One evening, as I walked down River Road, I spotted one of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen in my life. She was parading herself outside the corner house on the Luthuli Street and River Road junction, the famous brothel.
I stopped walking in awe of the stupendous display of her beauty. Men and women alike cast their eyes admirably as they walked past her. I could feel her presence, and the attention bestowed upon her by passersby bothered other hookers.
I turned and stared at my image on the wall mirror of the house I was standing next to, and turned and faced the girl, stared at my image in the mirror again and concluded, ‘not in a million chances was I charming that woman. She was too beautiful for me.’ As I prepared to walk away, Satan whispered into my ears, ‘but she is selling her body. How much could she possibly ask from you during this hard COVID-19 times?’
For once in my life, I thought Satan had a point. Here was a chance for me to bed the most beautiful girl I have ever seen, albeit on the streets. Even after making that choice to buy sex, I still had the burden of walking to her to negotiate. The streets were full of people moving with urgent haste to their matatu stages to go home.
COVID had happened, the Covid curfew was in position, meaning people were expected to be out of the CBD by 10 PM. This forced street hookers to start trading even during the day, at a time when men whose wives starved them were still within CDB.
I made up my mind to approach her. I walked towards her, ignoring all the ‘heys’, ‘twende?’, and other attention-seeking words from other hookers. They were dressed skimpily, in short skirts, dresses, and with small pushed-up bras that squeezed their tea teas and pushed them up. I ignored them all because my arrow at that time was only pointing at the one I wanted to eat.
However, when I got closer to her, I lost the courage to talk to her because I was scared people might be watching me. A few meters away, I stopped and started deliberating again. I watched her from a distance again, smiling and chatting animatedly with her friends. She was curvaceous, both on her body and when she moved her lips to smile or talk. I decided to give it a second go.
I readjusted my face mask to ensure no one would be able to recognize me, in case someone would try to. Luckily, she walked through the brothel’s door into the brothel. That was bingo. That way, it would be easy to negotiate in the dark corridors of the brothel without people’s eyes spying on us. I hurried, half-walking-half-dashing, towards the brothel.
I entered the brothel after shoving off several hookers trying to get my attention again.
I walked a few steps into the brothel only to find another man chatting to her. I was stung with a pinch of anger, jealousy, and rues at the missed chance to negotiate with her sooner. I should have approached her the first time I had the chance to.
I stood, angry, and contemplated whether I should wait for her or walk away. The knowledge of witnessing another man take her to bed discouraged me. I knew she was a hooker, but seeing her in the hands of another man changed my mind.
While I was deep into my diabolic rueful thoughts, a heavy arm wound up around my shoulders. Then I heard, ‘si twende dzaddy’. Her voice was rough. She was chewing miraa louder and violently with her lips wide open and at the same time talking to me. The splatter from her mouth was disgusting. She was disgusting more because she was blocking the view of the girl’s behind as the man took her away.
I declined her initial offer, ‘nitakupea vizuri, sweetheart,’ she wooed me. Her breath smelled like a cocktail of cheap alcohol and fermented miraa chlorophyll. She was wearing a cheap perfume that smelled like someone’s toilet’s air freshener.
Unprovoked, she grabbed my hand and placed it on one of her breasts that haphazardly lay outside the caps of her bra. Her nipples were long, dark, and shriveled. She probably forgot to cap them back after servicing her previous customer. Still, I said no. No amount of persuading would change my mind.
My mind was still on the young beauty that was vanishing yonder, in the presence of a midlife man in a marital midlife crisis with his wife.
As if forcing me to touch her wasn’t assault enough, she pulled her short skirt up, squatted down, and spread her legs to show me her coochie. I took one or two or more looks at what she displayed on my face to woo me. I saw a white precipitate, literally trickle down her vagina. I felt nauseous. I have never seen another man’s cum. I didn’t know what other gay stunt she was going to pull to convince me to bed her for money. I said no, again, and turned to walk away.
‘Sweetheart, nitakufanyia nusu ya bei.’ I walked on, ignoring her. ‘Sweetie, si naona umesimanisha?’
‘Sijasimamishia wewe,’ I said.
‘Kwenda uko, unaringa na una sura mbaya. Huyo demu ni malaya lakini hangekukubali juu ya sura yako.’ Of all the languages in the world, she chose to speak violence. I ignored her and kept on walking away. She walked after me with a charged tone. ‘Kwani yake iko na gorofa, ama huwa anamwaga vanilla ama strawberry?”
‘Iko na kachumbari,’ I joked. This only infuriated her more. She kept on hurling unpalatable and uncouth words towards me. She followed me, until another man came into her vicinity, prompting her to change her tone, and try to sweet-talk him.
I walked out with regrets. The whole thing was regretful, I thought. I felt contrite. Guilt was choking me up. I risked a lot while pursuing bodily gratification. Standing at that door, my bulge had died, I started using my brain again and thought to myself, ‘she is not even more beautiful than my girlfriend.’
I felt like the entire Nairobi would be standing outside the door to drag me in shame with their judgmental eyes. Walking out of a brothel felt like a walk of shame. Still at the door, I looked left to ensure there were no muggers along River Road, I looked right to ensure there were no people who would force me to buy stolen or fake phones along Luthuli Streets.
When I was assured to come out, I landed straight into the long arm of the government. A man in a police uniform was standing there looking at me. I froze from the sight of a gun muzzle pointing at my heart. My heart raced and pounded faster.
As I wondered why the mean-looking sleuth was staring at me, he cuffed one of my hands while he held the other side of the handcuff. He did not say a word or even remind me that I had a right to remain silent. He dragged me across Luthuli Street towards Munyu Street.
‘Prostitution is illegal in Kenya,’ he announced my crimes eventually, slightly louder for everyone who cared to listen.
‘Me, No.’ I declined. You should have seen how I decline with vehement like I had never heard the word prostitution.
‘I watched you eye that hooker, size her up, exchange eye contact, and then walk after her into the brothel,’ his voice was louder. I wanted to ask him to tone down. People were staring at us.
‘Afande. I have barely been 2 minutes into that building,’ I argued.
‘2 minutes is all that some men like you need to finish their business, as brief as a roster on a hen.’ I saw some women who had heard that troll giggle. I was not in the business of discussing my sex timestamp with a fellow man. So I kept quiet.
After a few meters along Munyu Road, he asked me why I chose to do prostitution. I said nothing. There was no need to negotiate with a police officer who had already pronounced your crime.
‘I am talking to you, young man. Talk back.’
‘Afande, let us go back ata and asked the girl. Nothing happened.’
‘Are you saying that a police officer is wrong, young man?’
Scared, intimidated, and desperate, I replied, ‘I am not saying you are wrong, Afande, but…’
‘Well, that is all I wanted to hear. I am not wrong.’
‘But, Afande, we can go…’
‘Shut up, young man. Don’t talk to a police officer when he is talking to you. It is rude.’ He announced. ‘Are you rude?’ He asked. I didn’t reply to him immediately because, at that time, I was confused about whether I should talk back to him or not.
‘Do you know the Kenyan constitution very well? The punishment for prostitution is 4 years in jail or bail of over a million,’ he announced louder again for everyone to know that I had been caught doing prostitution. ‘Umalaya ni haramu.’ Until that time, everyone along Munyu Street was aware of the reason I was arrested. Thank God I had a mask on.
‘Tunaeza ongea afande?’ I asked. At that moment, there was no way I was getting out of his hook unless I negotiated for cash bail.
‘50K cash bail,’ he eventually reduced his tone. ‘Or you will spend the night in the cell and be arraigned in court tomorrow to face prostitution charges.’ He asked me what I did for a living. ‘An author,’ I said. I wish I lied about it. It placed me in a disadvantaged position when negotiating. We meet up with another group of people who had been arrested as well, around 4 of them. They were being manned by a female police officer.
The afande asked her to release them because he had arrested a big fish, an author. How I wish Satan would have told them that I was a struggling author who forced Kenyans to buy my books.
What followed was a long, tedious negotiation game. I tried to convince the afande that I was broke. He didn’t believe me. He requested me to show him my M-Pesa balance, M-swari, and Fuliza limit. I showed him all, and even the text from Safaricom that prohibited me from borrowing more credit airtime because I had failed to repay my 50 bob okoa jahazi on time.
He took me through the darker sides of Nairobi, places I had never known they exited in Nairobi. There were more hookers on those sides. They were rougher and sometimes tried to force passersby to buy what they were selling.
I wondered why the officers were not arresting the ladies and only the men. Weren’t they doing prostitution in the police officers’ glaring eyes? On those sides of Kamukunji, people were being mugged in dark alleys while the police officer and I walked by. We were too engrossed in our negotiation to help them. It was around 7:30 at that time.
At that point, I had convinced the police that I was poor. I even asked him if he had ever heard my name, as he had heard about Ngugi wa Thiong’o. ‘Ask anyone if they have ever heard an author named Ongoma Sakwah. People only buy books from authors that they know.’He asked me to ask for help from family and friends. He was now willing to take 8k as cash bail, down from 50k.
I scrolled down on my phonebook and called poor friends, whom I knew could not raise such an amount instantly. All these, to convince the officer that I was poor, and so were my friends, you know, show me your friends and I will tell you who you are. Most of them promised to manage only 300 or less, and they needed time to borrow the money elsewhere as well. It all played according to my plan.
Eventually, the officer gave up and said, ‘siezi fika chini ya 3000.’ At that point, we were inside the Kamukunji police station. He asked the madam on the counter not to book my name yet because I was raising bail. I still wanted more time to reduce it to at least 500 from 50,000. He was frustrated. He regretted releasing the others whom he had arrested. ‘You gave me the impression, based on how you were dressed and occupation, that you could raise more money, forcing me to release other criminals. Bwana, just borrow money, call everyone on your phone.’
He asked me to walk into a chamber between the reception and the cell, where people changed and left their valuables before being locked away. I was still negotiating with my poor friends. After 5 minutes, the officer walked into the chamber and asked me how much I had raised. ‘400,’ I said.
‘Jaribu ifike 1000,’ he said, almost giving up on me. I knew it was going down. While we were still negotiating, we heard an altercation coming from the door that led into the cell side. I cast my eyes on that location, and there and then, I saw a man escalate an argument with a police officer. The officer pushed the man, he turned and punch him. The officer stumbled back until the wall rescued him from hitting the ground.
The man had red eyes, dark large lips, and unkempt beards. He was wearing a loose torn vest. ‘Tuheshimiane bwana vile tumeheshimiana siku zote,’ he told the officer.
I have never seen something as horrifying as that. The afande saw the horror on my face and thought he could cash on it. ‘Mabusu tu kaa hao ndio wako huko ndani,’ he threatened. ‘Huku Kamukunji ni cell ya hardcore criminals from Nairobi downtown.’ I could not imagine spending a night in a police cell with a remandee with the audacity to fight a police officer. Other police officers come to the police officer’s aid. They manhandle the violent remandee and forced him into a cell.
‘The cash bail is now back to 8K or I will lock you in the same cells as the man who has fought police,’ the afande said. ‘He loves it when he has someone freshly arrested to spend the night with him.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘Si you were looking for sex? There is plenty of it inside these cells.’ I wanted to scream and ask him not to say that. That is not the type of sex I was looking for.
‘Afande, book huyu anadhani tunacheza hapa.’ The scenes of the Nairobi Halflife movie played in my head.
‘Ngoja ngoja, one minute. Just give me one minute,’ I requested. The afande stopped and pulled a smile. It took me just one minute to call two able friends to raise 8k. The officer had the last laugh.
He walked me from the cell, offering me security along Kamukunji’s dark alleys back into the CDB. We became friends, albeit for a short while. Along the way, I asked him if he had a sister that I could date, jokingly. ‘You know, to avoid getting arrested for prostitution again.’ He gave me a number. I called the number when I got home. A lady received and said, ‘hello, hapa ni DCI headquarters fichua uhalifu offices. Would you like to report a crime?’
F
