A narrow escape from the jaws of death

Kipchumba Some

When my friend and I sat down and ordered drinks and nyama choma one afternoon three years ago in an entertainment joint, we had no idea hours later we would be kneeling down, guns trained on us by police officers.

Facing what appeared to be our imminent end, we said a silent prayer and waited for the sound of guns to rent the air and the bullets to rip our bodies apart...

My friend James Kariuki had never envisioned such an experience at the hands of police.

We were 19 and had cleared secondary school the previous year. It was a Tuesday morning in November 2007. We had been helping one of our friends, Rafael Kirwa, move to a new house in Umoja estate.

At around 3pm Kirwa offered to buy us a meal and a few drinks. We all headed to a popular local entertainment joint.

As Kariuki and I were making ourselves comfortable in the bar, Kirwa was outside trying to find space in the congested parking bay before joining us. That did not happen.

The waiter had just brought our drinks when a man we later learnt was a plain clothes policeman walked in and surveyed the room. Being an early Tuesday afternoon, there were only a few patrons in the bar.

The police officer exited and returned a few minutes later with more policemen.

Led by a senior officer from Buru Buru Police Station, over a dozen police men stormed the bar and made straight for us.

We barely had time to make sense of what was happening. The senior officer announced that after almost half a day of a chase that involved ‘our car’ and a number across the city, they had finally caught up with us.

"What in heaven’s name are you talking about?" We tried to ask, but were told to shut up or face their full wrath.

In less than five minutes, we were led outside where three police cars waited. A crowd had now formed to watch what the officers told them was the arrest of the most hardened criminals in the city.

After being bundled in the back of a Land Cruiser, with no less than six officers keeping an eye on us, we were driven off to Buru Buru Police Station, our vehicle sandwiched between two other police cars.

At the station, we were asked to record a statement but the police rejected our story. They insisted we were the criminals they had been tracking down.

We insisted they call our friend Kirwa and our families but they could hear none of it.

Forlorn witnesses

Kirwa followed us to the police station and informed our families of our arrest.

But all his efforts to help us out that evening were futile. Shortly after seven we were led out of the cell and tossed into the back of another Land Cruiser and driven around the city for hours.

The tarpaulin covering the back of the car made it hard for us to tell where we were.

I only recollect being ordered out of the car and told to get on our knees.

The place was a deserted lot with no sign of life. Only the stars twinkled gently on high, forlorn witnesses to what was about to happen to us. The time for our deaths was nigh.

About five policemen stood over us, their guns on our heads. Once more, we were told to admit we were criminals the police had tracked for months and that earlier in the day we had been involved in a chase with them.

We told them we had no idea what they were talking about. Again, they would hear none of it.

Out of desperation, I made a comment of self-preservation, but which I believe saved our lives that day.

I told them: "I am Kalenjin. Therefore I can never be Mungiki."

I knew my friend James was innocent, but my statement was putting him in danger.

Surprisingly, for the first time that day, that statement seemed to make sense to them. They paused for a while and considered this information. Among the officers who arrested us was a Kalenjin.

He pulled aside one of his colleagues for some small talk. They must have taken three of five minutes, but to us, it seemed eternity.

We cried like toddlers when ordered up and into the car. We did not need to be told how lucky we were although they made a point of reminding us on the way back to the police station.

We were locked up for a night and released the following day after our families paid Sh10, 000.

I still shudder when I imagine what might have happened to my friend and I had the officers not thought we were telling the truth. Mostly likely, we would be part of the national statistics on the war against Mungiki or part of the growing number of Kenyans who disappear without a trace.

Ironically, fate would have it that I became a police officer a year after this ordeal. I try in my own little way to practice what I was taught by following the law and also doing what is morally right.