I went down to the police station to meet the harsh-sounding police officer Mbui Mawangi at her desk, seething with anger at the shabby way Fatma was exacting vengeance on me for letting her husband know where she was.
And now, humiliated that his wife had slept over at my crib, Mr. Mahmoud had collaborated her fake story, never mind that it was he who had given her the eye ‘shiners’ in the first place.
Cop Mbui turned out to be a well-fed woman, who got straight to the point.
“Mike Safara, you have been reported for the assault of Mrs. Fatma Nunez …”
“I swear I did not touch her,” I said. “I just gave her a place to stay overnight.”
“I will arrest you then you can tell that to the judge,” she snarled. “Do you know the sentence for your action? At least three years behind bars, Bwana Safara …”
I pictured myself rotting away in Kamiti until the next General Elections, as Officer Mbui put cold cuffs on my wrists; and remembered how I had briefly been arrested in Lagos nine months ago.
Was my life as a hustler destined for me to end up in prison, for things I hadn’t done?
A softer, more pleasant voice broke into my thoughts. It was a skinny, tallish police officer, who sat beside me and said: “Hello. I am officer Dama Munto.”
“You know you girls are arresting an innocent man, right?” I said.
“That’s not for me to judge,” Munto said, moving closer to me. Then in that soft tone: “Look, Mike, I think we can make all this go away, if you compensate the victim.”
“So I compensate myself, Damaris?”
“If I was looking at three years behind bars, Mike, I don’t think I’d be joking.”
Humour, even gallows’ humour, is my ‘go to way’ for dealing with extreme stress.
This Safara had exactly Sh30,000 on Mpesa between now and end month, so I shook my head slowly. “Fatma is extorting me for cash that I do not have, Munto.”
“But you have three years to spend in Kamiti?” Cop Mawangi piped up from behind her desk. “Damaris, open those pingu and release this Mike Safara.”
“Bwana Safara,” Cop Mbui said as I rubbed my wrists, “It is Saturday. I am giving you until Monday, 9am, to come back here with a plan on how you pay 300K. If not, tutakusaka, tutakunasa, tutakufungia ndani …”
“You should get a shave,” Cop Dama whispered as she escorted me to the gate. “Unaeza kaa mu handsome sana.”
“I will save my money and wait for the free government shave when I go to prison,” I said, leaving her cracking up even if it was no laughing matter.
Immediately, she and her salon girls launched into the story of the ‘Fatma’ woman I had brought to make her hair there the day before, whose hubby had beaten her.
“She told you that?” I said, barely breathing, as I surreptitiously pressed ‘record’ on my mobile phone.
“Alisema alitoka Mombasa na wewe kutoka biz trip,” one of the girls said excitedly. “Hubby wake Mahmoud akampiga akapata black eyes, alafu ukam-shelter kwa nyumba yako. Wueh, ati ana-ku-like wewe ni gentleman ata haukuomba goodies.”
Within minutes of leaving the salon, I had called Cop Dama Munto who sounded happy to hear from me: “Hi, handsome. Ni Sato. Is it a date you want to take me?”
Oh, these brave, new young millennial/ Gen Z cops!!
“I want you to take a message to your senior, Madam Mawangi. Mwambie hakuna case ya Fatma Nunez hapo! Silipi!”
Two seconds later, a furious Mbui was on the phone.
“Bring yourself back to the station, Mike. I am arresting you.”
“You won’t arrest or extort me in cahoots with that crazy Nunez, Ms Mbui,” I snapped. “I am sending you a recording I just made that collaborates my story. It also exonerates me, if you know what that means in English. If you threaten me again, I swear I will report you to IPOA (Independent Police Oversight Authority).”
Then a slightly Brit lilt to the voice: “Jambo Bwana. Uko poa? My name is Angel ‘Ota’ Madoa, the influencer and musician; and a mutual friend told me you are an entertainment manager. Do you always scream at your clients like that, Michael?”
“Not at all, Angel. I was shouting at an events’ organiser who is trying to rip us off!”
