The Recruit - A Short Story by Mary Kimani
- By Mary Kimani
- Published June 17, 2009
- Fiction
- Unrated
Mary Kimani
Mary Kimani is a journalist. She covered the Rwanda genocide trials at the UN court in Tanzania, as well as the peace processes in Burundi and the DRC for Internews and Reuters. She has been writing poetry from a young age. One of her earliest pieces, Children of an Inferior God, was included in a British Council Anthology published in 1991. Recently, she published a collection of poems under the title - He Didn't Die Easy: The Search for Hope Amidst Poverty, War and Genocide. Her website
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Ten o’clock came and went. Otich was in no hurry to go home, and Mochama had to make up for lost time. Eleven o’clock passed, then midnight.
At one o’clock, they caught up with fate. It was their last trip to Kayole.
They were chosen at random; partly because Kihika remembered the vehicle from the incident earlier in the morning, and partly because it was late, and the minibus was one of only four still ferrying passengers.
Njuguna and Maina walked stealthily in the dark. Kihika walked a few paces behind, staying clear enough so as not to obstruct their mission, but near enough so that he could be able to report their success or failure. Knowing Kihika was behind them doubled the tension the two young men felt. In the past, some recruits had been unable to keep secrets and had told others of their experiences. The information had gotten to the police, leading to arrests and some boys had even been shot by police. The new approach was much simpler; an older member went with you. When information leaked to police, the movement always knew who was responsible, and the came after you.
Kihika was not a man you wanted to be after of you. He’d dispensed of most emotions after serving a ten-year prison term with hard labour because of a girl he’d loved. She’d left him for another man, a wealthier man. He had found the new man in her life and killed him. And what did it achieve? Nothing except land him in prison where he had been beaten, sodomised, tortured and hardened. He’d come out a different person, determined to make money, get rich and live a comfortable life. “Everyone to his own,” was his motto since then. He had no qualms about killing if that is what it took to accomplish his goals and had little mercy for victims. “If you couldn’t take better care of your life then it was too bad for you if you lost it,” was his argument. He was rarely interested in any details beyond that. That though didn’t mean he wasn’t a good student of human beings, especially the ones he recruited for the movement. In fact, he knew them all too well.
“Men like Njuguna could be counted upon to be fanatically loyal,” Kihika thought. They liked rituals and dark secrets; they were addicted to the tension and excitement. Hungry for companionship and a sense of belonging; such men could do anything for the movement and Njuguna was already showing more promise than most.
Kihika found some of the movement’s teachings ridiculous and knew the old men who gave the “culture” classes were being paid handsomely. Still, he liked to listen in every once in a while as the old men talked about the good old days before the colonialists came, and passionately urged the recruits to reclaim their past without fear, to re-conquer the land, and take back their rightful inheritance. They were stupid to buy that stuff, Kihika always thought, but without them, it would have been impossible for the movement to run its elaborate extortion enterprise. The recruits that believed the cultural nonsense took it seriously though, that he knew. The more convinced they were the more tirelessly they worked; they recruited others indefatigably and unknowingly helped create the religious veneer of the movement. A sect is what they had been called in the media. Kihika, however, knew otherwise. He had been there when they’d paid off third-rate thugs and killed them off when they had to. He’d been there when they’d eventually taken over the extortion rackets in the slums and in parts of the city. Businesses now paid them for security and that money was scrupulously being reinvested into buying more power, and creating new sources of cash. The movement even owned legitimate land and properties; and was making clean money from legal tenants. “You have to admire the men who set this set up,” thought Kihika; “it’s the perfect business, run by cheap or free workers willing to enforce any instructions.”
Kihika had occasionally met with some of the architects, mostly in the posh hotel rooms of some expensive hotels. Whenever he’d met them in public they’d introduced him to others as a needy member of their constituency, come into the city to get a scholarship for his daughter or in need of help to pay medical fees for his dying infant. Nobody ever seemed to suspect otherwise, not even when seemingly high profile government officials posted bail for arrested movement members.
Kihika tolerated those naïve enough to join-up thinking the movement was anything but a money making enterprise. But it irritated him that sooner or later such recruits always ended up needing some encouragement, an object lesson to make them understand why they couldn’t leave once they had joined. He hoped Njuguna wouldn’t need such lessons. The boy was smart; he had the makings of a good enforcer. “Do you know how to read? Kihika had asked him when he was recruited, “No, I didn’t finish school.” The boy had answered. “Why?” Kihika enquired. “Nothing in school was interesting. In any case, one doesn’t need an education to make money in this country,” Njuguna had responded. It was a pity the boy hadn’t at least finished elementary, “good enforcers needed to at least be able to do math,” thought Kihika as he watched Njuguna and Maina board Mochama’s minibus.
He waited a few minutes, smoking quietly in the dark, and then as the minibus started off into the night, he jogged along it and swung himself inside, through the still open door. He noted, as he passed them, that Njuguna and Maina had sat themselves in the first right and left front seats respectively.
Kihika passed Otich unnoticed and walked to the back of the vehicle where he took an empty seat. He sat down quietly. His role tonight was to watch. Any other conductor would have recognized him instantly, and worried about his presence, but Otich rarely worked the Kayole route and knew of Kihika only by reputation, not by face.
Fate gave Otich a nudge that night, enough to make him alert. Usually he didn’t worry about much in life; but the nudge told his gut that things were not right. Several buses and public vehicles had been carjacked on Kayole route before, so he looked around to see if any of the passengers appeared armed. The two boys in front both had backpacks but looked ordinary and so did the rest of the passengers. Soon the vehicle passed all the known spots where robbers prefer to attack and Otich stopped worrying about theft. His attention now passed on to the sole female passenger. He’d decided that it was her presence that was making him uneasy.
“What right does a woman have to be out at this time of the night?” He thought to himself angrily. “She must be a prostitute,” he reasoned. “Maybe I should give her what she is looking for,” he thought, glaring at her. She caught his glare and quickly looked away. “Ah timid,” he thought, excitement flooding his body. In his anger and twisted lust, he forgot all about his earlier disquiet. It was a typical human error. Every so often, our ancient animal instincts, seeking to save us, tell us to flee, to abandon a path taken. We refuse to listen, thinking our fear to be irrational. So it is that we find enemies where they are not, and miss them where they exist. Fate’s warning was thus ignored and within the hour, the minibus entered Kayole and started disgorging its passengers one by one.
In the driver’s cabin, Mochama was feeling gleefully happy. He had made up for the time lost in the afternoon. Moreover, by overcharging the last two batches of passengers; claiming it was late in the night; he had made more money than he had anticipated. He was looking forward to a couple of cold refreshing beers before settling down for the night.
They reached Corner bus stop at quarter to two on the morning of 13th July 2007. It was the last stop and there were only four passengers left on board. Otich waited patiently for the woman get out. He got out after her, and followed her covertly as she walked towards the back of the vehicle. Few people were stupid enough to be walking about in Kayole at such an hour so he knew he could grab her and drag her into the darkness and nobody would see or raise any alarm. Then he would show her what women who walked around late at night were good for. He would make her scream. “Teach her to behave,” he thought excitedly as he marked the path she was taking so that he could follow her. He walked back quickly towards the driver’s cabin to get his money from Mochama hoping to catch her before she went out of view. So engrossed was he in his plan that he did not notice the two young men seated in the front getting out or that a third man remained inside the vehicle. He only had time to feel something looming over him before a sharp slashing pain burnt through his neck.
Mochama was mentally calculating how much money to give the minibus owner, how much to pay the conductor and how long he could afford to stay in the bar when a young man interrupted his thoughts, asking for directions. When he leaned out of the driver’s cabin to answer, Mochama was only partly paying attention to the person who had spoken to him. He didn’t even realize it when the blade severed his neck.
As Njuguna picked Mochama’s head, and Maina picked Otich’s, there was nothing but utter silence in the dark night illuminated by only a handful of dim streetlights that eerily flickered on and off in the distance. At Kihika’s signal, a grey Toyota that had been waiting in the dark approached the dimly lit scene. Had there been good light, one would have seen a glazed look of shock on each boy’s face and the blood that splattered all over their clothes as they rushed to put the heads of the driver and conductor in plastic bags, and scramble into the waiting car. Neither boy protested when their eyes were blind-folded and neither boy said anything during the entire ride. The blind-folds came off early in the morning to reveal a dimly lit hut surrounded by a dense sisal plantation. The initiation ceremony began just before dawn. Njuguna and Maina were asked to drink blood from goats mixed with that taken from the two human heads. Blood was smeared on their heads and their hands and they were given bits of meat to eat. They couldn’t tell if what they chewed was human or animal. Then they oath taking began.
In another time and another age an oath, not unlike this one, at least in the wording, had banded a group of men and women together in the fight for independence and freedom. Now, strangely detached from its origin, modified to suit a newer age, and haunted by lives so crassly taken, it bound a new type of brotherhood together in the common pursuit of wealth, intimidation, power and control. But while Maina quaked, Njuguna felt elated. He felt complete. He belonged to this brotherhood now, he would fight along side them to the end, he would change this people, and he would teach them to go back to the old and better ways. He would teach them to live as they did before the westerners brought barbarianism and wickedness to the land. Once more they would make prayers to Mwene Nyaga. Money would be raised for this cause and those who didn’t pay would face his wrath. Kihika, watching Njuguna’s face, didn’t need to be told what the boy was thinking.
He could have said it himself.
“I am Mungiki.”
Ibuti - Pronounced ee-foot-ee
Bhang - Marijuana
Sufurias - Sufurias is the slang for pans
Squad - Squad is slang for busing shift. Minibus and public taxi drivers work in shifts called squads
KBS - KBS refers to the Kenya Bus Service and also the central bus terminal in Nairobi city
Konda - Konda is slang for conductor
Matatu - Swahili term for public taxis and minibuses
Kikuyu - One of the 45 ethnic communities in Kenya
Mwene Nyaga - Traditional God of the Kikuyu people
At one o’clock, they caught up with fate. It was their last trip to Kayole.
They were chosen at random; partly because Kihika remembered the vehicle from the incident earlier in the morning, and partly because it was late, and the minibus was one of only four still ferrying passengers.
Njuguna and Maina walked stealthily in the dark. Kihika walked a few paces behind, staying clear enough so as not to obstruct their mission, but near enough so that he could be able to report their success or failure. Knowing Kihika was behind them doubled the tension the two young men felt. In the past, some recruits had been unable to keep secrets and had told others of their experiences. The information had gotten to the police, leading to arrests and some boys had even been shot by police. The new approach was much simpler; an older member went with you. When information leaked to police, the movement always knew who was responsible, and the came after you.
Kihika was not a man you wanted to be after of you. He’d dispensed of most emotions after serving a ten-year prison term with hard labour because of a girl he’d loved. She’d left him for another man, a wealthier man. He had found the new man in her life and killed him. And what did it achieve? Nothing except land him in prison where he had been beaten, sodomised, tortured and hardened. He’d come out a different person, determined to make money, get rich and live a comfortable life. “Everyone to his own,” was his motto since then. He had no qualms about killing if that is what it took to accomplish his goals and had little mercy for victims. “If you couldn’t take better care of your life then it was too bad for you if you lost it,” was his argument. He was rarely interested in any details beyond that. That though didn’t mean he wasn’t a good student of human beings, especially the ones he recruited for the movement. In fact, he knew them all too well.
“Men like Njuguna could be counted upon to be fanatically loyal,” Kihika thought. They liked rituals and dark secrets; they were addicted to the tension and excitement. Hungry for companionship and a sense of belonging; such men could do anything for the movement and Njuguna was already showing more promise than most.
Kihika found some of the movement’s teachings ridiculous and knew the old men who gave the “culture” classes were being paid handsomely. Still, he liked to listen in every once in a while as the old men talked about the good old days before the colonialists came, and passionately urged the recruits to reclaim their past without fear, to re-conquer the land, and take back their rightful inheritance. They were stupid to buy that stuff, Kihika always thought, but without them, it would have been impossible for the movement to run its elaborate extortion enterprise. The recruits that believed the cultural nonsense took it seriously though, that he knew. The more convinced they were the more tirelessly they worked; they recruited others indefatigably and unknowingly helped create the religious veneer of the movement. A sect is what they had been called in the media. Kihika, however, knew otherwise. He had been there when they’d paid off third-rate thugs and killed them off when they had to. He’d been there when they’d eventually taken over the extortion rackets in the slums and in parts of the city. Businesses now paid them for security and that money was scrupulously being reinvested into buying more power, and creating new sources of cash. The movement even owned legitimate land and properties; and was making clean money from legal tenants. “You have to admire the men who set this set up,” thought Kihika; “it’s the perfect business, run by cheap or free workers willing to enforce any instructions.”
Kihika had occasionally met with some of the architects, mostly in the posh hotel rooms of some expensive hotels. Whenever he’d met them in public they’d introduced him to others as a needy member of their constituency, come into the city to get a scholarship for his daughter or in need of help to pay medical fees for his dying infant. Nobody ever seemed to suspect otherwise, not even when seemingly high profile government officials posted bail for arrested movement members.
Kihika tolerated those naïve enough to join-up thinking the movement was anything but a money making enterprise. But it irritated him that sooner or later such recruits always ended up needing some encouragement, an object lesson to make them understand why they couldn’t leave once they had joined. He hoped Njuguna wouldn’t need such lessons. The boy was smart; he had the makings of a good enforcer. “Do you know how to read? Kihika had asked him when he was recruited, “No, I didn’t finish school.” The boy had answered. “Why?” Kihika enquired. “Nothing in school was interesting. In any case, one doesn’t need an education to make money in this country,” Njuguna had responded. It was a pity the boy hadn’t at least finished elementary, “good enforcers needed to at least be able to do math,” thought Kihika as he watched Njuguna and Maina board Mochama’s minibus.
He waited a few minutes, smoking quietly in the dark, and then as the minibus started off into the night, he jogged along it and swung himself inside, through the still open door. He noted, as he passed them, that Njuguna and Maina had sat themselves in the first right and left front seats respectively.
Kihika passed Otich unnoticed and walked to the back of the vehicle where he took an empty seat. He sat down quietly. His role tonight was to watch. Any other conductor would have recognized him instantly, and worried about his presence, but Otich rarely worked the Kayole route and knew of Kihika only by reputation, not by face.
Fate gave Otich a nudge that night, enough to make him alert. Usually he didn’t worry about much in life; but the nudge told his gut that things were not right. Several buses and public vehicles had been carjacked on Kayole route before, so he looked around to see if any of the passengers appeared armed. The two boys in front both had backpacks but looked ordinary and so did the rest of the passengers. Soon the vehicle passed all the known spots where robbers prefer to attack and Otich stopped worrying about theft. His attention now passed on to the sole female passenger. He’d decided that it was her presence that was making him uneasy.
“What right does a woman have to be out at this time of the night?” He thought to himself angrily. “She must be a prostitute,” he reasoned. “Maybe I should give her what she is looking for,” he thought, glaring at her. She caught his glare and quickly looked away. “Ah timid,” he thought, excitement flooding his body. In his anger and twisted lust, he forgot all about his earlier disquiet. It was a typical human error. Every so often, our ancient animal instincts, seeking to save us, tell us to flee, to abandon a path taken. We refuse to listen, thinking our fear to be irrational. So it is that we find enemies where they are not, and miss them where they exist. Fate’s warning was thus ignored and within the hour, the minibus entered Kayole and started disgorging its passengers one by one.
In the driver’s cabin, Mochama was feeling gleefully happy. He had made up for the time lost in the afternoon. Moreover, by overcharging the last two batches of passengers; claiming it was late in the night; he had made more money than he had anticipated. He was looking forward to a couple of cold refreshing beers before settling down for the night.
They reached Corner bus stop at quarter to two on the morning of 13th July 2007. It was the last stop and there were only four passengers left on board. Otich waited patiently for the woman get out. He got out after her, and followed her covertly as she walked towards the back of the vehicle. Few people were stupid enough to be walking about in Kayole at such an hour so he knew he could grab her and drag her into the darkness and nobody would see or raise any alarm. Then he would show her what women who walked around late at night were good for. He would make her scream. “Teach her to behave,” he thought excitedly as he marked the path she was taking so that he could follow her. He walked back quickly towards the driver’s cabin to get his money from Mochama hoping to catch her before she went out of view. So engrossed was he in his plan that he did not notice the two young men seated in the front getting out or that a third man remained inside the vehicle. He only had time to feel something looming over him before a sharp slashing pain burnt through his neck.
Mochama was mentally calculating how much money to give the minibus owner, how much to pay the conductor and how long he could afford to stay in the bar when a young man interrupted his thoughts, asking for directions. When he leaned out of the driver’s cabin to answer, Mochama was only partly paying attention to the person who had spoken to him. He didn’t even realize it when the blade severed his neck.
As Njuguna picked Mochama’s head, and Maina picked Otich’s, there was nothing but utter silence in the dark night illuminated by only a handful of dim streetlights that eerily flickered on and off in the distance. At Kihika’s signal, a grey Toyota that had been waiting in the dark approached the dimly lit scene. Had there been good light, one would have seen a glazed look of shock on each boy’s face and the blood that splattered all over their clothes as they rushed to put the heads of the driver and conductor in plastic bags, and scramble into the waiting car. Neither boy protested when their eyes were blind-folded and neither boy said anything during the entire ride. The blind-folds came off early in the morning to reveal a dimly lit hut surrounded by a dense sisal plantation. The initiation ceremony began just before dawn. Njuguna and Maina were asked to drink blood from goats mixed with that taken from the two human heads. Blood was smeared on their heads and their hands and they were given bits of meat to eat. They couldn’t tell if what they chewed was human or animal. Then they oath taking began.
In another time and another age an oath, not unlike this one, at least in the wording, had banded a group of men and women together in the fight for independence and freedom. Now, strangely detached from its origin, modified to suit a newer age, and haunted by lives so crassly taken, it bound a new type of brotherhood together in the common pursuit of wealth, intimidation, power and control. But while Maina quaked, Njuguna felt elated. He felt complete. He belonged to this brotherhood now, he would fight along side them to the end, he would change this people, and he would teach them to go back to the old and better ways. He would teach them to live as they did before the westerners brought barbarianism and wickedness to the land. Once more they would make prayers to Mwene Nyaga. Money would be raised for this cause and those who didn’t pay would face his wrath. Kihika, watching Njuguna’s face, didn’t need to be told what the boy was thinking.
He could have said it himself.
“I am Mungiki.”
Ibuti - Pronounced ee-foot-ee
Bhang - Marijuana
Sufurias - Sufurias is the slang for pans
Squad - Squad is slang for busing shift. Minibus and public taxi drivers work in shifts called squads
KBS - KBS refers to the Kenya Bus Service and also the central bus terminal in Nairobi city
Konda - Konda is slang for conductor
Matatu - Swahili term for public taxis and minibuses
Kikuyu - One of the 45 ethnic communities in Kenya
Mwene Nyaga - Traditional God of the Kikuyu people