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You’ve never seen a grimmer-looking group of people enter a building than the morning throng of humanity trooping into Milimani Law Courts. They boot by in various shades of silence, mostly preoccupied, as if what’s happening to them is in a dream, a trance, something happening to someone else. I don’t want to label their general expression pensive or weary because that would suggest despondency; because there is also great hope that flickers in them, like a candle in a gust. They are a mixed bag of truth seekers or truth givers because isn’t the pursuit of justice just the pursuit of truth?

I hovered outside the customer care building’s entrance, waiting for a prosecutor called Abel, who I had only spoken to over the phone. He was to hold my hand through the labyrinth of the court. My watch said it was knocking at 8:30am and a thin sliver of sun lit the main entrance with deceptive warmth.

There were all sorts of people walking into the building. Men in suits scurried past. There were scruffy men and unmemorable men. There were men and women who looked to have left the village at dawn, looking bewildered in this moving melee of humanity. I saw a very old woman in a shuka, walking stick in hand, her grandson carrying her purse dutifully beside her for her day in court. I saw a tight clutch of lawyers dressed in all black, Muslims, hair covered, walking in what seemed like a hierarchical formation; one in front carrying a bulgy leather case, two important-looking ones with tight determined chins following close behind with great purpose, and one trailing behind balancing files in her hands. They seemed very important and learned and grew up not knowing how to smile. They looked ready to shout, “Objection, Your Honour! Prejudice!” The crowd seemed to part as they approached. As they walked by I played the James Bond theme song in my head, a soundtrack to their presidential entrance.

Young sketchy boys in skinny jeans and worn pleather jackets and hoodies milled about looking doomed, probably traffic offenders or petty goons engaged in petty crimes. I saw tons of young-looking lawyers with sleek tailored suits rushing past with great aplomb and ceremony, shoes so shiny you can see them from the moon. They didn’t look like lawyers, they looked like they sold suits and shoes on Instagram. Kina Mato.

The entrance loomed large to receive these diverse people. What’s that famous Dr King quote; the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends towards justice. It’s at Milimani Courts that this arc seemed to bend.

“Biko?” A slim man with an astonishingly beautiful black complexion suddenly appeared before me. He was wearing a sleek fitting pin-stripped suit and a jaundiced-yellow tie. Surely this couldn’t be the prosecutor, Kenyan prosecutors, I imagined, wore baggy suits, missed notches on their trousers and carried toothpicks.

“Yes,” I said.

“Abel,” he extended his paw judiciously. [I have really forced that adjective, haven’t I?]

We walked inside. He said hello to people, or rather people said hello to him. A tall man with a young lady in tow stopped him along the corridor and conferred with him. I stood against the wall, out of the human traffic, and pretended not to eavesdrop.

“That was a cop,” he said when we started down a corridor again.

I looked back at the guy in a suit. That guy didn’t look anything like a cop.

“He doesn’t look anything like a cop.”

“I work a lot with cops. You have to, as a prosecutor,” he said. “And the lady he is with is an intern, probably studying criminology.”

His office was small. The door read something-something Murder. It wasn’t his office, he explained. He was only using it temporarily. I didn’t ask what happened to his office. There were two wooden desks and wooden chairs. There were tons of files everywhere; green files, red files, yellow files, blue files. The life of the judicial system, it seems, is fueled by files. I asked him if the cases were colour coded. He said no, “but white files are for the children’s court.” Made sense; purity and all.

People knocked and stuck their heads around the door to ask him something. The cop came back and they talked about a case, the criminologist stood sentry at the door. Abel prepared for the day. On any typical day he can handle an average of a dozen cases, some days he does way more. “This should be an interesting case for you to hear,” he leafed through a file with a creased brow. “It’s a wash-wash case. They conned a guy 300 million.”

I whistled at the amount.

He carried the files and we left, a sharp corner, a corridor.
“Morning Abel?”
“Morning.”
“Morning Abel, ile mambo yangu bado?”
“Bado kidogo.”
“Abel, morning, I will come see you later.”
Down the corridor we went, took a left and then we were in Magistrate Court 8. I’ve never ever set foot in a court building before, never been in a courtroom in my life. All I know about courtrooms is from the TV comedy program ‘Vioja Mahakamani’.

Court 8 looked almost like Vioja Mahakamani’s set, only it had many large windows and plenty of light. The magistrate’s seat was raised, behind it, the court of arms to remind you where you are. It all felt serious and important, but also stripped of any frills. No potted plants, no framed photos.

Court 8 was already full. Abel squeezed past a few people standing as he made his way to the front. “Sit there.” He pointed at a seat against a window opposite the accused dock. There were many lawyers with one hand in their pockets talking to each other in their lawyerly English (legalese?) and many other people who didn’t look like lawyers. The front bench had what looked like more lawyers, including an elderly one with a white beard.

Suddenly the room fell into deep silence and everybody scrambled to their feet. I looked up to see a lady slip through the side door. The principal magistrate. I don’t know if I’m allowed to identify her by name or I might be summoned to court if she doesn’t appreciate that, but her name was Honourable Abdul.

We bowed and took our seats. There is a lot of bowing in the court, you will notice as you read this article. In fact, let’s play a game, every time I write ‘Your Honour’ or ‘Her Honour’ please just bow slightly?

Anyway, all I could see of Her Honour was her blue suit. Blue represents freedom, intuition, wisdom, intelligence and faith. She had a narrow face that tapered gently at her chin. Red lipstick. She wore a severe look that looked like it had never been visited by a smile. When she looked at you you slid slightly in your seat to remain small. You wanted to turn into a tree so that she doesn’t affect you with her look.
At least the guys of ‘Vioja Mahakamani’ got that right. She was what I imagined a magistrate to be; stern, authoritative and decisive. The red lipstick threw me off a bit because it made her human.

She conferred with some files on her desk. The whole room seemed to hold its breath. It felt like she was the person standing at the jukebox, riffling through the records and whichever record she picks would dictate what we all danced to in the room. Such was the power of the one manning the jukebox. She who pays the piper.

She said something I didn’t catch and Abel started saying something I couldn’t hear. I wasn’t close enough to hear. I heard her honour say words like ‘bail’ and something to do with 20th february. A man took the stand and swore to say nothing but the truth. He read his police force number. He said the accused was sick, hospitalised. He begged for more time. Her Honour asked, “how much time?” without looking at him. “Two months,” he begged. Her Honour [are you bowing?] wrote something. She wrote a lot throughout the court session. She was either writing or reading something out loud. “Next mention is 20th March,” she said.

Three accused persons took the dock. They looked very hungover. It seemed like at 5:30am one of them said, “guys, you know we have to appear in court today at 9am?” and so they ordered one more round and came straight to court. I could never become a magistrate because I’d have one look at you and if you looked like those men, I’d throw the book at you, and toss the keys for good measure.

There was a bit of a skirmish. The sitting investigative officer was missing. Her Honour said something about the cops playing cat and mouse with the court. She wasn’t happy. She was happy the officers were no longer involved in the case except one. “That one we can deal with,” she said and the whole court laughed. She didn’t laugh though. Instead she told them to tell the remaining Investigating office that she knew the DCIO and that she won’t be adjourning the matter again. She was done adjourning. “Spread the gospel,” she said sternly.

A very tall bearded man in a dark suit walked into court and bowed. I recognised him immediately. We went to university together. Samson Kinyanjui! Only hills won’t meet again. I hadn’t seen him in many many moons and harvests. He was very surprised to see me in court. There was a chap who had left his bag next to me but Kinyanjui didn’t care, he sat next to me and we shook hands and whispered.
“Good to see you, man!”
“You too! Look at that, running into you here!”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for stories,” I whispered.
His whole body, 6’3 of it shook in a silenced chuckle. “Here,” I handed him my phone to save his number, “so that you don’t disappear again”.

The hungover crew was given another hearing. They looked relieved to leave. I bet they went straight to the bar to celebrate.

Four characters took the stand. One had a grey suit, the other a checked shirt and the taller one an old leather jacket. I’m sorry, but if I were a magistrate and you wore a checked shirt to my court, I’d automatically think you are guilty. Checked shirts are triggers for me. The last time I interacted with a guy in a checked shirt, he tried selling me a fake Briggs and Stratton lawn mower. Only God saved me from throwing away close to 98K. I heard a booming voice say, “Biko! Stop! Call Car and General before you buy that mower. And next time, don’t do business with a man in a checked shirt.” I listened to the Lord or whatever that voice was that had dealt with men in checked shirts. The second reason I knew those fellows were crooked is how nonchalant they were about this process. It seemed this wasn’t their first rodeo. This was déjà vu. The last reason I knew they were guilty was their lawyer; a short, elderly counsel with a white beard. He looked experienced. He spoke like he knew how this dance went. He also had an assistant who looked like his own lawyer. So a lawyer with his lawyer. I’m sending your ass to jail.

Old lawyer begged for another two weeks. “One of the accused who wasn’t in court suffered a stroke,” he said. Case to be mentioned on 13th Feb.

Kinjajui’s case was called. His clients were given another date. He said bye and left.

A man in a very shabby grey blazer and an unbuttoned shirt took the dock next. He looked like he owned a bar but I was disappointed to learn that he didn’t. Her Honour read the sentencing. On 26 November he was caught with narcotic drugs. Cops stopped him at 5:15pm on Dubois Lane in the CBD and searched him. They found 20 sachets of heroin and 40 rolls of bhang in his boxers. His boxers! Nobody in court found this funny, apart from me. How big a boxer is this that this fellow wears? And how did these cops just feel his boxers? If I was a cop and saw something bulging in a man’s boxers, I’m not touching it. I’m going home. But then I suspect cops have touched worse things in the line of duty. Or off duty.

Your Honour read that his defence was that the cops planted the drugs in his boxers. That they were crooked cops. Like them crooked Boston cops in the movies. Her Honour said that he only mentioned this fact much later when shit had already hit the fan. She flipped a page and continued reading. She said she found him guilty and he shall be charged under section sijui 3 act sijui 4 of 1994. I wasn’t following those acts.

His lawyer said the accused was remorseful. If I was him I’d be most remorseful for hiding the stash in my boxers. “He’s a family person,” his lawyer begged Her Honour. “He is widowed, four children to take care of. These kids are in school, Your Honour,” he begged. “He is the sole breadwinner and on top of this he is sickly, has diabetes. We have medical records to prove this,” the lawyer continued. I looked at him and thought, yeah, he looks diabetic. That’s no lie. There is a way diabetic people look.

Her Honour wrote furiously as the lawyer spoke. “We pray for a non-custodial sentence because he’s been in trial for the last three years,” the lawyer begged. “We ask for leniency.” Finally Her Honour spoke: he would be detained in Capitol Hill until his mention in a week’s time. Handcuffs were slapped on him and he was whisked away.

A guy called Benson was next.

He went and sat down on the accused dock like he was in his living room. The magistrate looked up and told him coldly, “please stand up when I’m reading this sentence.” He stood up. He had on a terrible suit. Why do most of the accused have terrible suits? It was oversized. It looked like he was wearing a wet camping tent. In 2019 he conned someone of 188K posing as a NEMA official. He promised them some fictitious documentation for some riparian land in Rusinga Island. As she read the sentence, the accused held the dock with two hands as if he was on a violently rocking boat.

“The accused person is found guilty and shall be convicted accordingly,” Her Honour said. “Do you wish to say anything?”

He cleared his throat and said, “I don’t have anything to say.”

The whole court turned to look at him. Her Honour was taken aback. I was taken aback. I wondered, with all those pockets in his tent he didn’t have any f*ks in one of them? Not one single f*k?

“You are not even sorry,” Her Honour said and I thought, ‘oooh shit, she is about to throw the book at him.’

“Your Honour…” the accused spoke up but that ship had already sailed.

“It’s quite in order,” Her Honour said before ordering the man to be taken away to the basement. He was cuffed.

The next case was boring except for one event where a gentleman, a young lawyer, stood up and told Her Honour, “the counsel is not here today but I’m holding brief for him.” I thought, ‘oh my, such flourishing language in the room.’ I really loved that expression, holding brief. I wondered where I would use it on some unsuspecting people during a conversation. Holding brief. So highbrow. So well-heeled. It doesn’t even matter what brief you are holding, a briefcase, a brief interlude, just holding it feels like you are doing something gravely important. If Gloriah writes next week, would she be holding brief? If your brother is out of town for work and you went to his child’s Parent teacher meeting, would you say, “Hi, I’m Biko and I’m holding brief for Julius?” Does the best man hold brief for the groom? Maybe not.

The following case involved many people including some guy who looked French. These people, and others not in court, had swindled some chaps from Dubai a whooping 300 million shillings. They sold them gold only for those Arabs to realise that the gold was actually molten padlocks. The court was so full Her Honour asked anybody who didn’t have any immediate business to vacate the seats and leave the courtroom. She was stern about that, arranging people to make room for the many accused. “You people seated on that bench, move from there. You two, sit there. You, are you waiting for a hearing? OK, wait outside.” I hid behind some guy because I was afraid she would point at me with her pen and ask, ‘do you have a case here?’ and I’d have to say no, and she’d ask, ‘if you don’t have a case what are you doing in my courtroom?” then I’d have to tell her that I just came to watch.

“To watch?” She’d ask incredulously, “you think this is the world cup?”

“No, Your Honour.”

“You think we are having fun here? A place you can come to take my seats and just watch?”

“No, Your Honour. I apologise.”

“Do you mind standing up?”

I’d try standing up and fail.

“I can’t, Your Honour.”

“Why not?”

“My knees. I can’t feel them, Your Honour.”

Someone would laugh and she would turn and glare at them for a full ten seconds and the guy would turn into a pillar of salt or something.

“Shouldn’t you be at work anyway? What do you do?”

“I write, Your Honour.”

“For who?”

“For myself, Your Honour.”

“Of course you do. Listen, since you are in the mood to watch something,” turns to address a uniformed cop, “please take this clown who writes for himself to Capitol Hill and hold him up under section 23, of the penal code 23, of act 19.1” turns to me, “and while you are there, I hope you reconnect with your knees.”

I’d turn to Abel, “Abel, do something please.” Abel would pretend to be suddenly engrossed in the act of reading an important file.

Her Honour: “Abel, do you know his gentleman?”

“No, Your Honour.” That little Judas in a banana tie! “Never seen this man in my life.”

So, yes, like a coward, I hid behind the gentleman seated next to me. Made myself small.

Later, when the chief magistrate called for a 30 minute recess at 10am, I ducked through the side door. Abel and I walked back to his office where he studied more files, talked to more people standing at his door and in the corridor and then he turned and said, “do you want to meet the magistrate in her chambers?”

“Is that allowed?” I asked. Would someone, a civilian like me, just drop in to say hello to a magistrate on duty? In chambers?

“It’s fine,” Abel said.

We knocked on her door. The carpet was the colour of oxygenated blood. A man seated with one leg draped over the other turned to look at us. Abel said hello and I stood at the door in case I had to make a quick dash for it.

She was standing behind her desk, wiping her hands or something. She said hello to Abel who introduced me and explained my presence in the chambers.

“This guy is called bikozulu,” he said, “he has never been to court so he’s here to see what happens.”

“Oh you are the writer guy. I read you. Very interesting.”

My heart burst with a hive of bees. She knew me! Her Honour knew me! I was done. I could retire now. I walked over and we shook hands.

“You have never been to court before?”

“The closest I have gotten to a court is ‘Vioja Mahakamani’.”

She laughed. She can laugh! Laughter lived in her!

“Oh, it’s nothing like Vioja,” she said. “How was your experience?”

I said it was very fast. The process was swift.

“Yes, I don’t want my cases to drag on forever. It’s a waste of everybody’s time. So I have to clear them off my desk as fast and efficiently as possible.”

The seated gentleman uncrossed his legs and crossed them again, a sign I took to mean impatience. I said it was a great honour meeting her. Then I excused myself to let them talk shop. In the corridors I ran into His Flamboyance Cliff Ombeta bouncing off the walls. As usual he was dapper in a swanky suit and a bright tie whose colour I forget now because I didn’t write it down. He looked at me like he knew me from somewhere but walked past. I don’t blame him, I Interviewed him way back in 2019 and so much has happened since; like him losing the Bonchari parliamentary seat.

***

The in-person creative writing masterclasses are back. First one will be in the last week of March. A few slots, fifteen people, maximum of twenty. Meals provided, nothing gourmet so don’t ask for apple crumble dessert, please. (We will have Tropical sweets to suck on throughout, though). No booze in class but there will be a bar, a hotel bar, if you are inclined, so you can knock yourself out after.

I will be the mwalimu, however to preserve my dignity I refuse to wear a tweed coat or a tie. But I will probably use phrases like ‘suffice it to say’ on the first day because you know, mgeni siku ya kwanza. There will be three days of class; 9am to 5pm. I’m a stickler for time so I will start bang on time with whoever is in class. We shall explore topics like the art of description, creating writing routines, audiences, creative nonfiction, writing insecurities, verbs, sentence structure, great writing habits, bad writing habits, interview skills, angling stories and such like things. We have a new curriculum reworked from the old one we used for five years before Covid scuttled it. Just as well, I was getting bored of it.

I will certainly give homework at the end of the day. A writing exercise of sorts. I advise you to do them. If you don’t I will have you kneel in the corner of a class holding up a small placard with the words, ‘Chinua Achebe didn’t die for this shit.” I won’t care if you are lactating. Or you have gout. Or you just lost a plant. Homework will have to be done. Kindly.

It’s learning but it’s good fun. Lots of storytelling. It’s a creative writing masterclass but it’s also about life because writing gurgles from life. And so in class we shall open our lives to receive art.

You can register HERE.

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59 Comments
  1. Thank you for bringing humor to court……..Ah!and Samson, …Kinya…..as we used to call him way back in Campus…..i could see your sheepish smile as explained your encounter…..its good to read of Alumnis doing well for themselves!!

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    1. Maybe some day I will be a ‘Hon. Abdul’ only the name and gender will differ.
      Mark this handle; for future reference. If you ever appear before my court, introduce yourself as MEHE MEHE and maybe I will grant you an adjournment should you need it.

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  2. I have always wondered how magistrates and judges live with their conscience of having to deal with so much sin that people commit over others. Can you imagine the shit they deal with on a daily basis? And also the power they have over offenders…scary?

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  3. Nice one, I follow instructions, bowed to all ‘your honour’. I laughed out loud to your unfelt knees, that was brilliant! Considering the masterclass.

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  4. 40 rolls of bhang in the boxers! and heroin on top. This guy must have inspired our tiktok cop to say that, ” we are moving away from this, hii sasa haibambi”

    and Biko are you sure that throwing banter at Cliff Ombeta is even legal?

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  5. Noooo What happened to the people who swindled 300 million… I was looking forward to their sentencing and/or more details!

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  6. I am off straight away to Car & General to get a genuine Briggs & Stratton Lawn Mower!
    Do they also sell red lipstick?

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  7. Reading this was a lifetime’s experience. Wow!
    Plus, I’m sure if you went and examined how a morgue attendant works in a day; or observed a cancer patient’s final 30 minutes, you would produce gripping, can’t-move-a-muscle piece about it. Such power; such humour; such attention to detail! Asante sana mkubwa!

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  8. First time commentator but a long time reader happy new year Biko and blog family as always a good mid morning read for me in between work. I’ve also been to court just once in my lifetime (now that You’re no longer a court virgin) and I hope to never go again internet brief encounter the law dude advised us overspeeders to plead for mercy when our name was mentioned. I stood, made my voice sound as sad as possible, asked the court for leniency and paid a fine of 10k which I still miss I walked out head held high though because I felt a better man for suffering going to court than pay a bribe to the cops who had clocked me over
    speeding
    Anyway great read Biko

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  9. Lovely article as always. Please specify the timings for the Masterclass especially for those working full time.

    Kind regards,

    1. I was also asking myself that question. Oxygenated blood? wonder how the alternative looks. A good piece, you are gifted Biko.

  10. Hehe. It’s clear Devil’s Advocate in-chief’s amnesia hurt your feelings. Yeah, you had to rub it in that he lost Bonchari.

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  11. You got the meaning of holding one’s brief spot on but should definitely be shot over how you quote the Acts woi. Awesome read it’s amazing to see how courts work in the eyes of laymen.. yes I mean you chocolate man you are the layman here.

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  12. As a ‘Kina Mato’ please leave us alone with our skinny suits, being a junior lawyer is hard enough and those ones give us purpose. Somehow, because some female magistrates need a good legal distraction from days that are full of prejudice.

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  13. Courts of law are only interested in the law, not truth; hence no justice.
    They were established by kings to kill off subjects’ anger so that they don’t butcher each other in case of disagreements. That’s why cases take years to resolve because time heals, and as you wait for a ruling, the actors play with your mind using Latin words.

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  14. “They found 20 sachets of heroin and 40 rolls of bhang in his boxers. His boxers! Nobody in court found this funny, apart from me”

    Chocolate man, I have found this absolutely hilarious!! Laughing out hella loud in a matatu. I’m assuming the looks I’ve been given here is exactly what you’d have gotten in court.

    Or Her Honour and her red lipstick would’ve turned you into a pillar of salt.

    I’ve really enjoyed this read. Thoroughly. Dare I say, judiciously? (I know it’s misplaced and I don’t care)

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  15. Courts of law are only interested in the law, not truth; hence no justice.
    They were established by kings to kill off subjects’ anger so that they don’t butcher each other in case of disagreements. That’s why cases take years to resolve because time heals, and as you wait for a ruling, the actors play with your mind using Latin words.

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  16. Hi Biko, always a good read.. maybe one day I will join your classes but not just yet.. I was very good with writing compositions
    For now I am looking out for someone whose stories need to be told.. but she needs the skills.. Do you give scholarships? Thanks in advance for your response

  17. What a great start to the year! WOW! At the second “Your Honor” I found myself bowing! Looking forward Biko! Really looking forward to my Tuesdays!

  18. I know the Milimani you describe so well. Me (and Wanjeri Nderu-Musembi) spent a good five years seeking Justice (and for The Truth) to come out, in spite of delay tactics, about a vile and orchestrated defamation campaign two individuals ( I came to call them the ‘Witch’ and the ‘(something that rhymes with ‘witch’)’ had launched against me – in all probability for the benefit of an NGO that solicits fund for all sorts of alphabetical s***!
    In the end, the Sword of Damocles landed on their libelous heads (in the Court of the very judicious Lady CM Ada Obura), at which point one the Witch, one S. Patel, promptly fled the country/ from Justice, leaving the ‘B’ holding the judgment basket (served hot as a potato in Kongowea).
    p.s. His Flamboyance C.O. is a distant cousin from Bonchari, my late mom’s place – and he’s just laughing at your piece.
    (Not sure my momsy would have voted for him last year, though, but I sure would have – if my Vote was in Bonchari) …

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  19. Damn!! Abel is damn lucky to have met you Biko!! And yes we prosecutors are dapper! No saggy suits tafadhali! I wish he’d brought you to the prosecutors’ common room

  20. Ordinarily, I just read these pieces and responses without commenting. Like Hon. Dida I presume. Suffice to say (adopting your sophistry), I comment in my mind. And on my faces, with different expressions. But I wanted to –

    1. Advice you not to use ‘holding brief’. It is for the legal profession. Which is jealousy of any intrusion.
    2. say that what if, this sentence read as: ‘These kids are in school, Your Honour, he begged.’ Instead of: ‘These kids are in school, your honour he begged’

    Well, maybe that’s why I need to enroll to the masterclass haha

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  21. Sometimes I wonder what happens to my comments, I comment and they never reflect, I hope this one does.
    My reading is the kind that goes past all the replies to the bottom of the page, I follow the links that people share on their replies, @Mark Alphy, THEFLOWER ON THE WALL, I love your blogs. There is a lady who goes by the user name Wanjiru, I haven’t seen your comment today.
    Tuesday is a day of prayer for the disciples of Biko.
    Wondering how to find my way from Kampala to the Masterclass.

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  22. Wish you wrote more on the 300 million case, but we understand it’s sub judis. My friends and I had once been conned in gold business way back in 2018.

  23. I thought about you the entire time I read this piece…( Yes you….) There’s a way you bring beauty around the legal paths. Someday I would love to watch you do your ‘Yorona’…

  24. I burst out in laughter from the point where her honor will hypothetically ask if this is a World Cup..Lmao
    I also caught myself randomly bowing as advised,hahaa

  25. What in the biology is happening here..”jaundice-yellow” and then there is “oxygenated blood.” Aih yawa, we are writing judiciously today..

  26. Been to court once. Petty offender. I had so much fun listening and almost laughing at the happenings .

    I wasted lots of time before my case was mentioned.

    Nowadays I just abide by the rules

  27. The way Biko elicits such real emotions with his writing..this one had me laughing to tears , in a mat no less. I’m sure Her Honor will love it too, especially that knees part.
    Anyway, Biko is a national treasure and should be protected at all costs.

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  28. I hope you got a chance to hear the morning chant of “simu, fungu, coins na bag, weka kando pita kwa machine” at the entrance.

  29. You’ve made my morning with this piece. I believe the prosecutor you are talking about is Abel Omariba. Quite a nice chap,we were classmates in law school.