Snapshots: Cops are just thugs in uniform

By Edwin Herenga | 7yrs ago | 3 min read

They say it’s hell when the English are chefs, the Kenyans are police, the French are engineers, the Swiss are lovers and the Italians are bankers.

Most Kenyan policemen (and women) are fat, which means you’re much more likely to get shot if you run – the lads are too heavy.

If you are a Kenyan, make it a habit to suppress any feeble desire to threaten security by attempting to run from a fat cop.

Our policemen are cowardly, always armed with a gun, and most likely have three ex-wives. If you doubt, then you have not been following the police vetting exercise. Yes, if it is not about irregularity in their M-Pesa transactions, facilitation fees and academic qualifications, then it’s about mysterious millions stashed in their bank accounts.

There is something about the State putting the power to bully into the hands of subnormal, sadistic men that make my blood boil.

I recently had a catastrophic experience, which in retrospect, just proves that cops and robbers in Kenya are alike. I was at the ‘Machakos Airport’ bus station in Nairobi to pick a relative who was travelling from the village. It was around 11pm, that time of the night when people who relieve others of their money with guns or knives thrive.

So, this young man, pretending to be a bus conductor, approached me and struck a conversation. He looked shabby, but I didn’t mind small company. Who knows, he could be Angel Gabriel himself testing my faith.

“Are you travelling somewhere,” he asked. “No. I’m actually here to pick a friend travelling from upcountry,” I replied. He realised that I was not giving him much attention, so he walked to a nearby kiosk and asked for a cigarette. I had no idea I was about to be robbed.

I had my small expensive gadget in my hand, which was going to change ownership soon. The guy looked around, and then approached me wearing a different face. He demanded that I hand him the phone, and some money for weed. Imagine. Of course I declined, at first, but gave him the damn phone after he brandished a gun or something that looked like one – it could have been a toy gun, but I had no intention of finding out.

The thug then walked away, shamelessly. Two minutes later, I see this cop, so I approach him, narrated my predicament then asked for his help. Interestingly, the officer looked into my eyes, and decided that I had the DNA of a hardened criminal.

My bloodshot eyes seemed to annoy him most. I was made aware of the fact that the officers were on my trail, and that it was stupid of me to try to confuse a law enforcing agent on patrol with intention to rob him of his gun. That was suicide, I was warned.

Young man, we have information about your activities, and we are going to deal with you. Sadly, I had left the house in a huff, and forgot my wallet, which had my identification documents. I had a difficult time trying to convince the officer that I was a law abiding citizen, a scribe to be precise.

That part about having loads of information about me was a lie; I mean, reading isn’t an occupation that is encouraged among Kenyan police officers! They try to keep the paperwork down to a minimum.

The more I tried to reason with him, the more he got angry. I had to walk away to avoid that hot slap they like unleashing.