I am tired of the ‘virtuous Winnie’ and ‘Virgin Mary’ classmates asking me why I laugh curtly. I say it here and I will not repeat, I laugh curtly because I have seen it all. I have seen a prison’s officer peep into my ass to ensure I don’t have a microphone in it. I have seen a female Managing Director shake my manhood to confirm whether I am fit to fill the position in her company, literal or otherwise.Ooh, you Mary and Winnie, I have stood in a whorehouse and spoke a revolutionaryspoken word art. For almost one year, I had a hooker as my best friend and she would complain how guys with huge muscles negotiated too much when one-minute men overpaid for her services. I have also sustained an erection even after having lost half of my blood and in a hospital bed – The nurse couldn’t help but smile at the contradiction. I am not a take away nigga, and I am not good, just crazy in a good way.
That is an already terrifying introduction for one man, now lemmi tell you about my life in prison.
So, it was on a Monday morning and as I have always carried my old name Kan, I still carried my slightly pink penis. In my village, when they cut us, they said that if we didn’t have sex after six months, we would die or become impotent. Having looked for a soul mate to share my virginity with in vain, I had carried my shame and a pink penis for eight years- It was still pink and dark- disgusting and unworthy, but I loved my penis and when those heathens pulled it, and teased to cut it, they hurt my feelings. What I am trying to say is that I was a virgin at 21 years, eight years after circumcision and I stepped into a prison, my debut. On the same day, I entered the dick-measuring contest.
Back then, I was a Boda Boda operator at Makongeni, Thika. The wee hours of morning were the peak in the trade. I would wake up at 4:00 am and head to Kiganjo market to wait for Wamary to buy her stock, which I would deliver to Muthara. Later I would ferry Atieno and Milka to get their fish from Makongeni Market. After the four morning trips, I would see Njoroge-Petrol for one liter or so and later visit Mama Lucy for a cup of Uji and a chapati. By 10:00 am, I would have made almost 2K. Now that is money; money made through blood, sweat, and bones. I bet you have no idea how tough it is to balance a motorbike on a rough road while carrying women who look like they ate their babies for breakfast.
On this day, as I was coming from Thika, I bumped into cops at the Kiganjo junction. I braked with a skid, and made a sharp 180-degree turn to escape the beasts, but it was too late. Kwa Muda wa Kuku Kumeza Puche, my motorbike was dangling from their land cruiser and my poor self was stashed among other fifteen or so, hungry and very tired Boda Boda operators. It was a big deal for a 21-year-old virgin but I lived to tell this tale.
Within an hour, we were paraded at Thika Magistrate court with all sorts of accusations. I didn’t have a reflector jacket, no insurance, and my motorbike did not have indicators- who need’s those when you have two hands anyways? I made a vow not to call anyone to clear my bail set at 10K. I preferred to go to jail. After listening to a lot of 2-Pac and rocking my timberland boots for almost a year, I felt the need to let the streets bring me up. I needed to harden up a note more. I had survived the throes of Kiandutu Ghetto and still dated a peddler’s daughter. A little mishap with the cops was nothing to worry me.
At around 4:00 pm, I was the only one left in the cell after all mama boys called their families to get their bails cleared. I was willing to do time in prison than part with my hard-earned 10K. After a clouded envisioning of the events in jail, plus the free food inside, I decided to take the month in gaol. Some sort of a sabbatical I thought. Weuwe, even today I believe that was a bad move. Three days later, I was sent to Muranga prison to do a month.
If you think Evolution is the best car in acceleration, try a prison bus, that thing is in its league. After my sentence on Monday, I was on the bus on Tuesday morning, headed for Muranga Prison to do time. I could not help but see how free people looked at us with malice and despair as the bus cut its way past Thika, Delmonte, and made its way gracefully into Muranga.
Now, this is a trick. A secret I am divulging to you. When preparing to do time, always have some money. After my arrest, I managed to cut a section of my Ngotha and slip 1400 bob as my safety ticket once I met Otieno the bully and Karanja the murderer. At the gate, we were checked; the woman officer had a keen interest on our balls, carefully measuring their sizes. It was obvious that she was having a kick, watching shrank balls of incarcerated men as they made their way into isolation. After she had molested our pairs to her satisfaction, she escorted us to another lonely room. Now, this is the point you realize that you are a fugitive na Ndani sio kwa mama ya Mtu.
As I stood there shivering in my already oversize clothes, a cop appeared, dragging a car washing machine and gave us a pressurized bath; harder than life bullets. After molesting our balls enough, and making sure, our little babas shrank to oblivion, it was time to strip. Strip, bend over, and cough routine to confirm you didn’t stash a phone, drugs, or a razor blade up your bowels. Considering my height, the officer didn’t have to bend to confirm and I was done with. I survived and I was handed my uniform and the leg curfs removed, it was time to face prison. For a moment, I wished the option to pay the fine and go home to my Mama was still on the table.
Corruption is everywhere and money was very important. Our self-declared cell captain was Karanja who was doing time after sexually molesting his dad- I still don’t know how that happened but I didn’t ask because Karanja looked very practical and the last thing I needed was a muscle in my bowels. He compiled the house rules. The rule number one and the most important, was that the guy with the smallest dick was supposed to wash the toilets at all times. Rule number two, only guys with money could use the mattresses, and finally, all people with phones had to register their businesses with Karanja.
I still couldn’t get it when a guy took a bucket and pushed so hard you could have thought he is defecating a new constitution or the proposed IEBC dialogue. After thirty minutes of pushing and coughing, he retrieved a phone wrapped in black polythene paper. He unwrapped it and handed it over to Karanja for inspection.
I involuntarily pulled down my trousers, trying to reach for my money only to remember I left my underwear at the stripping room. Karanja ordered the new arrivals to stand there with their manhood protruding and gazing at him. He evaluated my balls with his obviously killer’s hands, and told me to stand aside. I didn’t know what he was exactly looking for but I came number three out of seven; I think the erections were very fair. Days passed slowly and I watched it all, but so you know, I only washed the toilets once.
I left the dungeon after 12 weeks and through presidential pardon. Long Live President KIbaki, you are obviously old and slow, but that day you came through for me.
This is why, when I sit across a table with a girl toying with the food I overpaid for, I feel insulted. When a Nigga tries to make me feel small, I have an insatiable urge to break his nose, because Kan is made from the molten leftovers of a crooked society. One day, maybe one day I will get over the quagmire, but as sure as hell, that day doesn’t seem to be forthcoming.
Yours Drunk and Retired Professor Kan.