By Maftah Yusuf
As I mentioned last week, I made several important contacts with illegal immigrants when I was a guest of the State at Kasarani Sports Stadium Police Station. Not that I called up any of the numbers I was given but rather, a cellmate of mine called me up after he had been successfully repatriated to Somalia.
“Hello Bwana Timbuktu,” the voice on the other end of the line said. Of course, I asked who was calling me at a time when we are busy watching Jicho Pevu.
It turned out that the caller was none other than Abu Zubeyr and the man had issues he wanted to discuss with me in camera, if you follow what I mean.
Now, that would present a problem because in my house, we have a policy that all calls are to be picked in the presence of the other partner. If Michelle saw me leaving the house to talk to a stranger, she would automatically get suspicious.
Here, we adhere to the “Do unto others…” rule. So I explained to Zubeyr that he could say whatever it was that he wanted to say as I was with my wife in the house and I trusted her completely.
“Mzee, you do not understand!” he complained. The only good women are the 70 virgins we get if we are lucky to end up in heaven. The ones here on earth are nothing but total balaa.”
I had to agree with the man on this one, but do I say that loud enough for my better half to hear? Never on earth, for I value my life.
The man then got me out of the quagmire with the words, “Okay, then I will text you a message for your eyes only,” I agreed.
He then sent me a number, telling me that I was to call a fellow by the name of Afmadow before midnight. “Why is it so important to speak to this Afmadow?” I wanted to know. “Because this is the man who is going to change your life. Si you mentioned wataka kuwa famous, like Huddah?” he asked.
“Not really,” I answered quickly. “I just want to be rich,” I assured the man.
It was decided then that I would call up Afmadow as soon as I could and I promptly went back to watching Muhammad Ali do his thing on TV.
I could not concentrate, however, as my eyes kept seeing so much cash that I excused myself, sneaked my phone out of the house and placed a call through to none other than Afmadow.
The man asked to meet me immediately. We met at one of those joints that are least likely to be targets of grenade attacks. Neither too open to the main street but closed all the same.
The man obviously did not believe in wasting time so he went straight to the point. “We are hiring. Are you interested?” he asked.
“So long as you are paying well,” I answered back.
He then instructed me to go back home and await instructions that would serve as my bar exam.
When I later got a message that I was to help in the recruitment of youth to join the war in Somalia, I knew I had an exclusive that should be profitable if handled right.
I quickly went to look for Moha’s Jicho Pevu so that I could sell him the info, that is, in the hope that Mohammed Ali buys such. When I met the man, I introduced myself and assured him that I was a most ardent fan of his.
“I especially liked the zengwe zengwe that blew open the drugs business in the country like an ugly wound nobody wanted to see,” I told him, and could see that I had got the man’s attention.
I then told him that the dossier I had would be the one that would win him the Nobel prize for journalism.
“I don’t know, you may have to call, it ‘Ngawira ya maharamia wakakamavu’ or ‘Songombingo la paruwanja’, you are the expert. We shall get there as soon as I hand the dossier over to you,” I told him. He was really interested now.
That is when I sank my hook in. “How much?” I asked Mohammed Ali.
“What is wrong with you? You want me to buy information I have not seen? That is what I call hekaya za Abu Nuwasi.
I then started to explain that I had been approached by an illegal immigrant who requested me to help in the recruitment of youth to join the holy war in Somalia.
