MEASLES, MARX, AND STINKY STATE GOONS

Around January 1999, I developed a strange sickness that wouldn’t respond to any antidote at the sick bay of Kenyatta University, where I was a second-year student. Finally, when small white spots appeared inside my cheeks, the ever-angry nurse released me to go home—either to seek treatment from witch doctors or die peacefully among my clansmen. The second option seemed more viable, if my haggard look was anything to go by.

So, I left campus and headed to the city to catch a bus home—an evil cloud of my own mortality hanging above me. In my A-point rucksack, I had packed the two things that mattered to me most: a couple of Tupac music tapes to lull my last days on earth, plus a book or two on Marxism (I was a dyed-in-the-wool disciple of Karl Marx then). If I wasn’t going to make it back to KU, I’d go out with Tupac blasting and Karl Marx in hand—a death fit for a young revolutionary.

While Providence was planning to harvest me at only 20, the state had other plans. As I dragged myself laboriously along Ronald Ngala Street, headed to catch Murang’a matatus, I was accosted by three men—lanky, menacing, and black as ink. They were in jeans, oversized jackets, and Safari boots—like the uniform of a ghetto junta. Before I could say a prayer—or an expletive—they shoved me into a cream-white Peugeot station wagon parked on the kerb.

The car sped off toward Muthaiga, and I couldn’t help but wonder: why abduct a man who’s already on the brink? Anyway, we drove in complete silence, me seated behind the driver, sandwiched between two men with socks that stank like the Moi regime. Not that mine didn’t stink—but I was only a student on a state loan.

The guy next to the driver was shuffling a stack of papers in his hands and glancing at me every time he did so. Mugshots of dread locked young men with high cheekbones and faces that screamed rebellion. Photos of young men in blue jeans, t-shirts, and caps. The only thing I didn’t have in common with those mugshots was the dreadlocks—they were a no-go in my Mother’s Union mom household.

When the Peugeot veered onto Kiambu Road, one of the stinking-sock brigadiers barked: “Jitambulishe!” I explained that I was a student at KU, carefully omitting that I had been dispatched home to die with my people, as these fellows seemed like they could allocate themselves that task. I then rattled off my home area details and our administrators, right from our assistant chief, the chief, and the D.O.—who was one Asman Kamama then.

The name Murang’a set off alarm bells. One gruff fellow with eyes so red he could sell blood by the pint shoved a white handkerchief in my face and ordered me to sneeze onto it. Apparently, this was how they sniffed out Mungiki members—literally. Members used snuff, and this was their high-tech screening method. I gladly blew into it—hoping to pass on some pathogens of whatever I was ailing from to the cops, since by now I had realized who I was dealing with.

Then came the rucksack inspection. The Marxist books were a red flag, as was my student card, which probably screamed “potential troublemaker.” I explained I was sick and had neither the strength nor the ambition to join a militant sect. They finally accepted it was a case of mistaken identity, though the look in their eyes suggested they weren’t entirely convinced I wasn’t plotting to overthrow the esteemed government of Mtukufu Rais.

The driver made a U-turn near the current DCI Headquarters on Kiambu Road and headed to town. I begged them to drop me at Muthaiga, sparing me the indignity of riding further in their creaky Peugeot and enduring their smelly footwear.

The following day, I was at Kangema Health Centre, my scrawny ass receiving jabs from a brutal nurse who seemed to be enjoying it all. It turned out I had measles, which I had contracted from my kid brother.

Two weeks and several jabs later, I was patched up and back to life’s grind. I thanked Mwenenyaga for sparing me—not from the Grim Reaper, who we will all face someday—but from a far more immediate hell: state goons and their stinking socks.