I’m selling land to buy a Benz, I swear

By Ted Malanda

One of these days, when my sugarcane is harvested, my in-laws bring in the cows owed to the clan and my pockets are bulging with the proceeds of some scam, I will buy a Mercedes Benz.

It will not be those ones that are peddled in a showroom, but a sturdy old German monster, preferably yellow in colour, going for Sh80,000 or thereabouts.

I will ensure to buy it from an old mzungu in the neighbourhood of Karen, which means it will be practically new apart from a cobweb or two. Always buy an old car from an old white man or woman, by the way, because they shower as much love on their cars as they do on their dogs. Only those who are suicidal buy old junks from Africans.

My status

Anyway, the moment that yellow vintage Mercedes becomes mine, my status will change overnight. I will stop being referred to us that weird guy with a squint to, “What do you mean you don’t know Ted? Te-e-d — that guy who drives a yellow Merc!”

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Note that in all the years I have owned a car, no one has ever referred to me as that “guy who drives a red Lancer”. 

But it is not just my name that will change. Henceforth, when I approach a traffic police roadblock, the boys in blue will stiffen to attention, suck in their bellies and wave respectfully as my old Benz rattles past.

Flag down

Should they, in their nervousness, mistakenly flag me down instead of saluting me, they will walk to the driver’s side, salute and humbly say, “Good morning, sir! Everything okay?” They wouldn’t dare ask for my driver’s license, check my insurance or such. How would they? If I drive a Merc, of course, everything is in order.

And you know the best part? When matatu drivers bump into me on the road, their knees will start shaking, and they will quickly steer their contraptions far, far, away from mine, lest they cause a scratch out of fright.

In any case, should we have a small collision, I needn’t get into an argument. I would instead step out, examine the matatu as one would something the cat dragged in and wait for the police.

Me call the police? Hell no! Someone will tell them. And when they arrive, one of us will be led away to assist with investigations (in a matatu parked 100m from the police station gate) and it won’t be me.

Boy, I can’t wait to see women who have never glanced in my direction go weak in the knees when my old yellow Benz roars by.

Why crime rates have gone down

According to police records, crime has gone down — apart from a few jealous women splashing acid on their co-wives’ faces, angry men knifing rivals who steal their women, and the rascals who get murdered for pinching an inch of their neighbours’ land.

But my own investigations reveal a story that might interest Police Inspector General David Kimaiyo and Chairman of National Police Service Commission Chairman Johnston Kavuludi (should they come up for air from their mortal combat over who packs more gunpowder).

Some time last year, County Weekly Associate Editor Benson Riungu walked out of his car and swaggered into his house in Uthiru near Nairobi dangling his car keys with flare.

cooking fat

Without saying ‘hi’ to anyone, he examined a calendar on the wall and told madam, “Arm yourself with a tin of cooking fat. We are going to Egoji tomorrow. The fish in my fishpond are ripe, so we will have one hell of a fishy party. As a matter of fact, money from my fish will go towards your chama contributions.”

The next morning, says his pretty four-year-old daughter who cannot be named because she is not authorised to speak to the press, he drove his clan at breakneck speed to his village of birth. The moment they arrived, he led a contingent of local labour force to his fishpond.

An hour later, however, he had to face his madam, who was wondering what to do with her tin of cooking fat, because all that his labour force had harvested were three tadpoles, one snake too tiny for a Chinese palate, and mosquito larvae. Not a single fish.

It appears that while the veteran journalist was bragging about his looming windfall, village braves had raided his fishpond, rustled his fish, sold the lot and converted the proceeds into that twiggy stuff that is chewed by the Ameru. What remained of the loot, my anonymous source says, was converted into a lethal brew called karubu and bhang.

Now, if the Inspector General of Police combs through his records, he will discover no such crime exists because it was only reported at Benson’s local pub.

Far away in western Kenya, my father, the retired policeman, spends lots of time carrying out investigations. His style is unique, based on his vast data base on village thieves. He merely pokes the scene of crime with his trusted walking stick and then shuffles to a rickety chair on his veranda and shuts his eyes.

accomplices

Half an hour later, the jigsaw puzzle falls into place. He knows who captured his chicken, accomplices to the crime, who bought the chicken and who slaughtered and ate it. But he never reports these chicken heists because it is not politically correct to ruffle village feathers.

Meanwhile, Nairobi is one large sprawling crime spot. Look Mr Kimaiyo. I know you are born again. But suppose, just suppose, the devil tempted you, and you walked into a pub, swallowed six cold ones and left with a daughter of Eve on your arm? 

Now suppose that daughter of Eve was a direct descendant of Delilah, that good for nothing harlot who betrayed the biblical Samson. If, my good sir, you wake up in the morning and discover her gone — with your phones, TV, wallet and so forth — would you file a report at the nearest police station, yet you don’t even know her name? .