cross him, or his turf. If you dealt blow on his streets you had to pony up his cut, that’s 50% for ‘license’ to operate there and security of your person and product. If you snatched anything from the University Way- Uhuru highway round about down to the Pangani exit you had to sell it to him. If you didn’t then you better know what nickname you want for that tombstone, that is if your body would be found. How about the cops you ask? Yeah he didn’t deal with just anybody,especially not those fresh-face rookies from kiganjo. He dealt with Biggy, the head of criminal investigations at Central. Fate had brought them together when he helped the pig to recover an I-phone that meant something to the powers that be. His lieutenant had spent three days in the cells before Pinji gave a package to Biggy that contained the phone and a 20 grand token. The soldier was in the street by nightfall and Pinji was in bed with Biggy ever since. A grand a week was the token he gave after that. It was a working relationship that actually worked for everyone, but as they say, all good things must come to an end.
Trouble came to paradise on one eerie Friday night. His team went to Kariowa to say hi to the ‘godmother’ as the crew fondly referred to his mum. She was more than happy to see them. Fat-finger blunts were blazed, 40bob tots downed and by six they were back to work. Site of activity on this Friday night was Ngara, slightly past the footbridge but before the entrance to Kenya Institute of Education. There had been an accident involving three vehicles and traffic was standstill. “Leo ni kuweka weka sio braza?” One of his guys whispered into his ear, his hand over his shoulder. He shook off the hand, lest it dirties his brand new Liverpool jersey. “Unauliza? Hapa tumekuja jikoni mtu yangu!” He replied, his hand absentmindedly tucking in the revolver sitting in his belt. It was a tiny piece, even the tightness of his pipe jeans couldn’t betray its presence. At the worst it would be construed as well-endowment. Everything happens for a reason,he thought. The piece was meant to be used to hold up a mini-bus headed for Kenyatta University later in the night. On that route they’d get bountiful harvests. Hawa watoi wa kidato huanga na malaptop na matab na matenje mkia mbaya, that was the rationale for holding up a matatu with campus kids. But not today. Accident equals traffic, traffic equals mafala kadhaa wanasurf kama dirisha iko open. Easy pickings with zero risk. Ten minutes into the endeavour  they’d bagged  three hot phones, a tablet and a purse. But to be the King Pinji you had to be more than hungry, greed was an element that could not, must not lack from your general pysche. He wanted more, and they wanted to be more like him. Always on the lookout for a bigger payday. So when he saw the Subaru Impreza sandwiched between two Maranatha buses he couldn’t avoid the pull it had on him. He switched glances with his lieutenant and he knew what to do. They flanked the Subaru on both sides, his lieutenant a step or two behind him. Preliminary inspection told them there was only one occupant, a lady. Her handbag was on the passenger seat. Pinji walked to that side. His man stood at the right,his hand a foot over the brake lights. When Pinji was ready he winked at him and a  deafening sound came to life when his hand slapped the cars side. The lady was startled and instinctively turned to see who had rear-ended her. She saw the young man casually start to cross the street. Before she could turn her head back around,Pinji had opened the passenger door,fetched the bag and was on his way.
A ten minute ride in Rt 6/9 matatu found him later at Mlango Kubwa. His crew members trickled in later in quick succession. They counted their loot while the stereo blasted Berress Hamond’s Come Down Father. It was a good day for the hustle. Only the handbag remained uninspected. When he opened it the crew fell silent. The youngest one seated near the door rocking a Juventus FC jersey robotically rushed to the door and bolted it shut. There was a bundle of notes with a yellow tape around them. The tape had CrC 135/2012 on it. Next to the notes was a gun, government-issue Ceska pistol. “Kuma nina!” Pinji cursed under his breathe. He had no idea that the inscriptions on the tape was a court case number and that the notes were exhibits for a criminal case but after a lifetime in the streets he knew when he’d fucked up. The Ceska was evidence that they’d robbed the wrong person. “Uyo bitch alikua cop??!” His lieutenant asked. He’d been so greedy he hadn’t noticed the bold GKB plates on the Subaru.
“Ni hivi sasa, kila mtu atadive chini ya maji hadi tugathe Intel venye kutaenda.” He started totally ignoring the question by his right hand man.” Djeko utarudi ile yard usome radar ka ni safi. Me ntategea Biggy anicall kutafuta hii mambo. Asiponicall tutaipea week mbili ikiisha tugawane maisha iendelee.” He was barely done when the boys stood up. Fists bumping with “Tutachekiana githaa,strong.” They shuffled out of the room with nods of acknowledgment to Pinji. He too didn’t stay,he stashed the day’s loot and headed to Pumwani. He had an old friend there where he could lay low.
Two days later he got word that Djeko had been shot in cold blood by Biggy. The rest of the crew dove deeper in hiding. Word was there was a bounty on his head. The bosses at Vigilance House had found out about Biggy had been in bed with crooks from the Globe-gully crew. Now Biggy was on a rampage to clean the streets with gully blood and Pinji was the top prize. He had to get out of town before he wound up dead on a side-walk with a Bonoko laying next to him. It was embarrassing to say the least when cops retained the real gun to lease it out later and claimed to have recovered a fake pistol. That aside,he had to get out. For the first time in his life he wished he had an Ocha/ushago to run to. But he didn’t. He told his friend about his troubles and Abdi had a ready solution. “Kuna Sheik flani wa Pumwani Riyadh mosque anaorganize wasee majob huko Som. Unaezadai ?”
“Kisee, sahii ata kwa shetani naenda bora Biggy asikue huko.”
A meeting with the Sheik was set up and 3 days later he was at Omar-jillo, a few kilometers from Somalia. A month later he was in an undisclosed location deep in the Somali desert, legs crossed listening to Sharia teachings and the philosophy of Jihad. When they were not reading the Quran , they’d be jogging in green nylon tracksuits with their Kalashnikov 47s raised high above their heads. Grenade use and concoctions that make improvised explosive devices was the epitome of their study. And of course, hatred for the Kafirs.

Three years later

Kassim Omar lay on his bed deep in thought. He pondered his former days as Pinji. A smile almost crept into his face but he shoved it down.Allahu Akbar, God is great. He muttered remembering the dark days in the culvert at Grogon. Now his life had a purpose, a purpose more noble than those clean-as-a-bitch football jersey days. More than the Eastleigh silver rings that donned his fingers in his thug-life days. He had Allah. And it was his duty and purpose to punish the enemies of Islam. He fondly pictured the day when the cache of arms under his bed would go up in flames with the cries of infidels and enemies of Allah the most gracious,the most merciful as the great boxer Mohamed Ali once put it. He stood up and walked past the bed belonging to his lieutenant Farouk Fattah. He drew the curtain and peeked at the loud green and yellow Forward Travelers matatus wheezing past the apartment he was in. Any day now the fight would be on. In the next room his 3-man army of mujahedeens prayed and listened to motivational songs.” Tena ni mashujaa, shujaa!, tena ni mashujaa,shujaa!” The song went on and on. He couldn’t have asked the Sheik to afford him a better kill squad. The boys were ready and his lieutenant Farouk was more than capable. “Speaking of Farouk, where the hell is he?” He thought hastily grabbing one of the many phones on his desk…

Unsung heroes

“Gratitude to Allah the great for today an army of Mujahideens successfully struck the kafirs at the heart of their infidel system. Today the minions of the crusaders paid in blood for their sins against Allah and Islam. Their blood flows on the steps of their parliament in atonement for the brutality they’ve continuously inflicted on our innocent wives and children. For the sons they take from us today they’ve felt that pain. They betrayed our neighbourly love to please Obama and today we paid them back in blood of their leaders. Today silk handkerchiefs will wipe tears of anguish from privileged faces and not their unholy make-up will be able to conceal the burden of well deserved grief. Blessed are the souls of the shaheeds that today dine with Muhammad in Janah.Allah-ukabar!!! Today is a great day for Islam. And it is only the first of the start of the great Al-zurai Caliphate. “
The man behind  the old mahogany table hit a key on the computer in front him and the blaring voice died down. He paused for a long moment, his right hand involuntarily scratching his right brow. His countenance was somber, his gaze bare and hollow. The audio clip had had a heavy effect on his psyche, probably heavy enough to add an extra ridge of wrinkle on his fifty- something face.
“How many people have had access to the tape?” He asked, his left hand twirling the red,black and white-colured bracelet on his right wrist. The two men infront of him exchanged a nervous glance. The younger one spoke first. He was youthful, mid-twenties perhaps. He had a maintained goatee and wore glasses. His facial features were soft, too soft some would say. Had he been born in the Infidel nation that the enemy so despised he might have been a model,or maybe a  ‘teen-sensation’ trying to morph into a ‘sex-symbol’ that graces the covers of fashion magazines and commercials on  that god-awful ‘E’   channel.” Mr. President, apart from the commandant and us, just you. ”
“We had to momentarily pull him out sir. When we got news that the attack had been moved up the schedule we had to brief you sir. The execution team is in place waiting for the operative with detonators to arrive. This is the closest to destroying us they have ever come” The slightly plump and totally bald guy with a notebook added.
The president said nothing. He stared into space in a robotic stance. His left leg was rigid, his balm was literally burning up. “This job is not good for my blood pressure.” Barely a year into his term and he had questioned his resolve to remain head of state uncountably. Every two weeks his doctor gave him scolding lectures while he peered at him through his thick glasses. I’m fine, I’ll be fine. He always answered. If the fairly fat dossier on his desk with the inscriptions “N.I.S Situation Report 331/13 ” wasn’t acted upon expeditiously and expertly, he knew the doctor wouldn’t have anything to yell about, his heart would have given out way before he met him for the scheduled check up that was 5 days away. The report’s apocalyptic prophecy had 2 days to maturity.
” Your cover is not compromised?” He put it to the young man, his allure of leadership and strength swiftly replacing the uncertainty that had plagued him just a moment ago. His health was bad but if he dwelled on that    the liberty that his forefathers earned  with their blood would not be well either. The National Assembly, a monument that was representative of the nation’s marvelous democracy, and the talent of every Kenyan to be loud and unreasonable at times, would lay in ruins, awash with the blood of Kenya’s ruling class. The caliphate had set in motion a grand plan to attack the August house when members would be discussing the Constituency Development Fund Bill, a piece of legislation that was dear to all the honourable members. They would rather be stung in the eyeballs by a wasp rather than miss that session. God forbid they lose that all-important fund that was the palm to reward supporters and cronies  and the sword to dispense political assassination to rivals. If the caliphate’s plans worked out, the harm would be extensive and the nation would surely break. He shuddered at the thought of the streets running a mock with panic. Machettes and rungus will be wailing for the blood of Muslims and any real or imagined allies of Muslims. Foreign missions would close-up shop indefinitely and their staff would be halfway home before the anchors could get to the third paragraph of the coverage of the siege/sieke.
” I can not be 100% sure sir, but there’s a strong chance it is still secure. Either way hatuna option. Itabidi tuendelee ni kama hawajanitambua. Waliambush Hassan akitoka mskiti akija kuniona mkahawani. Since they shot him before he could meet me we must work on the premise that they still think I am Farouk Fattah. Lazima tu lakini nirudi, at least until we figure out the location of the cache of arms and explosives and more importantly the day the Syrian specialist will touch down.”
To an onlooker, the expression on ‘Farouk Fattah’s’ face was that of a young man concern with the results of a mid-term paper, or the handing in of a research project. His face did not give away the fears of a soul burdened with risking his neck, quite literally, at the offset of saving a nation’s independence and justice. He did not much care if he ended up being beheaded by a hooded mercenary on YouTube, if he did not go back in the nation would fall. This was his duty, to protect the nation and its citizens, the poor and helpless, the privileged and gluttonous ones too. Hassan Muchiri had been his handler ever since he shed the blue uniform and took up a position in the elite and obscure Anti-Terrorism Police Unit, or ATPU as it was referred in enforcement parlance. He had been slain less than twenty hours ago. His cover had been blown when an old friend from the police academy recognized him after the evening prayers. Eyebrows, the wrong ones especially, were raised. Two weeks later he was dead. His eyeballs and brains splattered on the dash board of the fairly new NZE saloon. The bullet had gone into his head through the soft spot behind his right ear. It was a pretty and artistic entry wound. The same could not be said about the exit. His cheek bone had been shattered into a thousand fragments, his left eye fell off like a piece on a domino arrangement. It laid on his lap and the crime-scene cop couldn’t have helped but to giggle when he saw the body.” Huyu jamaa alijiangalia akidedi!” He’d said. On the evening news it said that a businessman had been killed by thugs. A lot of such pieces did their rounds. This is war, the word collateral did not have any relation to insurance. Widows and orphans were made every few days. News was cooked, lies told and careers altered. On Hassan’s day, he’d been on his way to meet the young man with the soft features. They met every fortnight. The young operative would bring him to speed on homeland threats, and in turn he’d tell him how his family was doing. He always brought photos. They were found inside a page of his Quran. That was a good sign, at least the enemy wasn’t aware of the special relationship between ‘Fattah’ and Hassan. They’d slain him for being a cop. The 7.62 mm entry wound narrowed down the list of weapons that could have been used. The exit wound was a confirmation that the G-3 rifle taken from an Administration Police officer a month back was in the hands of the caliphate. It made a lot of sense. The officer had been feted for giving his life to thwart an ATM robbery, for the ATPU, they knew now that the robbery was never really the grand plan.
The screen on the president’s cane to life and the chubby face of the police spokesman came to life. ” Mwaniki, ni kuuro. Ishi durere ni shi kutu uraga. Oka tuaria.” The president said. Right away sir, the fat face on the monitor answered.

End-of-scene-one.

K.D.F military intelligence, ATPU and N.I.S thwarted a plot to bomb the Kenyan parliament. Uniforms say a lot. But more than that many citizens abandon their lives,uniforms and go deep undercover to gather intelligence in order to make sure Al-harakat Al-Mujahideen Al-Shabab don’t kill us. This piece is not only a tribute to the El-Adde casualties, it is a thank you note to our gallant spies whose names we will never know, whose obituaries will probably say they died of typhoid yet they heads are severed. Those men whose pay slips read Kenya Power and Lighting Co. and other unglamorous names while the backs that lay on the coffin floor are strewn with Somali sand, red and brown from being dragged on the ground by rusty Al-shabab trucks after the enemy found out they were law enforcement.
#fuckalshabab
#63isnotjustanumber