Have you met a mob on a light skin thief?
Streets in justice
He received a call deep in the late hours before going to bed. Thankfully, his wife resided in Shagz and he had only his sons to worry about. ‘Your son is lying beside the road. I think it will be lifesaving if you came immediately.’ The caller did not say another word but he could hear the background commotion from the caller during the call.
A f*ck gone wrong again like the last time when his escort girl called claiming her dues? Did he drink and drive? Possibly NO. what have they done to him this time? Did they beat him for drinking too much or did he visit kwa mathe wa chawdi and he now can’t see?
A dark smoke signal illuminated by the street lights bellowed into the skies as he waded across the ghetto. The more he got closer to the pinned location, the more the smoke fumes got into his lungs with a chock on the throat. He would smell the roast meat from a distance yet the ghetto kitchens had nothing cooking at the hour.
The ghetto streets were actively giving lessons to the indecent son of a decent man. If the justice system was as shrewd as the street injustice system, we would be in a world of honesty and accountability but look back and smile at this disaster. The streets had served justice at the mention of a thief. His son was lying writhing in pain without a skin to clutch too. The flames were consuming his spirit one degree hotter after the other. His appeals for an ice collision were fading out and his father’s request for a souvenir to bury were fading in.
It is the evening hours and the hustlers are creeping in home to share the spoils of the day. I get in a
convo with a man who identifies with my muscle struggles. ‘Wewe huwezi kuwa dingo,’ he chimes in.
This goes on to introduce a funny talk on the youth taking the shorter way in trying to figure out their success.
I hate these China-made padlocks. Ka-wire and these boys have access to your house. So, one evening while I was creeping back into my humble habitat, I met a pickney your age with a wire picking my neighbors lock. He had already surprised the padlock and when he saw me he froze.
I wasn’t interested in having the blood of a young boy on me. I had recently lost my gas cooker while cooking ugali. Someone sneaked into my house as I was in the bathroom and walked out with my gas stove and left the sufuria with steaming water on the floor. I had no wish in taking vengeance even when I had vowed on my uncooked ugali to take matters personal when it came to theft. I requested the trembling young boy to lock the padlock and leave the door. I left the scene convinced that the boy would do an introspection into his life and figure out how to live a long honest life.
‘Walking across town or the villages, whenever they parade a thief in the courtrooms, streets or markets; it is usually a person with a heavy build and often times very black or with a dark skin tone and bloodshot scary eyes.’ The man quips. ‘I once met a guka thief. He had a white moustache and countless white hair strands. He was pretty old and I was scared to learn that you can get old as a thief. All along I knew they either died while still young or are in or in and out of the jail cells.’ He adds.
Thieves are clowns. Did you know a thief fears another thief too. That’s how insecure and insincere their world is. They live on a time frame and the perfect timing results in a perfect crime. But what do the wise say of humans and perfection? That is the fortieth day when Karma comes beckoning. That is the day that life catches up with you. When you can’t run anymore and look back, a cry spikes your soul.