When we left each other here the other week, the entire Mwisho wa Lami was preparing for my dowry negotiations at Fiolina’s home. I say the entire Mwisho wa Lami because by then the event had ceased to be my affair. It had become a community project. As for me, I had reservations.
Not about Fiolina. Fiolina is a wonderful woman—the laugh of my life. If anything, she is one of the few sane people I know. My concern was the financial implications of the exercise. Every time somebody mentioned dowry negotiations, I would see cows, goats, sheep, envelopes, transport costs, fuel, food, and miscellaneous expenses marching before my eyes like a military parade. The people around me, however, were excited. Very excited.
Too excited. As you know, Apostle Elkana Hitler had already declared himself the leader of the delegation. He had organised prayer sessions and fasting schedules despite nobody asking him to do so. My father, too, had appointed Alphayo as the head of the delegation, and while I did not want to get involved and make decisions, I somehow knew the matter would resolve itself on D-day, one way or another.
So when we had an incident at school, where the staffroom almost got burned—were it not for my foresight and bravery—I somehow thought the dowry matter would die down. It did not. There was a pause for one day, and the next day it was once again the talk of the town.
“Now that the school is closed, Dre has more time to plan for the dowry trip,” Caro, Mwisho wa Lami’s Minister for Misinformation, told everyone she met, including trees. “He has asked me to tell you…”
She did not even consult me. In the meantime, Fiolina had travelled to her home, where she started nagging me.
“It is two days to the event, and you haven’t sent any money. How will we do the tents, the banners, the food, the sodas?” she texted.
I told her what I had told her earlier: I had no money. She then told me she would borrow some money to start preparations, but I would have to pay later.
“Wacha nikufiche uchi ,” she said.
Deep down, I was thinking of how I would avoid going, but the more we approached the day, the more it seemed I could not scuttle it. Saphire, as you know, had been arrested over the attempted burning of the school. I went to visit him. He was not in good shape. As I left, I asked to see the OCS.
“Afande, I have a special task for you,” I said. I then briefed him on the plans.
Come Saturday morning, everyone was looking forward to the dowry negotiations. As tradition demands, we were supposed to leave from my father’s home. I arrived there to find so many people, all well-dressed, some expecting me to reimburse them for the money they had spent on shoes and new clothes. Good luck to them!
“We cannot walk to Fiolina’s place, it is far,” said my father, asking if I had made transport arrangements. I had not.
He did not need a calculator to know that. He then took his phone and called Maina, who runs a matatu business.
“Can you send me a van? We have some urgent work. You will take us somewhere and come for us in the evening.”
“Don’t worry, my son will pay you,” my father added.
Maina called me, but I did not pick. My father kept calling him. He arrived at around 8:30 am. People were taking breakfast when he switched on the engine and started revving the vehicle, causing everyone to rush inside for fear of being left behind.
At exactly 8:57am, my salvation arrived.
A police Land Cruiser drove into my father’s compound, stopping dramatically. The people of Mwisho wa Lami are not friendly with the police, so many of them tried to escape—some ran, others hid in houses. In Mwisho wa Lami, when people see police, they assume guilt until proven otherwise.
Two officers stepped out, brandishing guns. Then the OCS emerged.
“You are under arrest,” he said, grabbing me.
“Utasema hiyo mbele ya court,” he replied, as I was literally pushed into the Land Cruiser.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked. I told them I wanted to speak to Maina, the driver.
“Do not go for those trips unless you have been paid,” I warned him. “I will not pay you a cent!”
The Land Cruiser drove off, leaving a cloud of dust behind.
I was not taken to the police post immediately. We parked near the market. A few traders watched as Maina’s van arrived. It was empty, meaning the trip was cancelled—just as I wanted. We then went into the police station. I was not taken to the cells but to the OCS’s office, where I was made comfortable. The only thing he asked me was to switch off my phone completely.
At around 1 pm, I heard commotion outside.
Fiolina, my father, Nzomo, and Lena had arrived at the police post asking for my release.
“It is Dre’s big day, and you have ruined his future,” added Pius, who had travelled that morning.
My father and Fiolina pleaded, but nobody listened to them. Fiolina asked if she could bring me food in the evening, and she was allowed—but she was not allowed to see me that day.
The next morning, she was allowed to see me. I came out looking weak, tired, hungry, and frail. I was released in the afternoon on Sunday. My father, my brother Pius, and Fiolina, the laugh of my life, are the people who come to pick me. We went home without talking. At home, I showered, ate dinner, and went to sleep, talking to no one. Fiolina and my father were relieved.
Since then, no one has talked about the dowry negotiations. I know Fiolina’s family will bring up the matter later, but for now, I am happy nobody is talking about it.
To execute the whole plan, I had to give the OCS something. I would later learn that the OCS also took some money from Fiolina’s and my father. I wanted to complain that he had played us, but remembering what he saved me from, I had no problem.
I will not talk about dowry for at least the next foreseeable days. And nobody will ask me to refund them anything!
