Inside story
Aidan Hartley
Kibera Court No. 2
Normally, I would bribe a traffic policeman, but very occasionally it feels good to hit back against the system. ‘Go ahead. Book me,’ I said. The copper, a huge creature with rolls of fat around his neck and piggy eyes, sighed as if to say, ‘You poor dope.’ ‘OK, I’m taking you in.’ All because I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. At the station, the officer demanded a large sum in cash bail. His curious mates turned up to see what other crimes they could nail me for. ‘Your name is JOHN HOLAG.’ ‘No, it isn’t.’ They took a book down from shelves piled with dusty ledgers and slowly flipped through the pages. ‘Ah, yes. You have mutilated your driving licence.’ ‘No, I haven’t.’ ‘Shut up, Mr John Holag. You will appear in court on Monday to answer these serious charges. Skip bail and we will come after you. You can run, but you cannot hide.’ I immediately legged it for the Uganda frontier and telephoned my trusty farm manager, Mr Celestina Achole Sikuku. ‘I’m tied up here. Can you please go to court for me?’ ‘No problem,’ said Celestina. After several days looking at fields of sugar cane in the shadow of Mount Elgon all swathed in storm dragon clouds, I returned to Nairobi by Akamba bus. ‘Come quickly,’ Celestina urged me over the phone. ‘I told the judge my name was John Holag and she is very, very angry. The police want to put me inside.’ They arrested me on arrival at Kibera court. As the gates of the holding cells clanged shut, I felt pleased that Celestina had taken my phone and money for safekeeping. The cell was packed full of hardened criminals, many of them bruised, handcuffed or in prison uniform. Obscene graffiti covered the filthy walls and in the corner sat an evil-smelling slops bucket. A jail warder pointed at me and shouted, ‘Aha! We have a Cholmondeley!’ (The future Lord Delamere is standing trial for murder in Kenya.) A chorus of thugs burst out laughing. ‘No,’ I exclaimed. ‘Just failure to wear a seatbelt.’ ‘Aha. You are a white mercenary!’ ‘I certainly am not a mercenary.’ ‘Shut up, Mr John Holag, or you will be put on another charge!’ The hours ticked by. Men queued for the slops bucket. Finally, the court doors opened and an officer shouted MISTAH JOHN HOLAG! I entered the dock and bowed before an attractive but angry-looking magistrate. The courtroom was packed. ‘You are accused of failing to wear a seatbelt. How do you plead?’ ‘Guilty. I promise from the bottom of my heart it won’t happen again.’ The lady magistrate glared at me. I felt like Mr Toad. ‘This man is not Mr John Holag,’ she said, pointing to Celestina. ‘You are and I am very unhappy,’ she said. ‘Appear in court the next time you are summoned or I will put you inside.’ The court erupted into laughter at my humiliation. I grinned sheepishly. The lady magistrate imposed an unreasonably large fine and dismissed me back to the holding cells.
More hours ticked by while Celestina went off to pay the fine and obtain receipts. More queues in front of the slops bucket. A dangerous-looking chap came up to me and asked, ‘What are you in for?’ He looked astonished when I said, ‘No seatbelt.’ I suddenly felt ashamed that my crime was so modest. ‘You know, and other stuff ... And you?’ He said, ‘Attempting to bribe the Commissioner of Police.’ I was starting to find this experience a form of therapy. I decided all ordinary, law-abiding people should perhaps spend a bit of time in prison. I think it’s healthy to see how easily one’s life could fall apart. I wondered what would happen if they lost my file, or decided because I wasn’t really Mr John Holag at all that I did not qualify for release. Remembering a story about a boy who spent a dozen years in a remand cell for breaking windows, I figured I might end up staying for longer than I bargained.
The officer with the keys to my cell vanished, so that meant more hours waiting. I got chatting with my fellow criminals. ‘My name is Christopher,’ said a friendly man. ‘They will let you out soon and I wonder if you could phone my brother and give him this message.’ He handed me a note. DEAR BRO. AM PUT INSIDE, ACCUSED OF ARMED ROBBERY WITH VIOLENCE. PLEASE COME AND PAY MY BAIL. I assured him I would, and by the end of my time in jail I had made a few more friends. One never knows when underworld connections might come in handy. Finally, the officer with the keys turned up again, the iron doors swung open, a copper with a machine gun shook my hand and waved me out into the sunshine. ‘I’m free!’ I punched the air in jubilation. ‘Free at last!’ I got my phone back and called the family. Then I called Christopher’s brother. ‘Oh, no,’ he said when I told him. ‘Not again.’
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