No Deaths under my Watch.

I found myself in a very peculiar position yesterday. I had a meeting in the morning to pitch an idea somewhere. It went well enough. The town was full of people, with the young ones all over the place as their parents took the them to the Show Ground. I hate this day. Everybody is out to make a quick buck and the result is chaos all over the place.

There were few vehicles around and on missing those that plight my route, I decided to check in on my good friend R who lives some 100 metres from the Central Business District. I walked over and I found him in. I had no seen him since I started studying CFA and there was a lot to catch up on, especially since he is planning to leave the country for Australia.

While we were sitting on the bench in the garden catching up, some lady on her balcony in the next building shouted R’s name. R stood and said hi and then sat down again. She called him out again and this time round, talking a little bit louder told us that there was a thief.

I stood on the bench we were sitting on so that I could see her over the fence properly and see what she was going on about. That was when I saw her pointing behind us to the next house. I turned, too quickly, and in the process breaking the bench. I saw this guy stuffing a jeans beneath his shirt and trying to walk off.

He sees me and freezes. I rush for the gate and R is in tow. This guy makes the brightest decision – he does not run. In Kenya, a quick way to die is to run and then somebody shouts THIEF! I approach him and though he is quite big, fear makes him shrink in stature. I don’t even feel the slightest urge to punch him but my friend R is shaking with anger, eager to beat this guy’s face in.

I approach him, look him straight in the eye and he goes down thinking I was going to pounce on him. I don’t hit him but he is now sitting down with sorry eyes that are watery. The fear in his eyes is evident – and without saying a word, you could see he was begging for his life. His fear spreads to the whole of his body as more people start to assemble surrounding him. Mind you – nobody has yet called out or yelled thief!

I kneel on one knee, take off his hat so that I can see his face and ask him whether he wants to die. He shakes his head meaning no. I tell him to look around… which he does. He looks at the assembling people, some already baying for his blood. I inform him that there is garage on one end, a place where manambas sit on the other, and no other way to run. And that these people are the kind that will brutally  kill him on a whim.

And he was bald. I ask him what the hell he was trying to do! He was bald meaning that he was old, too old to be stealing jeans from a wash line. He nods saying yes.

I tell him that I am not going to hit him because I have seen plenty of men like him die. I tell him that my hitting him was all the go ahead those assembling needed to finish him off and I was not going to be that person that will grant him his death sentence; over a pair of jeans. I tell him that if he steals again, the person that catches him next will not be me and that he will most probably be killed. I ask him if he is listening to what I am saying. He nods. I tell him that he is surely going to die and a painful death at that; just not under my watch.

I walk off leaving him there. But he reaches out for me, gives me a very firm handshake and slips through the crowd which does absolutely nothing as he walks away. Keep in mind that I never asked or even requested the crowd not to beat this guy up. Therefore in my mind, how the person who catches a thief decides to act determines a lot whether that person will live or die.

We head over to the bench once more, which I repair. But R is still shaking, telling me that he thought I was going to kill this guy (he saw me mad and get out of control when I was younger and that is the image that he still has in his head.) He had even given me the space to beat this guy up when we first got to him. He had backed up and was utterly shocked when I instead hunkered down to have a talk with this guy. I guess I grew up.

It is not everyday that a thief can get caught and walk without a scratch but with a word of advice in Kenya. He knew it and hence the firm handshake he gave me. I had just saved his life and he knew that better than anybody else. On my side, I could only hope that he would take this as the chance of a lifetime to reflect and walk some other path in life. But I can assure you  one thing; if he steals again, he will get caught an he will go up in flames.

I cannot have the death of a Human Being on my conscious…

My Journey to Neo Soul…

We all love music, don’t we? The only difference is in the different kinds of music that we find ourselves taking to. But whatever the case, the genre of music that we settle for has that thing that appeals to something greater in us and not just the ear.

I was born some time in the 80’s and never paid attention to music of any kind until I was in primary school. And even then, we would chant along like parrots to the most famous songs of the time without a care in the world what the words meant. It was all about the beat and a catchy chorus back then and for me as a young one, that was all there was to music.

I grew up a little and then moved school from the crappy local school that had all the kids from ghettos to a more affluent school that had kids mostly from the upper middle class category. It was here that I was introduced to the Idea of different genres of music and from the way they were presented to me; it was such that I had to make a choice on what genre to listen to. It was not that I was openly told to choose one and not the other but rather the approval or disapproval or ridicule that I faced when I expressed my preferences or lack thereof in music.

This was the time when though I still had a big ego and pride, I did not have the finesse that came with interacting with certain echelons of society. You see, we stayed at the edge of a well to do estate that was surrounded with various ‘ghettos.’ We were not rich, but from where we were standing, and at that time in history, having a car and a TV was the definition of rich. Every Tuesday, all children from the neighborhood thronged our house to watch wrestling. And these were the only kids I knew and their tastes and preferences were defined not by what was new but what was there and there wasn’t much.

In this new school, people were hands on whom the upcoming musicians/artists were, their songs so far, and all that other crap that we did not have the time of day for where I was from. These were the kids who had toys bought for them whereas we would sit down and make out own toys. The difference was therefore clear and being young, it was only natural that I try and fit in. And I did by listening to the music that all these affluent kids were listening to and pretty soon, I was so immersed I could afford an opinion.

Of all the music I lent my ear to, Hip-Hop came out the winner. I was in class 6 then, this was sometime on 96. I remember my big bro noticing the difference, telling me that my taste in music had changed. What he did not know was that I had just acquired the taste altogether. I would listen to the various Hip Hop artists of the time, make sure that I remembered their names and then slip them into conversations with the ease of an insider, which I now was but I still felt I needed to prove it.

Kids back home were still signing the songs that accompanied the Omo, Blueband, Mara Moja etc adverts because they had a nice ring to them. None of them gave a damn who Toni Braxton, Celine Dion, or the Backstreet Boys were.

Two more years of that went by and then I got to high school. One thing I am proud of is that I was never a fan of boy bands; and these were the curse of high school. This was around that time that it hit us that girls were actually people; and more importantly, the very people that our hormones were pushing us to get busy with. Unfortunately, with age had gone the ease with which we could approach girls and in its place had come a complicated due process, a rite of passage of sorts. Most boys, that s what we were, never had the guts to take that first step towards these increasingly complicated yet gorgeous by the day fair ladies.

Earlier when we were younger, there was no motive. It was just a girl and a boy who were neighbours, friends, and played together (Girl next door – Musiq Soulchild). Then the girl becomes hot, our hormones start to boil, and suddenly (it’s not that easy– Lemar.) Things that were never an issue start coming into play like what will I say? How will I say it that I sound cool? For most people, this was the biggest barrier to overcome and boy bands became the bridge to the other side. People would actually write down words from these songs in love letters and send them. For some, it opened ‘doors’ but others were not lucky.

I have never been a romantic let alone the hopeless romantics that most of my friends were as they went to extreme lengths to impress out fair ladies. I stuck to my guns and listened to Hip Hop the more. I remember rhyming along to all the tracks in Illmatic and later Stillmatic by Nas… (“One mic” was my favourite but I also loved and cursed along to ether.) I remember listening to Eccleftic by Wycleff Jean and thinking the man is a genius. There were Ice cube, Mos Def, Jay Z, Coolio, Born Thugs N Harmony etc who dominated the hip hop arena and who I continue to listen to.

Don’t get it twisted though… I have never been the Jeans sagging, hair braiding, earring wearing, baggy clothed, topped by an American Hip Hop accent and slang kind of guy. I loved the rhymes and bounced to the beats but that was where it ended.

And as far as the ladies went, I got my way without the boy bands because I was the exact opposite of the good natured boys. It pays to be on the wrong side of the authority at certain times.

But then I accidentally listened to what I rhymed to as a Nas track was playing, wrote it down, and thought… Damn, this guy is actually saying something. I borrowed a source magazine from a friend and read it, especially the parts where they attributed some sick rhymes to the various artists they were rating. This was the best part of the whole thing for it exposed me to something beyond the beats and the anger that the rhymes were usually delivered with. This was the meat, the moral of the story kind of thing and it was powerful. I had to look up some words that I came along, such as reparations from a Nas rhyme. I also recognized that there was a flow, a rhyme, a theme; hey, this was poetry…

So I paid attention when I next heard these tracks, dismissed those had good beats but said shit, embraced those had good beats and a message to pass along, gave time to those who were trying to say something but still lacked the tact and umph. The boys went, the men stayed and my idea of the right kind of music was developing. I could finally tell you what I would listen to and what I wouldn’t be caught dead, even in my funeral, listening to. Most of these tracks fell under Hip Hop and for that I was content.

But then something happened…

When I was still in High School, I remember watching Channel O, the music channel, and having difficulty changing the channel when Jill Scott started performing on some stage. That lady sang, bled her heart out on that stage, those in the audience below were as taken as me, some even to the point of crying. I remember the song coming to an end without me changing the channel. My heart felt heavy because, God forbid, I had loved that. I tried to make excuses but the overriding feeling in my stomach was, Marvin, you’ve gone soft, worse than those boy band maniacs.

Then a pattern developed. I would watch Channel O and then when Sade appears, something happens. I would watch again and when Maxwell appears, that something again. This happened time and time again with Jill Scott, Floetry, Raphael Saadiq, Joss Stone, and India Arie etc. I soon realized that I had stumbled onto Neo Soul, the genre to which all these musicians belonged to. And Neo Soul was what I set out to write about today but ended up writing about my Journey to Neo Soul. I better change the title of this post then which means Neo Soul is therefore pushed to another time, another day.

Heard a Man Die; though I have seen Plenty.

It is now exactly a week after I sat for the CFA exams. It is 1:51 am, in the dead of the night over here and I have just been rudely woken up by shouting men and a crying man. I am usually a light sleeper and I am usually woken up even by a whisper. This was no whisper; it was a crying man and shouting men.

Seconds after I woke up, I realized what was happening. The shouting men had just caught a thief and the neighbours around here have woken up too and are now punishing this thief. It sounds brutal. I have heard them from far, but with every minute that passes, I hear them getting closer and closer.

They seem to be near the gate because the man receiving the beating is crying and I can hear the pain in his voice. It is not a scream; it is not even an all out sobbing, it is a muffled cry, as if the voice is constricted at the throat. It might be that his mouth is swollen or is filled with blood such that his voice cannot be heard properly.

I am now fully awake and I doubt that I will sleep again. That man crying like that and his incoherent attempts to beg for his life have killed any prospect of a peaceful night that I hoped for.

I can hear the kicks as they land on him. That is not a sound that I would like to hear ever again but probably will. Even from far, I can tell from the sounds of the kicks that they are heavy, the kind that have the whole body’s weight behind them. It sounds as if someone is hitting a wall with a sledge hammer. I also hear the sound of crude weapons breaking on impact with his body.

Those beating the man are increasing in number as evidenced by the increase in the noise levels. I hear Ua! (Kill!) And now I fear for the man’s life. I am now asking my bro where the nearest police station is but my bro tells me it is quite some distance away, and that only the police on patrol, if there are any near here, can save him.

My bro tells me that they will beat him properly. But that to me is naïve thinking. Though I hope it won’t happen, I know deep in my heart that this man was dead the moment he got caught. Only a stroke of luck or a woman’s pleas will save him now. On that note; yesterday, I was walking with my cousin when another alleged thief ran past us and a crowd after him. But what stuck with me about the whole thing was this lady who was telling everybody that was chasing after this guy, “if you catch him, please don’t kill him. If you catch him, please don’t kill him.”

Women seem to appreciate the sanctity of life more than men.

They have now moved some distance away, but I can still hear his muffled cries as they continue beating him. I sure sound like a coward typing away how a man is losing his life outside on the road that I use daily. But what can I do? I feel the urge to walk out there and ask them to take this guy to the cops, but that will put me at the very real risk of being killed as well as an accomplice. Not to mention it is in the dead of the night. So I sit up and type this hoping that whatever emotions that this post evokes in you will in the least get you thinking about the ills of mob justice.

My bro says again that this guy will receive the beating of his life; but this time round I tell him that this guy will not walk away from this. He is a dead man.

I hear more cries from the man, from a distance and then no more. Did I just listen in to a man lose his life? I think he is dead because he is no longer crying and I hear gates opening and closing as people get back to their homes to sleep. Will I find a dead body on the road tomorrow morning? I hope that the cops got there in time to pick up what was left of his life and not just his dead body.

And now I am torn. Between the thief who has been caught and the people who have come from their homes to beat him to death, who should I be more scared of?

I will tell you who…

I am scared of that guy next door who has gone out, helped in killing a person in the crudest of ways, talked about it with the other people in the mob, before coming back into his house, putting on the TV for some minutes and then heading on to sleep. How can taking a life seem like such a simple routine thing for people?

I will tell you if the man was killed tomorrow when the sun rises. I will now try to close my eyes and see what happens.

I wrote the above almost two weeks ago. It was in one of the folders that I am sorting out as I clean up this laptop.

The guy was not killed… I was elated when my bro told me that. The police came but they are not the ones who saved him. People just got tired or were too sleepy. They had a tire on him but for one reason or the other (no petrol) they did not burn him. But what struck me was what the police said when they got there. Word is going round that the police prefer caught thieves dead because it is less work for them hence the “why didn’t you kill him?” question when the police got there. With him dead, their only obligation would have been to take this guy to the mortuary. But now that he was barely alive, they had to take him to the hospital, wait until he gets better, re-arrest him, and then press charges against him.

I have seen plenty of men die but hearing one just jolted something in me.