My unholy alliance with the village con wo left my pocket empty

I have a close relative who is something of a felon. To be precise, he spent the best part of his life cooling his heels in prison. Were he operating in this day, he would probably have been executed by cops.

This is not to suggest that he is a violent man. On the contrary, he is a smooth operator, the kind who would have retired rich as a pickpocket were he resident in Nairobi.

But because he lived largely in the village, where pockets, leave alone those with cash, are in short supply, he made bicycle theft his forte, polishing his craft to near mythical status.

Word has it that his finesse was aided in part by juju from a medicine man who lived across the ridge. This charge was lent credence when a bolt of lightning simultaneously burnt the medicine man’s house and my relative’s hut one evening, and forced him into early retirement.

That was nearly 30 years ago. So my relative, who is childless and wifeless, is a senior citizen, without pension (thieving sucks) yet he has a small alcohol problem and is hooked on tobacco.

Being too old to steal bicycles, and given that everyone knows he is an old crook, squeezing cash out of anyone for a tin of busaa is a Herculean task.

Deep trouble

He, however, seems to get me neatly all the time. Moments after I arrive at the local market, he always appears at my side out of the blue.

“Son,” he always begins, “Because everyone assumes I am a thief, they never believe when I am saying the truth. But I swear on the grave of your grandfather Malanda that this is the truth. I am in deep, deep trouble. Help me...”

After a long tale filled with woe, such as the need to attend a non-existent step sister’s funeral in distant parts, I always part with 20 bob and watch, with a wry smile, as he tiptoes into the nearest shebeen without a backward glance.