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…