The era of a terror cop

By John Gerezani

Imagine being picked from your house in the dead of the night by six armed, well-fed men in an unmarked car. The car is escorted by two other equally unmarked cars with tinted windows such that you can only play guess the number of occupants. The man leading the team looks way past the retirement age but his agility and thorough knowledge of how to extract info from a cornered goon makes you think twice about your earlier decision not to own up to the arms cache buried in your backyard.

A brash operative

To the diminutive and unconventional sleuth who was reputed to have the ear and confidence of the then prezzy, his name was more important than rank. To many, he was a brash operative who gave little thought to the police chain of command. He was known to order around top cops, many ranks his senior during his periodic terror swoops.

"Timothy, Chief Inspector, Kamunde" is how he always introduced himself. Not many present day gangsters know about Karura forest and Makuyu Patrol Base. Those were the unofficial offices of Kamunde’s "vijana wangu" — as he called his select team of sadistic officers. The good thing with Kamunde though was that he would first offer you an opportunity to co-operate, which would mean squealing on colleagues, source of guns and where the under-world armouries were, before unleashing his eager boys on you should you refuse.

A day in one of the two offices would begin at 3am. A blindfold would be placed on a bewildered suspect plucked from the police cells in a stupor. He would then be placed in the car boot and taken round some rough roads at high speed. Disoriented, he would then be taken to a spot in Karura forest where there was a dugout with real chilly water in which he would be dipped in a simulated drowning session.

The real hardcore would withstand all this so he would be taken out and be deposited in a different police station. Later in the day, he would be picked again, blindfolded and taken on a tour of the countryside. The vehicles would stop somewhere in the middle of a forest where the suspect would be tied to a tree and be asked to say his last prayers, unless he was ready to talk. If this was not forthcoming, a tin bucket would be put on the poor sod’s head and a marksman would drill a bullet through it. You can imagine the shock on the suspect as the loud reverberations make him fall in a heap.

Carrot approach

The real gangster would still come out of this. He would be given a day to recover and re-think if the suffering and pain was worth it. The carrot approach would be tried where an amenable cop would be sent to try and sweet-talk the suspect. Back in those days, real gangsters knew how to keep their mouths shut. It was prudent for only one to be sent to neti while the rest of the gang hustled for money to get a top criminal lawyer to defend their colleague and even more to grease the palms of the prosecutor and magistrate.

That night, the unlucky chap would be taken to "the cross". Two tables would be placed in close proximity while the suspect, having been handcuffed on both the hands and legs would be suspended in between like the Kenchic takeaways. That is the stage when pliers, tweezers, tongs and mallets would be employed on the ‘family jewels’, soles of the feet, knees and anklets with devastating effect. A session in that sweaty room would mark either the end of the three days torture or the beginning of the long road to court and eventually, neti.

This is because Kamunde and his team very well knew that many would succumb and sign on the dotted line to pre-prepared confessional statements. They also knew that without the confession and exhibit, they could not make a case against the suspect in court so they grudgingly had to release him.

All that came to an abrupt end when human rights activists started getting nosy and torture became antiquated. Kamunde also slyly eased out of the picture back into retirement where he passed on. The gangsters left in town toasted to his demise even as some confessed that they could no longer sire children, the ‘tool box’ having been totally messed up.