When I inform my dad of the catastrophe on my table  at  5:00 AM Thursday, December 13; stupidly, it felt like I was excruciatingly drilling some rusty iron nail inside some fresh wound. It is now 9:00 AM and I am busy fondling with my pen amid cuffed wrists.
Skillfully, I am to scribble some paragraphs in the name of a police statement inside Mtwapa police station off Posta, adjacent to Kendas arcade bar and restaurant.
Duly, I am to stand as a witness to an already perpetrated murder that has befallen the small city just few hours shy of present time. But we all know this is just but some tantrum tale.
We don’t have phones to offer criminals. Find how you shall communicate to whomever that is entitled to save you from this mess. My phone is specifically vital for making cash. Cash and nothing shorter… Nothing more than that ‘kijana’, young man,” one detective blurts before my face with a peculiar smile that reveals clefts at both sides of his mouth.
A murder has just been orchestrated at around 3:00 PM. My close ally is dead and I am still trying to come to terms with this. Nothing adds up at the moment. One minute enjoying what I thought was some sweet life, the other, I am ideally inside a dungeon in a police post. I had been found in the crime scene,I just can’t go Scott free. Not when the police lack a prime suspect to lay the blame upon.
The detectives present at the time I walked in, side to side with my closest friend assure us that we won’t leave soon. Not as soon as we think. Not just yet. I am in the company of Salo Ahmed my fellow criminal friend.
The former signs off as C.E.O Delian Beauty Spa, employer to the female  victim whose sudden demise has caused me multiple problems. “Why should they have me. Why do they have me? Let us start with this point.  Why me? Why my longtime friend? I think madness is queerly catching up with me. Exquisite insanity… If not this; then its a nightmare in the morning …
An innocent body, stabbed severally beneath the torso, neck and rib area surprisingly lies at Jocham hospital,mortuary wing. The remains of a one Miss. Lillie Grafi Sandile. A businesswoman dealing with interior design.
It is exactly 9:15 AM when I finally work out the nerve to inform my dad of the unimaginable unfolding. At such a time of the day, presumably he is relaxed, fed and well stretched in the  vinyl recliner in the TV nook.
Being a stickler of my mantra ” only seek help when in absolute need of it,” calling my papa meant I had devoured every other possible alternative in a much simpler bid to whisk myself free from such a pulsating predicament. All my efforts albeit did hit a hard unbelievable snag.
So I am in police custody. Lillie had a scuffle with his fiancee Bingo. A domestic squabble that tumultuously resorted to death of the former. Later followed by suicide of the latter.
Being quicker to react as compared to the Kenyan police, my close acquaintance ,Mdipa, who also bloodily bonds with me as my elder brother tried all we could at our disposal to cover the ditches of wounds that scattered left, right, centre. Almost every tangible part of Bingo’s resting body. Who in today’s world has courage enough to stub themselves? Not once but almost 30 times without ounces of pain whatsoever? Not me… I do firmly believe not you too.
The sorry lad was still in position to speak as at 4:40AM. His final words were a telephone conversation with his mum; urging her to cry not, for he is still much alive and kicking. Though shamefully injured.
Efforts to cover his wounds using our own t -shirts was probably the most selfless gesture we have ever done. An ambulance arrived at the place. Step in flats, Mtwapa. Hardly had it parked when the famous blue pick – up noses its way into the crime scene. We cannot believe our eyes.
Curious onlookers are struggling to defend us. Our parents are awake sobbing hard to soak their clothes in tears. Neighbors adjacent to room 56, the exact spot of crime perpetration are fugitively siding with us.
“The guy who killed the lady has also murdered himself. The boys were only but trying to salvage what was left of the two  lives. They are as innocent as you police officers always assume your arrogant selves to be, let the boys be,” a woman amidst the slowly growing crowd spitefully reiterates.
But not even the still air’s pleas to defend us are worth a dime. Nothing at this point is worth hearing, listening nor heeding to. We are doomed!
We are currently busy working out our years in some correctional centre. Shimo – LA – Tewa main prison. Charged with 3 counts of crime touching on manslaughter, our prayer remains on expecting somebody is going to somehow intervene. But who is this somebody? How should they even ostensibly intervene?
Our parents followed closely the court proceedings inside the Mombasa law courts in between shaky tears. They think that they have failed to protect their own family. Their own children. I can fondly reminisce on my mum’s heartache, my pap’s bitter sweetness – that his two brave masculine sons met the penal institution and not death itself, in 3D, full swing and serious realism.
“Whoooooooaaaa! Ola boys, anybody wants to dine with me tonight?” I am awfully claded to kill in my new pair of zebra stripped convict overall as I cheekily seek response from my new colleagues with ideal enthusiasm.
I enter the dinning hall that feeds close to 10,000 inmates daily. The room retorts back with an echo and subtle quietness. My brother follows  closely  behind  as we sensitively look at the life – fatigued inmates to avoid a night’s scuffle. They greet my passion with labored sighs and vacant stares.
I am surprised not… One Mr. Peter Harry Njuguna a prison warden at King’orani prison. Growing up, he has unleashed a number of  stomach – butterflied experiences of how penal institutions could be unprecedented, lethargic and improbable.
“QUINCY KOMBE THUO, STANISLAUS NJUGUNA THUO, kindly march towards the waiting bay, some visitors are here for you” ” Make it quick boys. This ain’t home,” an ugly voice irritates our eardrums as the sluggard’s right arm buffets me. I spiritedly peer into his eyes, unleashing my most evil eye to this coward of an officer.
“I’ll come straight for this arrogant guy soon I am out of this sulky place. Just as he’s made my stay here a mayhem, I shall forget not to make his sojourn on earth resemble 5 minutes in hellfire,” I soliloquy as I swiftly comply to walk towards the glass – architecture, visitors’ waiting bay.
My big brother cannot stop tears rolling tenderly down his sorry cheeks  soon as he sets sight on our biological parents. I am strong enough to hold back my solemn mood and preserve tears for the saddening situation back at Shimo LA Tewa main.
We are to remain constrained on freedom for a period of 20 years each.
However, I will not let my history determine the future I am to live. I am very opposite and in contradicting opinion to James Baldwin’s  hypothesized mantra that postulates people are trapped in history and history trapped in them.
Next time, I really really ought to be at the right place, in the right time, doing the right act. So should every other individual scared of a prison hiatus.


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