Half a head

There were thin and bleak sounds, noises that were either real or imaginary. A sound of a wild bird in distress from a far, an owl maybe or a cardinal, accompanied by what sounded like uneasy movement and groaning noises from within. Those unnerving noises that make you believe hell is real and the damned has flung the gates open. He was in the police cell, the cell had huge shelves and guys were sleeping on the floor like they always do.

You might have met this somewhere; you might have heard of it from the walls of your sitting room or the streets. It is a tale of this guy Boniface Kimanyano Ayoti, an epic face of crime, larger than life. A guy whose weakness was crime. Anything criminal triggered something in him. Something that not only made him content but also put him in a zone where nothing else could.

Even though it can’t tell it all, Bonnie’s face is a tale of crime. Before you hear a word from him you know he’s not been an average human being. He has a swelling just above his right eye, he has a few scars on his face and missing up teeth. He talks heavy sheng, some of which I don’t understand either.

Bonnie was born at Pumwani hospital, grew up at Mkuru Kayaba, Kambi moto. He was sent away from school when he was about to sit for his primary school exam. His dad could not stand his horrible behaviors anymore, my Swahili teacher would say ‘tabia za kiajabu ajabu.’ Overawed of seeing his son growing into a nasty human being, he called him and told him, ‘You know what boy, you think you’re a lion enough, get out of my house and find a life elsewhere’

He resorted to the streets that welcomed him with open arms. He started sniffing glue, then to a drug called C - a yellow drug with a C at its center. It’s a strong drug that makes you hyper and mixes your head up. ‘You could actually rob at a place and in a few minutes forget that you had robbed there and go back to the same place,’ he says. He became a prime purse snatcher in the streets, a crime that they called ‘rugby.’ I took great offense, as a rugby enthusiast this is not the best way to describe our game.

He turned out to be lethal at snatching purses until this day when he was waylaid by taxi drivers. He says with a rough look on his face, ‘After hio nilisema rugby haiwezi’ with that dragging sheng accent. He gave up on snatching purses and dived into pickpocketing, not something far from snatching purses. Apparently, snatching purses and pickpocketing could be cousins, who knows? He was only 16 then, huge and strong, his task in the scheme was to throw blows at the victim, he calls it ‘kumtoa pums’ then free the victim of any valuables they had. This is not a gang that could even spare you fare home not even your house keys.

Then came the blue Mercedes, it’s a kind of a pill, huge like patco. You remember patco? One that you can’t swallow whole so you have to divide it into two. It makes you see everything white as blue. You can’t even eat ugali because it’s blue. You look at someone and you only see a skeleton of them. The blue Mercedes drove him and his gang to the graves near Nyayo stadium. The graves became their home, their safe harbor. They would comfortably sleep with the dead and the dead would not leave them go hungry because a ‘client’ would always pass by. They tagged their gang ‘mbogi ya makaburi.’ He says it in that heavy sheng accent and you really try not to see the graves in his eyes. The dead got fed up or maybe they overslept for some reason and the graves were not paying well anymore. There were no clients! The drugs were hyping him but there was no work, nowhere to release the energy. He felt the urge to do something because he was running broke.

One Friday night, siting silently listening to the monologue of the blustery wind - trying to figure out whether the dead told stories at night, he noticed a shadow from far, a shadow walking down the road under the street lights, a shadow that slowly interwoven to form a human. He was still leaning on a cross on one of the graves under a tree that was closest to the road, inhaling the fecund smell of the saturated earth. Suddenly the cross came down rumbling on its week feet and he almost sat on the head of whoever was resting beneath - he knew that was a wakeup call. He rounded from the back and pounced on the human figure and held him by the neck. He felt a sharp stab on his belly and the next thing he saw was his intestine crawling out and blood soaking his clothes. The owner of the cross he leaned on and broke was undoubtable upset and wanted him home. He shows the interviewer the scar on his belly.

He jumped of his client holding his intestines on his hands and swiftly made his way to Mater hospital. He was admitted and nursed. The doctor said he should be on bed rest for five days before being transferred to Kenyatta hospital. On the second day he couldn’t do it any more, this was not his place, a lion doesn’t get a bed rest. He escaped from the hospital, back to the streets.

‘Aaaaih bro ukahepa hosi?,’ the interviewer asked

‘Eeeh, kuhepa nikarudi streets, nikasema story na ngeta nimechorea,’ Bonnie said throwing his hands loose like someone who is used to finding solutions.

Days later he decided to go back to the graves where he stayed another month, still pickpocketing. Whatever force that was pulling him to the graves is beyond me. Eventually, he was not feeling the vibe at the graves anymore and decided to go back to South B where he met an old friend called Jatelo. The way he says it you can’t know this ‘Jatelo’ word is Luo. Jatelo introduced him to another drug called red devil. ‘When you use red devil and get high on them, you have to see blood to sober up,’ he says

The first day he used the drugs he was near ‘Rose jam’ in South B. There was a psv coming as it dropped passengers. There was a lady who alighted, a middle-aged lady. She had a necklace that the red devils in him decoded to be pure gold. He came charged to the core, grabbed the necklace and the purse, pinned the lady on the ground but before he made away, he was already surrounded by an angry mob.

He was rescued by the police, taken to industrial area police station and was charged with robbery with violence. He was thrown into Kamiti prison where he buried his four years. ‘In prison, you either come out a good person or a worse character,’ he said  

He met a gang in prison that hails from kayole, ‘mbogi ya kayole’. He acquainted with them; at the back of his mind, he knew that those are people he could do business with someday.

After serving his four years he came back to the streets, found most of his peers had moved on with life, some had quit crime and married some were bigger gangsters.

He looks at the interviewer with sorrowful eyes, probably the expression showing how he felt at that time. ‘Nilipata maboyz walishaendelea, some got married, some were dressing fine, nikabaki mimi bado ni fala tu yaani,’ he says with a lot of self-pity. His accent still rings in my head when I quote his words. He stayed with his small brother for about a month and had to move out because he was also married.

Without a proper life, he decided that he would go and start a life in Kayole where the gang in prison told him that he could get guys to do business with. The next day he set off for kayole from south B on foot. Not familiar with anyone, he had to sleep in a Kibanda, a shack where traders aired their vegetables. In the stinging cold of the night, he was looking back at the kind of life he had and didn’t see any problem with it. He wanted more of it, that was who he was and even who he was meant to be, ‘Bonnie the lion.’

The next morning as he was roaming around looking for fellow birds - with same feathers, he bumped on a group of guys smoking weed. Those people can deny you anything including water to drink but not a puff of weed.

‘Niliuliza hao majamaa kama naeza piga moshi mbili,’ Bonnie roared. He took his puffs and was in the right zone to start a ‘meaningful’ conversation with them. He told them that he is from the prison and was looking for a way to start life because all his friends had made good lives and were dressing nicely. I don’t know why he insists on them dressing nicely. He assured them that he could do business with them.

‘Mimi naeza piga mboka,’ he retaliated. How everyone vanished at dusk needs further studies. So, he went back to spend the night at the shacks that evening.  Deep in the night he felt a hard part on his back, a voice boomed in his ears, ‘wewe  unalalaje hapa  kaa fala, amkaa!’ and from then he joined the gang as the sixth man.

Being a new gang member, he was deployed the dirtiest role… to carry a panga. Not even a decent panga, an old lame panga. The gang had only one gun, a revolver that fires and rotates. That night they attacked a supermarket in Kayole fruitfully, with ease. Bonnie was a smart-ass mugger, as the rest pent and used all they ‘earned’ he was saving, not to have a life, but to buy a gun of his own. Nothing else! Not even to dress nicely. The next time he was checking his savings he had ksh 19800, less ksh 200 to hire a gun. Two hundred shillings could not be the thick line between him and having a gun for himself. A friend topped him up and linked him to a fella who lent him a gun. A Somali guy named Kade with a lot of tattoos, a guy whose way of life was a mystery. He did trainings to his customers to ensure that one could use the weapon. Into the quarries they went, to pass the test the shots fired had to produce a somehow whistling sound in the waters.

Bonnie was good to go, he picked Mombasa Road traffic jam to be his perfect business niche. He was not bargaining with any victim, you either cooperate or you take a bullet home in your limb. You look at his face and you know he doesn’t bargain. People who bargain don’t look like Bonnie.

‘Either unipe simu ama za miguuu utapatana nazo,’ he says like he means it. The first night he made away with twenty phones and a few wallets and purses. You either transfer the ownership of your phone or have a bullet in your leg. He would later go back to his gang and they would sell the phones at river road at whatever prices. Bonnie breached their agreement with Kadee which provided that he should return the hired gun after three days. He went missing and started jogging on his own for about a month. All he wanted was to own a gun.

One evening he decided to go for chill reggae vibes at the CBD, Montecarlo, with his gang from the hood, akina Mamare, Msai, Njenga,Ngash, Boja Devo. He calls them in a way you can’t even know the spelling. A guy came out of the blues, bonded with them a bit and asked them if they could to some business on Saturday. The guy told them that there was a woman who would be delivering a lot of cash around Delview area. He told them she would be coming in a posh Range rover. ‘Atakua tu anakaa fiti alafu atakua amechafua shingo,’ Bonnie quotes him. Kuchafua shingo here means she will be wearing a lot of jewelries - and somehow the Tracy Whitney character from Sydney sheldon’s ‘If tomorrow comes’ crossed my mind. I started feeling like this was a spin-off of the novel. They drew the plan, and because it was a big jog ahead, everyone had to acquire a gun. They hired a car but finding a driver was a case. Bonnie reached out to an old friend who was an ardent driver, Michael Kaderee. This was around the last quarter of 2011. 

On Saturday evening all was set. They positioned at the venue in time. They were smoking weed and doing all the drugs as they waited for their client to arrive. An hour later on the verge of giving up a white posh range rover showed up and made a turn. He felt goosebumps spread on his body, trying to imagine the kind of fortune they were about to get away with.  A woman dropped her foot on the ground, a fine leg well fitted in high heels. She was looking at herself in the mirror. Bonnie being the most daring gang member was already a few metres away from the car. He attacked her from the back and pinned her on the ground. He reached for the bag with money and threw it to the one of the gang members, he threw the laptop too. As he was trying to loosen the jewelries on her neck, he had gun fires from a distance. He let go of the woman and rushed back to the car where Kaderee already had his foot on the gas.

In 2011 there was no footbridge at Delview, it was just a plain road. They took a turn down to plains view, then to Golden gate. The officers were fiercely firing at the vehicle from behind. From Golden gate they headed to RTI where their vehicle stopped mysteriously. Having run out of options they started negotiating with the police, exchanging fire. The police were better organized and were pressing closer, you’ve ever heard of an ‘everyone for himself moment?’  save yourself or you perish. There was panic in the vehicle, panic that you could feel, smell and even touch. Michael Kaderee was stridently trembling on his seat; Bonnie was right there beside him at the codrivers seat trying to make an image of what hell looks like. Wondering whether the angel will have to confirm if his name is in the book of life or will send him to hell by just looking at his face. There was a sudden silence, no gun shots and no one mumbling a word in the vehicle, before a piece of Kaderee’s skull left his head flying, hit the shattered wind screen and landed on Bonnie’s laps. It was followed by a splash of hot blood mixed in mucus like white substance that stained part of his face.

‘Kaderee alifunguliwa boooonnet,’ Bonnie said with horror sketched on his face. Kaderee had his skull dismantled, he remained with half a head as he slowly fell on the steering wheel painting it red.

Boja Devo was the first to try and make his way out of the vehicle, a bullet founds its way through his ribs.  Ngash was next, he didn’t even make a step from the door of the vehicle, neither did he make a sound, his eyes widened in an attempt to pop out of their socket as he kissed the ground.

Bonnie was the third to jump out of the car. Having scanned around, there was no way he would run away without having a bullet through his spine. The sewer line was his safest place, he dived into the sewer, but with a bullet in his leg. ‘The place was later turned into car wash,’ he says. The other two guys paced ahead so the officers went after them. They were shot dead somewhere near St. veronica Catholic Church.

Bonnie was trying to find his way through the houses nearby, the heavy drugs he used made him numb in a way, he was not feeling any pain. He bumped on a middle-aged woman who was opening her gate, ‘Please madhe don’t talk, tafadhali nakuomba usiongee, please!’ he pleaded with her as he dashed inside some old structure- his clothes soaked and dripping sewage. The police arrived shortly; they knew there was one victim who was shot in the leg and disappeared. He was having a blur view of them. He could clearly see in the dark that the woman trembling, he decided to make his last prayer to God, that even if he is not going to heaven, let him grant peace and healing to those he offended. He saw the woman point around, he closed his eyes waiting for a bullet in his head.

When it took a little longer before he felt the bullet drive through his head, he opened his eyes partially and saw the last officer leave the gate running. ‘God ni mso man, the woman didn’t set me up,’ he says with a touch of gratitude on his face.

It was almost 9pm in the night, there were people gathered around where the shooting occurred, some of them bad guys who wanted to be the only bad guys. Some must have been making some cock and bull stories to those who came late how the series of events occurred. A random woman in the crowd was there to pick lessons for her son

‘Ndiyo ile nyangau ingine,’ a voice came from deep inside the crowd. There were wild skreiches and the crowd ran towards him in rage.

The cheerleader of the angry crowd collided with a bullet on his ribs and the rest were all swallowed in the darkness. A scary silence engulfed Bonnie as he groped in the darkness, trying to come to terms with his disheartening loss. The scene where half of Kaderee’s skull was flying a way splashing hot blood and brain content on him was playing in his head on repeat. Ngash’s widening eyes were still looking at him in terror. He started rubbing his eyes to stop seeing the faces of his mates when he felt a piercing hit on the back of his head with what must have been a panga. He bends his head and shows off a big scar on the back of his head. He felt the earth disappear under his feet and he fell. He was unconscious but was feeling his body being drag down a slope. Felt like the guy was dragging him down some river.

The last bit of what he remembers was the sound of splashing waters. The night elapsed, a new dawn came and noon was no longer a time to eat goose meat. Noon was a time to book an everlasting date with the devil. The police reported to the scene, took pictures of the victim and reported him dead. His body was wrapped and ferried to city mortuary, (told by his brother).

A chapter came to an end, an end of a servitude of robbery that proved to snatch everything from a young group of souls.

There were thin and bleak sounds, noises that were either real or imaginary. A sound of a wild bird in distress from a far, an owl maybe or a cardinal, accompanied by what sounded like uneasy movement and groaning noises from within. Those unnerving noises that make you believe hell is real and the damned has flung the gates open. He was in the police cell, the cell had huge shelves and guys were sleeping on the floor like they always do. The police cell had a different smell this time, not the usual odor of urine, a smell of horror, ghostly odor. A stench that you feel even if you stop breathing. He ignored the hostile cold and went back to nap, but the stench was intolerable. 

There was dim light sneaking in through the door panes, trying to make sense of the kind of police cell this was. He sat up and looked at the furthest corner where the figure that was lying therein made the perfect image of Michael Kaderee, with half a head.  He saw his white air force on one foot, the other foot was shoeless. Inches away was Boja Devo, with raptured ribs. As he was positioning his body to make a reality out of what he was seeing his right palm landed on a cold sticky fluid, and right beside him was Ngash, resting wherever people rest after getting a couple of bullets in their skull.

The reality was scary as scary can be. Never in his wildest imaginations had he ever seen himself sleep with the dead. His stay at Kamiti made him learn that in the morgue if you wake up you have to die a second time. ‘They kill you, juu wewe ni customer unaenda wapi?’ He says that with a cruel pain in his voice.

Customer!

The stench was choking him, he got the strength, went for the door but it was locked from outside. He sat at the side of the door, rested his head on his knees and buried it with his palms.

Immediately the Imam finished reciting the 4 am prayers the morgue door flung open. One side of the door opened as the other remained closed and the keys fell down. The attendant was mumbling a kikuyu song, more of sorrowful chant. When the attendant bent to pick the key, he shot up and held his coat, the attendant hit his arms and took off blaringly screaming. Well, Bonnie this is not funny this is someone’s dad abeg, someone’s husband, their pillar of strength!

He was right behind him, not bothered by his scream. The much he wanted was his coat and boots. They bolted out of the mortuary premises, out to the city mortuary round about. Someone’s pillar of strength was still screaming but not as loud now. At the city mortuary roundabout, he almost got ran over by a police car that didn’t bother to stop. There was a lady by the roadside, probably going to work. She was waiting to cross the road. She suddenly saw two figure bolting from city mortuary. One bare foot and naked with a bloody head, the other in a white long coat. Okay, the one in a white coat must be the mortuary attendant, but who is this naked one. She concluded that ghosts are not only watched in movies. Her take home that day was that ghosts are actually there at city mortuary, but which home? A spirit, a dead man who probably said he should not be washed when he dies but the morgue attendant also had to make a living.

She couldn’t wait to meet a spirit face to face, she ran across the road and there was a bang followed by the sounds of a vehicle running over something wet, that kasplashing sound. A part of him felt sorry for the poor lady and her family, a part of him didn’t give an F. He kept chasing the attendant up to kilimani police station where he accosted him as he was trying to make his way to the cells area where probably there were officers in charge. The guy peed on his pants, still someone’s pillar of strength. If you passed this test without peeing, a lion at Maasai Mara should be named after you. He seized his coat and boots that were wet with urine, snatched his phone and told him to sit down there till he comes back.

‘You robbed him inside a police station?’ the interviewer asked.

‘Sindio, na nikaishia,’ he said like it’s not even something to be surprised about.

At the road he stopped a matatu that was headed to town from Kawangware, route 46. He told the tout, ‘Just drop me at Nairobi hospital, I’ll be able to get home.’

Happy Easter  Ladies and Gentlemen.