Well, we know his name is Trevor. And that he has a goatee and a clean-shaven head, the sort of look that makes a man seem like he knows things most people don't. From the way my Uber driver describes him, Trevor is an addict. An alcoholic.
Trevor is in jail. He has been there since Friday. From what I've been able to piece together, he was arrested for drunk driving and a hit-and-run. He must have been a little tipsy when he knocked someone down along Thika Road, spilling his brains across the wet tarmac on a rainy night.
The incident brought him straight back to sobriety. Suddenly the windscreen wasn't so foggy or wet, and neither was his head. He was clear-headed. He'd killed someone. It doesn't get more serious than that.
He sped off, the woman in the back seat screaming her lungs out. She was panicking, crying, screaming. Amidst the wails she called her friend. Trevor, equally unsure of what to do beyond keeping his foot pressed against the accelerator until something forcefully stopped them, cancelled the trip on his phone and told the woman to shuka!
“Nishuke aje na unaenda hivi mbio?” she hissed. “Unataka kuniua mimi pia?”
Trevor found the next exit, stopped the car and opened her door. It was dark. She had no idea where she was. All she could see were apartments and the endless stream of cars on Thika Road.
“Sijui hapa ni wapi!”
“Shauri yako. TOKAA!” He was at boiling point now.
He pulled her out of the back seat. Her tears came freely now, as freely as the sweat on his brow. He was panicking. He sped back onto Thika Road and disappeared into the flow of cars.
We're nearing Farasi Lane now, just past Zen Garden. Lower Kabete is beautiful. You catch a glimpse of that beauty along the road leading to UoN. Beneath the trees and the splendid gate lights lie wealth, tranquillity and anonymity. The rich love their peace. Their quiet.
It is a late night in February. I am in an Uber from Westlands, returning from watching Crime 101. Terrible movie. Wouldn't recommend it. My Uber guy is the spitting image of Nyashinski. The dreads, the voice, the height. It's bewildering. I almost broke into a fanboy frenzy before I picked up my manners from the floor. He's a cool guy, as I'd imagine Nyash to be. That sounds weird. Oh my Gen Z mind! He's as cool as I'd imagine Nyashinski would be. There, happy now?
He didn't say much when I got in. He was already on the phone with someone, talking about Trevor. I'm not one to eavesdrop or make conversation. I like my rides silent, with me staring out at the beautiful trees lining the road. I look at the mansions and villas hugging the road and wonder what these niggas did to deserve living here while I live farther down the block, where trees are felled daily to make room for ugly high-rise apartments. Meanwhile they get to live among trees and rivers that cloak their lives in mystery and tranquility.
But for this one I had to eavesdrop. All my friends who've been to jail and back never tell me anything. They just ask for bail money, then return to their usual frivolities. An inside look into Trevor's weekend might tell me something I didn't already know.
The Uber guy (the app identified him as John) says to someone on the phone that Trevor was caught near Thika. He must not have planned to stop. But there were plenty of eyewitnesses. They'd captured his number plates, even in the dark. People have their phones out all the time nowadays.
He'd been arrested at around midnight on Friday and taken to Thika Police Station. That was last night. Despite the shortcomings of our justice system, he'd been allowed to call at least one person. He called John.
John must be a solid guy. He looks like one. An honest man who does his work, probably goes home to his wife and kids, pays his taxes, and keeps his head down, no matter how cruel and corrupt Caesar can be.
John is now narrating all this to his fellow Uber drivers. He's made three calls since we left Sarit. They must have a WhatsApp group where they look out for one another. In this industry, in any industry really, you need people who have your back. You can't always, if ever, depend on Atwoli and co to fight for your collective rights.
Everyone was up to the task of raising the bail money and sorting this thing out. Otherwise Trevor would be in for a long stay. It was cute, to me. Like a chama, but for men. Trevor was probably sitting in his jail cell, shitting his pants, very much sober now. All he had were his shit-stained clothes and the hope that his friends would prove to be friends indeed.
I've never been to jail. I don't plan to. In some circles it is a rite of passage, much like Orengo and Baba's circle. They've been through tough times together, been to jail together. If you walked into their circle claiming to be a tough guy who'd never been to jail, you'd be laughed at. It's as the Luos say: “If you haven't cried from teargas, are you really Luo?”
The OCS at the station wanted something to grease his palms, obviously. He said he didn't want the matter to escalate, claiming that the family of the man Trevor had run over was already at the police station in Muthaiga, near the scene of the crime. He said Trevor could be out by midday the next day, Sunday, and that he would tell the family nobody had captured the perpetrator's number plates.
He wanted 100,000 Kenyatta shillings. Cash. No M-Pesa. No bank transfer. John and his friends said that was too much for them. The OCS dropped the figure to 70,000, explaining that this was a murder case. It wasn't something that could be erased from the books so easily.
John said he'd call him back.
He called a practicing lawyer within their circle of friends. It's always good to know a lawyer.
The lawyer said there wasn't much he could do if Trevor's number plates had been used as evidence.
When John called the OCS again he was told the matter had reached the OCPD. This was barely minutes after the OCS had made his final offer. Now the OCS claimed the OCPD wanted something too. The group was to report to the station on Monday to clear things up.
My ride ended before I could learn Trevor's fate. Disappointed.
Now John is stressed.
Trevor is stressed.
And I'm lost for words on how to tell John that I have a discount on my ride tonight.
Reagan..✍🏽
