As a member of a small investment group in rural Kenya I offered my farm truck and a newly-hired driver, Sammy, to transport to the city a load of mangoes we intended to can into a juice concentrate. Sammy called me two hours into the journey. He had been arrested, for “speeding”; 96 km per hour, they claimed, but only after he had not given out the “standard” Shs 100 barrier “pass”.
“So were you over-speeding, Sammy?” I asked.
“No, Dad” he said, “I am carrying a full load and I was going uphill. Can’t do more than 60.”
Sammy knew we don’t pay bribes, because of our faith. I had been with him through two police check points in the recent past and we had amused ourselves recounting how the policemen had laboured to find fault. All in an effort to obtain a bribe. But Sammy had not yet seen us fight through a major confrontation with traffic police. Now he needed my counsel.
“Well,” I advised, “If you had not been speeding, Sammy, just tell that to the policeman.”
“I have, Dad,” Sammy replied. “He is insisting on a bribe; 3,000. He wanted 5. When I told him I don’t have, he dropped to 3.”
“It’s not the amount, Sammy” I corrected him. “It’s the principle. We don’t give bribes because we are Christians. Have you told that to the policeman that? ”
“No,” Sammy said.
“Well, please tell them. Go tell that policeman that the owner of the truck said he does not pay bribes because he is a Christian.”
Sammy called a few minutes later. I heard him say, “Talk to him.”
A voice, which I supposed was the policeman’s said, “Hello.” Calmly.
“Officer,” I said to the phone. I told him my name. I explained that I am a Christian, and that my faith in the Lord forbade me from paying a bribe.
The policeman had listened very patiently. I was impressed.
“Nobody asked your boy for a bribe,” said he, at last. “He was over-speeding. 96 km. Did he tell you?”
“He denies that, officer.” I said. “Please confront him with the evidence.
“Of course,” the officer said. “A printout and picture of the speeding truck.”
I hung up, waited 30 minutes, then called Sammy. “Has the officer shown you the evidence?”
Sammy said no, no evidence.
“Let’s wait a bit longer,” I said, thinking aloud. I figured that perhaps they had to send someone to an office to print. But after another long wait and still no print out I asked Sammy to reconnect me again with the policeman. He did.
“Officer”, I said, “That young man has been there almost two hours. He is carrying perishable mangoes belonging to a small group of rural farmers. Please, I urge you, kwa heshima, let him go deliver the load, then he will come back and attend to your accusation.”
I was expecting an argument. The policeman surprised me pleasantly.
“Ok.”
I called Sammy 15 minutes afterward and he confirmed, yes, he had been let go. “But they kept my driving licence.”
“Did you note your licence’s number?” I was alarmed, remembering how in a previous incident, again while driving to a funeral, a policeman had confiscated my driving licence and I never got it back. I eventually ended up “retaking” the test for a new licence because we couldn’t trace my records in government files.
“No” Sammy said. “But they gave me a paper to take to Kigumo tomorrow.” Kigumo was far from Makuyu on Thika highway, where he had been arrested. They were punishing him.
We agreed to talk after he had delivered his load.
When Sammy called me after the delivery, it was nearly dark. I suggested he stops at the police barrier and obtain a clear answer regarding his licence He did that and called to tell me he had been referred to Makuyu police station and, there, they had explained the paper they’d given him: it was a court summons.
We had another load of mangoes to deliver the following day so we found a temporary driver and Sammy headed to court, to Kigumo, 100 km from Sammy’s home. Expensive.
I called Sammy on my way to a funeral I was to conduct that day — of a small girl, the daughter of a young couple we had mentored for years. Sammy was already at the court. Coincidentally, the girl’s father, Ngunju, had bailed me out from remand about two years previously, after I had refused to give a bribe at an unclear road deviation on a road under construction. The police woman had told me I had made an illegal U-turn.
Sammy told me he was waiting outside the courthouse, an instruction from the policeman that had arrested him. The policeman wanted to enlighten him on the consequences that would befall him if he did not settle before the matter reached the magistrate.
“Can your phone record a face to face talk, Sammy?” I asked. He said yes. We agreed on a plan.
“And when you go before the magistrate and deny the charge, plead for leniency. Ask for a small bond,” I advised from experience.
I never got to hear of his conversation with the policeman outside the courthouse. He called me after the appearance in court to inform me of the outcome, after he had pleaded NOT GUILTY: they had thrown him in a bond of Shs 20,000.
“We will bail you out, Sammy, I assured him. I knew how how to do that. “But it will have to be after the funeral. I am just about to start the service.”
We did not even eat the lunch that was proffered after the service. My brother in law, his wife and mine drove the 100 or so km to Kigumo as fast as we could, and presented ourselves before the court clerk to pay up the cash bond.
“Oh…” she said, “The magistrate ordered for a surety bond, not cash?” she said.
“What is the difference?” I asked, surprised. Thinking, alarmed about the possibility of Sammy spending the night in jail…
“A surety bond requires the backing of a physical asset, like a car’s log book or a title deed,” she said. I saw what they were doing. They knew it would take time to produce an asset. Delaying tactics. Punishment for not complying with the bribe demand.
“Can we change that?” I knew the answer even as I asked.
“You can apply in court tomorrow…”
I was in the middle of preparations for travel to the USA, and I needed to spend the following day in the city. In any event, the die was now cast. Sammy had to spend the night inside jail. I resented thinking how crooks got away with their crimes and honest people paid dearly for crimes they had not committed. But God knows about it, and allows it, but condemns it: Proverbs 17:15 Acquitting the guilty and condemning the innocent– the LORD detests them both.
We went to town, found and retained a lawyer to go to court the following day and apply for a change to a cash bond, then went to Murang’a to jail to explore the possibility of meeting with Sammy to explain. Another hour on the road, and then back towards Nairobi…
On the way, Sammy’s mother called. She had heard, from Sammy, and was, obviously very anxious. Margaret, my wife, did her best to assure her we were on the case, and explained our course of action to get Sammy out the following day.
We found an understanding jail officer. It turned out he is also a believer. He advised that we buy soap, slippers and toiletries. And we wrote a note.
Sammy spent the night in, and I spent mine out, but we both suffered. He got out the following day, as expected, after the lawyer successfully applied for a conversion of the bond to a cash bail. We had sent someone, Isaac, to await the court decision, then take the release papers to Murang’a. I was very anxious of how Sammy had taken the experience.
“Thank you, Dad.” He said. He wrote me a lengthy SMS soon afterwards, telling me he was aware of the lengths we had gone to secure his release, concluding, “you will be paid in heaven.”
Haron Wachira 