He is called Njogu. The man I hit. Njogu happens to be my favourite Kuyu name. That and Wacera and Wambui. My desk mate in class 4 was called Paul Njogu. He was brown like a girl. Annoying as hell. But I liked his name, and everybody liked him because they owned a wholesale shop, a big shop and he had things; cookies, pencils, chocolates…money. He stole money from the cash register. What’s there not to like in a 10yr old kid who nicks money from the cash register?
Indulge me here for a minute, will you? Njogu means Elephant. If I ever get a son I will call him Njogu. It symbol of vastness, of greatness. Of something you can’t wrap your head around. The name is colossal. So it’s a bit ironical that I would hit a man called Njogu, isn’t it? I should have seen him damn it!
Anyway, we are in the car, Njogu is lying back, holding my jacket against the bleeding wounds. Blood oozing down his face, onto his expensive shirt which is now soaked. I ask him if he as a medical cover and he says no, he doesn’t. “I never fall sick.” I found that amusing…er, in a sick kind of way of course.
I think fast.
I have a loose 2k on me, I would be crazy to take this guy to Nairobi hospital because the 2k can’t even get you a candy bar off their vending machines. I can’t take him to Kenyatta either because we will be attended to right after Easter holidays…if we are lucky that is. But this guy is banged up pretty bad and I think the worse tragedy would be if he died on my watch because I was trying to save pennies. I havehad some money in my account though but I don’t see myself turning in my seat and asking Njogu here; “Chief, do you know of any Stanchart ATMs around Uhuru Highway?” That’s just rough. And stupid.
So I decide I’m taking him to one of them many hospitals in Nairobi West because I will be going against the traffic and it’s not too far off anyway. He is silent, shocked and disoriented. I’m totally spooked because I know head injuries are tricky. People slip into their death slowly. And I panic because I’m filled with a bad sense of foreboding; that this guy will get unconscious and never wake up. That death will steal him from my car.
I read somewhere that when you chat up someone who is injured badly you prevent them from falling asleep and slipping into the other world. So I chat Njogu up. I ask him to give me his missus’ number so that I call her and let her know what’s up (I know he is spoken for because he has a wedding band.) He gets animated and says categorically not to dare call the wife because she will overreact “and make this worse than you think.” I don’t want worse. Definitely not. Worse is bad.
Brother? Sister? Pastor? Someone? I ask him. (Ok, I didn’t ask about pastor!)
He asks me to call his big brother who when I call is very skeptical of my story. Njogu at this point has blood in his mouth, but thankfully its blood from his face. I roll down the window and he spits this blood out, and it trickles down the door. Other drivers stare with naked disdain and I remember getting really hot under the collar because really, they can see the guy is bleeding from the face. He is not just some guy spitting blood out the car window because he’s idle!
Njogu, as I learn in our conversation, was about five steps from his office when I hit him. He had just packed his car at the city council car park opposite Re insurance plaza, like he has for the past year before walking to his office. As I speed along Uhuru highway towards Nairobi West I get more bio on him. He is a father of three. His youngest 3 months old. A boy. Been married for ten years. He is 36years old.
“What do you do for a living?” I remember asking him.
“I’m a lawyer.” He said with blood in his mouth and I remember not saying another word for about two minutes. Yes, of all the damned days to knock down a lawyer! I was toast. My goose was cooked! Finished. I was going to leave him at the hospital, leave him my car keys, go back home and pack a bag and jump in the next bus out to shags where I would start a life of farming or fishing, or whatever the hell people in my shags do to make ends meet. Njogu was sure going to sue off my pants for everything I had.
“You got any kids?” he asks me, and that questions takes me by surprise because I didn’t expect him to.
“Yeah,” I say, “A daughter, two years old, prettiest thing you ever saw, the apple of my eye.”
He manages a rumbled smile, a knowing smile, and for a moment I feel hopeful, hope that he was going to let this go because we had found a common truth; fatherhood. I hoped he would be gentle on me, maybe even sympathize and forget about this. Maybe we would draw a pact, I thought, a gentleman’s agreement right there in the car that would have one of his sons marry my daughter 25yrs from now. Yes, my daughter is a definite catch, stunning as the star, I would convince him. Then I would screw him off the deal. Put a cap on his son’s knees if he even dared knock on my gate.
Here is what happens. We get to the hospital and the doctor asks if he passed out at some point. I say negative. He seems surprised. But he points out that the bleeding is a good sign. “If he didn’t bleed this much, it would have meant he is bleeding from the inside. And that is fatal. ” He says, and I’m relieved, slightly. They also have to do a scan to certify that his brain didn’t shift to his throat or something.
Njogu together with these other fellas run a law firm. His partners apparently had witnessed the accident from their office window and had called his brother who had told him where we were headed. Half an hour later, as he is in theater, the partners show up in dark suits. You know those characters in Grisham books? Now forget them, think some sharp Kenyan lawyers with a bone to pick.
One of the partners is an ageing and distinguished (and clearly wealthy because he has a Tanzanite rock on his finger than can buy you a new Vitz) Kikuyu man called Kimani who asks me questions somberly. He reminds me of detective Derrick of the 80’s series. He speaks softly, gently even, as if he wants to make sure I understand “the words that are coming out of his mouth”. As expected I’m in jeans, canvas shoes and a black leather jacket, and so next to him I feel like a dysfunctional twat who stole his father’s car.
But he is very patient with me, patient and polished. At the same time he asks clear questions which make me feel like I’m on a trial for double murder. He listens to my answers, absorbs them, thinks for a minute before asking me another in the same somber tone. “So how many meters were you driving from the pavement, and what was the temperature of your engine?”
Dude is freaking me out.
The other partner just stares at me. Soon one of Njogu’s brothers pitch up in one of those delivery bikes. Mid twenties, looks rough and agitated. He doesn’t speak to me. Then Njogu’s best pal shows up, then more of his friends show up. Before long, there are about a dozen men holding court in the waiting room, jabbering in Kyuk. I feel so alone. At this point I know for sure that I’m done. I’m a journalist, from a different tribe and I just ran down their brother/colleague. Open and shut case. Kaput. Shagz in the next bus out.
Then something extraordinary happens. And listen to this because there is a vital lesson here. Detective Derrick calls me aside and tells me this, “I have been in Nairobi for 45yrs and driving for most of those years and when you drive in Nairobi you are prone to hit someone or something. This was not your fault. This can happen to anyone. But we are that you brought him here, not very many people would do that. It shows you are
a good person inside, and here we are all good people. Don’t worry about this any longer, okay?”
I almost hugged that guy.
So he gives me his business card and he leaves. And the brother who rides a delivery bike comes to me and we chat, and he is really a nice fellow. I mean, he didn’t seem learned or anything but he was more reasonable and composed than many people with masters I’ve met. Soon we are all bonding and laughing.
Finally Njogu comes out with a huge bandage around his head and he jokes, “ I think I’m changing religion to Mkorino,”. Laughter all over. I take him for a head scan which thankfully reveals no fracture to the skull. It’s around 3pm now. Njogu suggests we go to the cops where he says it was his fault and that he won’t press charges. We shake hands outside the cops station, and he suggests we should choma some nyama soon.
And that really touched me, his generosity. He had every opportunity to screw me over. He had everything chance to make my life hell, yet he opted to walk away, to let everything be. There is something he told me outside the cops station, “ It doesn’t matter how far we drag this, it’s already done, we all are trying to survive in this town, we are all struggling to make something and so I don’t see the point in me trying to capitalize on your misfortune. We have a saying in Kikuyu which goes…” And he raps this saying which roughly translates to karma is a female dog.
I asked myself if I would have done the same if I was in his shoes. I felt challenged because I knew I would be pissed like hell someone running me over, but would I put my hand on his shoulder and say, come one lets have
some nyama sometime? If that’s not greatness, I don’t know what is.