Kuja Siji

14th September, 2034 - Nanyuki, Kenya

It was raining heavily, prior heavenly heat from hotter months slowly waning into this new season of humidity cloaked by intermittent drizzling.  My tiny umbrella was as good as a piece of paper in this storm; the wind tested the balance of Jacaranda trees that beautifully paved each side of the road forming a purple petal carpet leading to the store near our home.  I had to run.  Wearing a sundress on this day was probably the worst idea ever!  I stuffed the day's newspaper into my dress from the top moving over puddles of water on the road in gawky hops simultaneously clutching the shopping bag with my other hand.  The rain increased and was now flooding the drainage which was overcome in minutes.  I finally arrived at our house, dumped my brolly by the door and dashed in to find my father reading a book by the fire place it was Saṃsāra.  I quickly dashed to my room for a quick change of clothes then returned to the living room to give Dad the day's paper which, oddly enough, was dry - thank you waterproof sundress!

"Hey Dad, pole nimechelewa, mvua ilizidi nikirudi (Swahili - Sorry I'm late, the rain became worse on my way back)," I said as I handed him the newspaper.

"I told you to carry a jacket then you said 'It is just a drizzle'," my Dad chuckled.

"Yeah ... By the way Dad, I have never seen you reading your own books?"

"Haha, not really reading just checking if a particular story is in this anthology, can't seem to find it in the others ... "

"Which story maybe I can help?"

"It's titled Kuja Siji (Swahili - 'Coming, I'm Not'), about the time I worked in Mombasa 18 years ago."

"Nope that is definitely unpublished Dad. I have read all your books and would remember such a title."

"Really?"

"Kuja Siji?  Nah, doesn't ring a bell, are you sure you did not publish it under a different title?"

"Positive, the titles I come up with take time and usually stick."

"Aha, what is the story about?  Tell it to me and if I remember then it means that the story is somewhere in your books if not, it's unpublished for sure," I said taking a seat next to him.

"Okay Pierra, better stock up on some more coffee for this one," Dad laughed as he began the narration.

*    *    *

4th July, 2016 - Mombasa, Kenya

I had just called Kenya Airways to redeem some flight credits which were quite a number given the frequent trips I made to and from Mombasa which was the focal point of my current job.  I was chaperoned by a certain Mworia Kwambogo, a person my boss saw fit to squeeze into the trip even though he had no clear need to be there.  I had tendered my resignation letter and was serving my notice with this trip to the coast as the swansong for my work to the company.  I was a trainer in the arts and my job was essentially to organise workshops in far-removed regions in the country where young people were unable to access such education for one reason or the other; reasons ranging from poverty to sheer geographical inaccessibility.  Bamburi town in Mombasa city was our stop.  

Mworia's de facto role was actually to keep an eye on me; at the eve of my departure the company was doing whatever it could to spot mistakes in my work so as to rescind any benefits that I would be entitled to.  I knew this and instinctively kept my guard up.  Mworia was about five feet five inches, lean, flat-faced, scattered shaggy beard punctuated by pinkish cracked lips from severe smoking, his head was full of untidy dreadlocks now browned by dirt some of which had suffered hair-cutting on the rear side of his head.  He seemed to always adorn over-sized clothes, about 2 sizes larger.  Today, at the airport lobby, Mworia wore a pair of Maasai sandals, old khaki shirt and checkered culottes, not ironed and ridden with creases.  He did not have any suitcases which bamboozled me ... instead, he had his stuff in four large black plastic bags, similar to those usually used for storing trash.  Funny as this may have looked, I wondered why he did not simply buy a suitcase or bag; what the hell did he do with all his money?  He definitely earned much more than my colleagues and I who, by the way, did not do too shabby given that we were managers.  Our boss had literally inserted Mworia into the company and given him a title that did not exist before nor did it make sense to the rest of the staffers; Director of Special Communications & Community Liaison - how's that for vagueness?  Mworia was taking home close to $4,000 a month in both salary and benefits and here he was in the lobby of Jomo Kenyatta International Airport with four sacks as check-in luggage.

The ground crew lady at the check-in immediately recognised me in the queue and tossed a wink. I travelled close to six times each month and by now most staffers at the airport knew my face.  Mworia was in line in front of me, arrogant as usual.  He yelled at the lady assisting the client at the counter.

"Hey! Wewe! Harakisha bana! Ai! (Swahili - Hey! Hurry up!)." 

"Man, relax, we are next," I said, embarrassed on his behalf.

"Did I ask for your opinion?" Mworia scoffed turning back to look at me in disgust.  

It was finally his turn to be served and he awkwardly carried his four plastic gunias (Swahili - Sisal sacks) and dumped them on the check-in conveyer belt.  The lady at the desk was dumbfounded but kept it professional and served him.  I was next and, as always, travelled light and with my special suitcase that my mother had given me as a gift - a rare brown wood-like suitcase with formica laminate at the edges near the zipper.  The lady at the desk, whose name tag I now read as 'Nasibo', smiled warmly as she saw the suitcase.

"Good morning Sir, lovely suitcase you have there!" she said.

"Hey, thanks! You know me, always first class!" I joked.  

Mworia, who was nearby kept staring and finally yielded to his obnoxious personality.  He then took out a lighter and blatantly lit a cigarette in the airport lobby.  Almost simultaneously a security officer told him to put it out.  Sulking like a kid, he came to where I was.

"Harakisha!  We have a job to do! (Swahili - Hurry)," he yelled, then stuffed the lighter in my shorts' back pocket, "Nishikie hii basi, argh (Swahili - Hold this for me!)!"

*    *    *

We had been in Mombasa for a week and completed all the workshops but had a couple of days unscheduled before our flight back to Nairobi.  I usually used this free time to roam the streets and communities around as I also sought out new experiences for my books and artwork.  A young man in his early twenties called Paulo Charra had offered to take us to a place called Mida Creek in Malindi sub-county, more specifically, Watamu town, this was a two to three hour road trip from Mombasa.  Out of courtesy I had told Mworia about it and invited him to join which he agreed reluctantly as if he felt I was tricking him into something.  He probably wondered why I was being nice to him but what people like Mworia would never know is that people can be nice without expecting anything in return. During the three-hour rickshaw ride Mworia kept complaining how the place was far and how much he regretted agreeing to the visit.  He also kept criticising how Charra rode the rickshaw, complaining each time we hit a bump or the slightest pothole.

On arrival we took a motorbike into the village area that bordered the creek and, again, Charra did the honors of riding us to the shore.  He called a friend with another bike to ferry Mworia as I rode with him on his 125 cc. Honda.  The canoe Charra used to take us about the Creek was carved by hand by a select few crafts-people in the community, a skill that was slowly becoming extinct given that many young people did not want to learn the craft and were instead drawn to quick ways of earning a living such as owning motorbikes for transport services usually offered to tourists.  Now, the majority of those who had the canoe-carving skill and fishing knowledge were mostly middle-aged to elderly men.  

The ecosystem at Mida Creek was magnificent.  I just wish more effort was put in by the government to conserving such natural resources.  We took two canoes; one steered by Charra with me in it, the other with Mworia, steered by the same guy Charra had called with the second motorbike, whose name I later learned was Dzocherra.  Hadada Ibis, Egrets, Juvenile Ibis, Crows, Monitor Lizards and many more were the fauna I sighted during the canoe ride.  Mworia was dead asleep.  Apparently he had spent the previous night partying and was still reeking of cheap gin.

"Bahari si ya kila mtu (Swahili - The sea is not for everyone)," Charra laughed as he looked at the other canoe a few feet away in which Mworia lay in foetal position, snoring loudly.

"Huyu mtu ni matako sana, anashuta shuta hapa akilala ni kama ako kwake nyumbani (Swahili - This guy is a real nincompoop, he's farting recklessly while he sleeps here as if it's his bedroom)," Dzocherra said in dismay as he looked at Mworia's cuddled up body.

"Next time ambia shoga wako asi-come kuja kama hawezi ridhika (Swahili/Sheng - Next time tell your friend not to come with us if he can't handle the fun)," Charra joked to me as Dzocherra laughed.

"Rafiki mgani? Huyu ni mdosi wangu kazini (Swahili/Sheng - Whose friend? This is my boss at work)," I immediately said, not wanting to entertain the notion that Mworia and I were anywhere near close to being friends.

We all laughed it off and rowed closer to the lagoon that connected the creek to the ocean.  The sky was overcast and in minutes it was drizzling.  What was a yellowish litten sky moments before was now grey.  About two hundred yards forward into the ocean I noticed a medium-sized motorised boat headed our direction.  "Wavuvi nini (Swahili - Fishermen?)," I asked Charra who had not seen the boat and, once he did, seemed perturbed.  I asked him what was wrong and he said that those were thugs who on occasion looted findings from fishermen in the area.  We immediately began rowing back to the cove where we had left the motorbikes; all an exercise in futility as the thugs in the motorboat easily caught up with us and waylaid our efforts. There were about 8 of them, give or take; six of them dove into the water - daggers in hand, some in teeth - and dragged us off our canoes shoving us onto the deck of their boat before covering our heads with black bags blinding us from seeing our surroundings.  Into the fray, Mworia was rudely awoken and, like us, tossed onto the motorboat like the gunia of luggage that he had brought to the trip.

*    *    *

After travelling on sea for what I estimated to be a good one hour we arrived at an island where our masks were removed.  It was getting dark; our hands were bound in ropes a thing they did on the way.  This made it impossible to check my watch for time - given that my hands were tied to my back - but a guesstimate was that sunset was nigh.  They motioned us off the boat onto the beach where a party of six more pirates were awaiting; two of them had G3 rifles and one had what looked like a Glock 19 pistol stuffed into his old jorts, the other three were unarmed.  They spoke in local languages which I would pick up as probably Digo or Giriama but definitely a Mijikenda dialect.  We went into the mangrove thickets further in up till we arrived at what looked like their hideout, again, swarming with more of their kind.  There was a fire in the middle of the camp and a number of make-shift structures made from what looked like makuti (Swahili - Palm tree leaves).  In between were several huge crates containing who-knows-what scattered all over the area, perhaps booty from their piracy. There was also a small gas cylinder, popularly referred to by the pet name meko in Kenyan households. The pirates probably used this to cook on the island. Mworia began protesting, a thing that made Charra, Dzocherra and I uneasy and we wished that he could just shut his damn mouth. After calling one of the men a Kafiri (Swahili - Pagan) they finally gagged him - thank you pirates, I thought to myself.  They sat us forcibly at a corner about twenty meters away from the camp fire and stationed an armed thug to guard us.  We were still bound but our legs were free.

After about thirty minutes, now night time, I overheard one of the pirates telling their ring leader that the last 'catch' was useless because they were not wazungu (Swahili - White People) and had little ransom value.  It then struck me that they were referring to us.

"Haya basi, waue kisha mtupe hizo miili baharini (Swahili - Okay, kill them and then dump the bodies in the ocean)," said the ring leader with nonchalance that was scary.

"Sawa Boss," the other man responded and began walking towards us.  

The man had an AK47 and, as he came closer, it was revealed that he was in police boots and beret.  This made perfect sense or did it?  The G3 rifle is a common utility fire arm used by the Kenya Police of moderate rank and since our arrival on this hidden island I had noticed that most of the pirates had them.  It was very possible that this underground smuggling and kidnapping racket was in cahoots with local law enforcement turned rogue.  That would explain the partial uniform and prolific presence of assault rifles.  Like a robot he immediately removed the rifle safety and aimed at Mworia who was the first person in his line of sight.  I knew this was it, begging would not work, especially after that eerie order from their ringleader crying for mercy was definitely useless.  Mworia began yelling and crying.

"Usiniue! Tafadhali usiniue!  Niko na watoto! (Swahili - Please do not kill me! I have kids)," Mworia bellowed as he shat his pants.  Even presented by imminent death Mworia remained a scumbag - he had lied.  Mworia did not have any kids, in fact, many times he would make fun of men in the office who had decided to settle down and have children saying that he hated kids and never wished to have any.  Now here he was, dung in pants, using the same children he despised to save his over-sized clothes-wearing cowardly ass. 

"Simama! Bloody ng'ombe wewe! (Swahili - Stand up! You bloody cow!)," retorted the man now pointing the rifle dead-centre on Mworia's forehead.  Meanwhile, the other pirate who had been told to man us had taken a break and moved a few meters forward towards the camp fire, ignoring the commotion behind him.

"S-s-s-s-sawa ... usinipige risasi! (Swahili - O-o-o-okay ... don't shoot!)," Mworia trembled as he got to his feet.

I knew I had to intervene somehow but the odds were stacked against us.  I was probably our best bet nonetheless given my martial arts training.  Still the same, my hands were bound and we were facing a gun.  Worse, even if we took out this guy, we had dozens more all over the island - I had to think and think fast! Almost by sheer instinct Charra was on to my thoughts and knew I was thinking of a way to get us out. We exchanged quick glances with a slight nod from both of us; Charra then signalled Dzocherra to be ready for what ever it is I was about to do, all this time the gun-wielding pirate still unsure whether to kill Mworia where we were or to move him away.  I quickly tripped the pirate's legs using my own and, as he fell sideways, I dashed forward to head-butt him which turned out to be a lucky blow because it knocked him out cold.  I flipped my bound arms over my legs so that they were now to the front albeit still bound.  Charra and Dzocherra did the same and hurriedly pulled the concussed pirate into the bushes behind us.  I tried undoing the sisal knots on my hands but they were tied too tightly.  Charra popped out a pen-knife from the unconscious pirate's pants and cut our bonds.  The other pirate who was manning us had still not caught wind of what was happening and began strolling further into the camp.  I picked up the AK47 which I knew how to use given that my father was ex-military.  I told the other three that I would run interference as they carefully head toward the shore and hopefully meet me there.  Again, all this was planned on the go - the idea now was to somehow miraculously steal the motorboat and head back to the creek.  There was a slim chance it would work given that almost all the pirates were busy drinking and making merry at the camp.  Still the same it was probable and actually very very likely that there was at least one pirate along the shoreline serving as sentry to the motorboat.

"You need to head out with them," I told Mworia who was still in shock and had not heard a word of our plan to escape. I slapped him, "Hey! Get a hold of yourself! Do you want to die?"

"N-n-no ... " he stammered still in tears.

"Then get your black ass up and follow Charra and Dzocherra to the beach, I'll create a diversion then join you guys later.  That should buy us some time with the motorboat," turning to Charra, "Ebu chunga huyu fala, hakikisha asiwaharibie mpango, keep low (Swahili/Sheng - Keep an eye on this dumbass and ensure he does not mess you up, keep low)."

The trio carefully snuck away through the mangrove, beach-bound, as I slowly moved towards the camp using the huge crates as body covers, a thing they did perfectly when crouching.  Just when I dashed to the next crate the pirate from before returned, cigarette in mouth, and noticed almost instantly that we were missing from where he had left us.  He quickly moved to the spot by-passing the crate I hid behind, not seeing me.  I saw him look around in confused fashion before spotting a protruding boot from the bush - it was his colleague who I had knocked out earlier.  Charra had forgotten to tuck in his leg and now this other pirate knew that we had escaped and not been killed as instructed by their ringleader.  In panicky motion, he removed something from his shirt pocket that I could not see clearly from where I hid.  I moved slowly towards him and noticed that he had pulled out a whistle - he wanted to raise an alarm! I briskly got to him and applied a sleeper-hold then dragged his passed-out body to join his pal's in the bushes.  I then moved further on towards the main camp, no one was in sight.  I could hear laughter from further in where the pirates were having a shindig of sorts perhaps to celebrate the day's loot.  I returned to the centre where the camp fire was, grabbed the meko gas cylinder and moved silently to the shed where the pirates had convened.  I detached the magazine of the AK47 and plucked out some bullets.  What would happen next was fluke at best, I had seen this in a movie and had actually never tried it out in real life.  I grabbed some fallen dry makuti leaves from the ground, created a rounded pouch with them at the base of the meko, placed the bullets within, slightly turned on the gas cylinder's nozzle, lit the leaves with Mworia's light which I still had in my shorts then run like crazy towards the beach.  The bullets rattled as if they were being fired from a gun and seconds later the fire and sparks ignited the seeping gas causing an explosion.   

*    *    *

                                                                        10th August, 2016 - Kilifi, Kenya

A month after the pirates hullabaloo I returned to Kilifi county but this time on vacation.  I had long resigned from the place I worked with Mworia and was now running my company one hundred percent.  I met Charra at Watamu Village where he would do rounds for tourists on his rickshaw and we recounted the harrowing ordeal that we had been through a bit over a month prior.  When I got to the beach that fateful day I only found Charra and Dzocherra waiting, Mworia was absent.  The duo had managed to take out the sentry at the motorboat and Charra ferried us back to the Creek at which point we alerted the authorities on what had happened.  I asked Charra where Mworia was and he said, "Tuliponyakua jahazi alisema hataki kuenda nasi ... Nilimuuliza mbona, akasema tu, 'Kuja Siji' halafu akatoroka kichakani (Swahili - After grabbing the boat he said that he did not want to come with us and when I asked why he simply replied, 'Coming, I'm not' then run into the bush)."  It became clear that Mworia had been traumatised by the ordeal.  The coast guard later found him on the island as they cracked down on the pirates making multiple arrests.  We returned to Nairobi in separate flights and the last I saw or heard from him was at the airport.  

14th September, 2034 - Nanyuki, Kenya

You've got to love him - my Dad was a living super hero!

"Is all that true Dad? That story sounds like a movie!" I marvelled. "You sure you're not pulling the long bow?"

"Ha ha ha! Maybe, you should ask your Aunt Bertha whether or not it is true because I returned to Kilifi for vacation with her on her birthday that time.  She got to meet Charra." Dad said smiling. "And oh, today is your namesake's birthday."

"Today is grandma's birthday - woo-hoo!"

I definitely had not read that one in any of my Dad's many short story collections so it was definitely an unpublished short a thing we both realised by the time he finished narrating the story.  As we continued bonding, with me asking one million and one more questions regarding that story, the door bell rung but as I got up to get it, Sandra, our househelp went to get it so I sat back.

"Ni nani (Swahili - Who is it?)" I asked as Sandra returned.

"Kuna mtu mfupi kwa mlango anajiita Mworia anasema anataka kuona Mzee (Swahili - There's a short man at the door calling himself Mworia who says he wants to see you Sir)," Sandra replied as both my Dad and I looked at each other dumbstruck.

The End.

Title: Kuja Siji

Type: Short Story

Genre: Adventure, Action, Thriller

Synopsis

Modern-day Nairobian & college A-student is immersed in an enthralling tale as she helps her author father search for one of his old publications.

Written by Robert Mũnũku

© Mau Mau Arts 2022

Did you enjoy the short story ‘Kuja Siji’ on my blog?  There are many more like it in my anthology, Saṃsāra, grab your copy!

To order Saṃsāra, email: info@maumauarts.org