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The masked affair: My night with Nairobi robbers- Confessions of taxi driver

My Man

Alright. I feel like I have been teasing you with this robbery for a while now, but I figured it is imperative to highlight the pre-robbery stage. I mean, I am a taxi driver on his last day on the job before clocking out on a long awaited paternity leave. I don’t do robberies unless three people wielding guns jack my car with me in it and order me to commit a robbery with them. Which believe me or not, doesn’t happen often.

Now that you are all caught up, let’s get to it, shall we? The one-armed gunman beside me, who I also imagine is their leader, puts on a mask that looks a lot like one of the politicians constantly on TV lately. The man with the bass has a mask on that looks like Robert Mugabe and the lady’s mask looks like Ivana Trump.

“How do we look?” The leader asks, turning to face me.

“Like thieves.” I reply my eyes trained on the blue gate before me. From the opposite direction comes a shiny red Mercedes. One of the older models which still manage to look elegant and sleek in old age. Behind the wheel is a long-haired, middle-aged Indian.

“That’s the point.”

“If we had a mask for you,” the lady behind me quips leaning closer to me, “It’d look like Michael Jackson. But you’re the pawn in this game. So you’re going in unmasked.”

“What do you mean I’m going in?” I want to face her but her warm palm rests on the side of my head, forcing me to face forward.

“Exactly that. You will do all the talking; we’ll do all the money grabbing.” She scoffs and adds when I show a little resistance, “Don’t make me delve into the gory details of what will happen to you if you make me repeat myself.”

The man with the bass places a wooden pistol on my lap. I know nothing about guns, but even I can tell that it is as fake as they come. Then he shoves me. “Move.”

I can’t breathe. I can’t focus. Another shove. Another order. “Move! Come on!”

I push the fake gun away from me and it falls with a thud on the floor. I am not committing robbery with a fake gun. My sweaty palms grip the door handle and I find myself on my feet outside the car, facing the red Mercedes. Something hard prods my lower back. It is the lady’s gun. She is walking behind me, persuading me with her weapon.

“Just relax. It is just a robbery.”

As if 'just a robbery' is a routine task like brushing my teeth.

The Indian has the driver’s window down and he doesn’t notice our approach until we are standing beside his car. Me and the lady are on the driver’s side. The bass man and the one armed one are on the passenger side.

“Excuse me sir,” I can barely recognise my voice.

“What?” he asks, barely looking at me. Big mistake. If he had glanced at me, he’d have noticed the fear on my face.

“Erm, could we have the money in your car please?” A huge gulp goes down my throat. Please say yes.

I want this to end as quickly as possible.

“What? Are you crazy?” He looks at me, at the lady beside me and at the two guys on the passenger’s side leaning into the car and his hairy hand moves. He wants to open the glove compartment to take out a gun.

The one armed one points the gun at the Indian and says softly, “It’s just money dude. Do you really wish to die for it?”

The Indian looks at them and at me. He catches every detail of my face. He stays calm as he leans over to the back seat, takes a briefcase and hands it to me.

“Open it.” The bass man says. He opens it and I have never seen so much cash in my whole life. Stacks upon stacks of thousands.

The closed briefcase is now in my hands. They order the Indian to step out of the car and get inside the boot. He obeys; his eyes burning with rage. “You won’t get away with this,” he says before they knock him out cold and lock him inside his own boot.

We get back inside my cab but while they ride in the car with all the loot, I ride in the boot like the hostage I am.

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