Minor Offence

If you don’t find Nairobi intriguing, perhaps it's time to seek a different life.

One ordinary morning in a semester, just forty-five minutes after waking up, I found myself on our residence hall balcony, engaged in a lively conversation with a guy I had never met before. Campus life in Nairobi was like that. One minute someone is borrowing cooking oil, the next minute you’re splitting rent and calling each other “bro.”

A few days later, Jaymo and I had forged a brotherly bond within those four little walls.

Now, Jaymo was the type of person who could disappear for weeks, then randomly reappear with enough stories to fill an entire night of drinking. So one weekend after not seeing each other for a while, we linked up at some bash in Westie, somewhere near Molly’s.

We were lounging near the entrance, exchanging playful banter, when five angry women stormed out of the club looking really pissed off at about 2 am. Some wore sunglasses in the dead of night. In my mind, all I could hear was:

“Bitch berra have my money.”

Eventually, we decided to stroll toward Oilibya for fries, as alcohol and questionable substances always seem to ignite an ancestral craving for greasy food. Jaymo was busy catching me up on everything that had happened since our last hangout, while I struggled to maintain my balance. That’s when we spotted police officers roughing up two men across the street.

Now, every man in Nairobi possesses survival instincts. Mine immediately whispered for me to disappear into the darkness, but Jaymo, brimming with confidence- perhaps due to his dreadlocks- decided to confront the situation. A foolish choice, indeed, but intoxication clouded our judgment. “Hapa ndio nilipatana na wale makarao wakanipea lift hadi home, a few months ago,” he proclaimed. This man was speaking about Kenyan police officers as if they were customer care agents, and I foolishly believed him. The next thing I knew, I was seated inside a police van, watching as Jaymo was thoroughly searched for “possible drugs.” No drugs were found, mind you.

The van began to cruise through Westlands, picking up sober and innocent souls simply going about their lives. At the junction of Woodvale Grove, a waitress was tossed inside. I expected her to panic like we were, but instead, she casually called someone and said, “Wamenishika tena. The bus left me, so I was waiting for a boda.” I was astonished by her calmness, as if this were just another Tuesday inconvenience.

At another stop, a muscular man tried to resist the illegal arrest. For a moment, we believed in his defiance. But soon, several officers descended upon him, and one cop ended up bleeding. Just like that, the charges escalated from “being out at night” to “assaulting an officer on duty.”

At the main matatu stage near The Mall, people scattered the moment they saw the van approaching. Shortly after, a boda guy was thrown in. He was overdressed in heavy jackets, sweating and bewildered, pleading, “Mimi ni mtu wa nduthi nimefanya nini bana? Pikipiki yangu itaibwa.” Another guy inside replied, “Unasema wewe, mimi ni driver pale Jacaranda nilikuwa nangoja staff kwa gari ya kazi wakanishika.”

In that moment, it dawned on us that none of us truly belonged there.

Meanwhile, one of the plainclothes officers followed behind, riding the boda guy’s motorbike without a uniform or helmet. I looked at the scene and thought to myself, these cannot be cops bana, they are thugs. By now, the alcohol had completely left our systems, replaced only by sweat and fear.

The final pickup was a father and son at 3 am. We later learned they had just left Avenue Hospital after visiting their critically ill wife and mother. They were merely trying to get home. To make matters worse, the following morning, the OCS punished them by making them clean around the station before releasing them.

As dawn broke inside the cell, things took a dramatic turn. The real OG- the veterans who had been caught far too many times- were asleep near an overflowing toilet. They hatched a prison escape plan and convinced us it could work. Now, when I say escape plan, I mean these gentlemen filled a jug with poop and intended to splash it on the cell door. We would all shout for help, and once the cops opened the door in disgust, they’d splash more poop on them, and we would allegedly stampede to freedom. At that moment, I genuinely thought it was a bright idea, and it seemed plausible, but it all fell apart before the operation even began. One of the prisoners, who had been there when we were brought in, began screaming too soon. The OGs panicked, and instead of executing the plan, began arguing with him. It was absurdly funny because throughout the argument, the OGs never once put down the jug of poop. But later, we soon realized that the escape was never truly the objective; at the same time, another inmate was silently ransacking everyone, taking anything he found valuable. I saw this and quickly hid my money under my balls (don’t ask, that’s a story for another day). Jaymo attempted to act like he had things under control until the thief tried to snatch his iPhone cable. He managed to save the cable but lost his money. It stung, especially since earlier that day, Jaymo had closed a significant marketing deal, and one client had tipped him in dollars. We had postponed exchanging the money until morning, opting to celebrate instead. That decision aged terribly.

At one point, the thief even asked one of the cops if they accepted dollars for bail. They didn’t, so he simply bullied more inmates until he got his bail paid. What still frustrates me to this day is realizing that the entire operation was essentially a fundraising drive. The officers never directly asked for money during the arrest- not once. Then, around 9 am, the OCS appeared and announced, “5K bail or court.” Unfortunately, yours truly went to court. Jaymo remained behind because somehow his name had mysteriously disappeared from the court list.

The ride in the prison truck into Nairobi CBD felt oddly peaceful. As we passed Museum Hill, I closed my eyes and listened to Nairobi moving around me. It’s funny how precious freedom feels after just a few hours without it.

At City Hall, one plainclothes officer asked us, “Mnataka charge gani?” Believing there was no reason for us to be there in the first place, I immediately shouted:

“Minor offence!”

Everyone joined in:

“Tuwekee makosa kidogo mkubwa, tulikuwa tunatoka kazi!”

Even the officer laughed.

Inside the courtroom, we received the customary warnings: dire consequences awaited anyone whose phone rang during the session, no noise, and don’t try anything foolish. The court eventually began, and one by one, people entered the dock.

My favorite was a woman standing alone as her charges were read, “Caught on Luthuli Avenue with intent to engage in prostitution. True or false?”

“True.”

“500 shillings fine. NEXT.”

Honestly, after the night I’d had, that sounded like a fantastic deal.

Meanwhile, our group of fifteen adults was charged with “littering by means of dumping cigarette butts in Westlands.” FALSE. TRUE. FALSE. TRUE. The magistrate didn’t care. Everyone received the same verdict: “500 shillings fine. NEXT.”

I later found Jaymo still stuck at the station with first-timers and suspected terrorists. After several hours of what they called “anti-terror vetting,” which was really just a 10K negotiation, he was finally released under the glorious charge of “idling and negligence.” To this day, I still don’t know what negligence we committed, besides trusting the Nairobi nightlife

Anyway, the moral of the story is clear: never enter a police van in Kenya unless necessary, or your lawyer is your cousin, or Jesus himself is your escort.