Is it news when a dog bites a newsman?

Many happy years of my youth were spent in Embu County, and that included the years I spent in high school. Thus, I did not expect anything untoward when I made a visit to Embu town some years later as a cub reporter.

Along with a colleague, I was a guest of the man reputed at the time to be the wealthiest person in the county, known then as a district. Mugo Mistri, who died in a road accident, some years ago was an interesting person to observe.

He carried himself with some airs and had an accent even when speaking in Kiembu, his mother tongue.

He was one of a handful of men who, it was claimed, “owned” Embu town. He looked the part, and in public was an impeccable dresser, always in a spotless shirt, suit and tie — and did not entertain nonsense from the hoi polloi.

We were guests at Kubukubu, one of his hotels in the town and no effort was spared to ensure that we enjoyed the comforts such a host could offer.

He was enjoying expensive wine and we drank our fill of the frothy stuff besides gorging on succulent fried and roast meat.

“Kavi,” he instructed his son Kaviu when time came for him to retire for the night, “ensure that our young guests lack for nothing.” The festivities continued up to the legal closing time at 11pm when my colleague and I decided to sample what Embu nightlife had to offer.

In those days, Embu was a fairly small town, boasting only a nightclub, Rupingazi, and from my earlier experience I determined that there was little to fear by way of muggers.

So I felt it was safe to walk.

We were walking up a street past the old dusty bus stop when some shadowy figures emerged from the direction of the poorly-lit bus park and a voice ordered us to raise our hands and approach.

I was sufficiently fortified with Dutch courage to defy what I considered an unreasonable order.

Instead, I told the owner of the voice to come out if he wished to talk to us. It turned out that they were two police officers with a dog on a leash. They were angry because they could not understand how a couple of lowly civilians could defy their order. The dog handler, who looked drunk and angrier than his companion, ordered us to continue walking and to ensure that I complied, loosened his hold on the beast.

It promptly hurled itself at my backside and not only tore my trousers, but sunk its teeth in to my backside as well.

When I yelped in pain and announced that I had been bitten, a surprising change came over the two officers when they realised that I was saying the truth.

The less aggressive one was apologetic, especially when we explained that we were not just journalists, but guests of the town’s most influential man.

They offered to take us back to our hotel and, surprise, surprise, the less belligerent one asked for my trousers to have them patched up.

REPORT TO OCPD

At the hotel, it was decided that it would be unsafe to sleep with an untreated wound, so we called an ambulance to take me to hospital.

The call was intercepted by the police. When I explained what had happened, the officer who answered first denied that any officer could set a trained dog on an unarmed person.

Anyway, a police ambulance soon arrived to take me to hospital for a jab. Then I was asked to report to the OCPD in the morning.

At the police station, one of the men had delivered my pants, the brutes of the night before had undergone transformation and we found meek, penitent men who tried to bribe me with half a loaf of bread and a soda.

One piteously pleaded with me to consider, when I met the OCPD that he had a young family and was the only bread winner.

So touched was I that when the OCPD asked what I wished done with the two men — they could be sacked, I was told — I decided to forgive them.