JIJI NDOGO: Of home comforts lost in translation

His wife, Sgt Sophia, also happens to be his colleague at the Jiji Ndogo Police Post. Her father, Inspector Tembo, is their boss at the post, but, lately his mind has been slipping further and further into the deep end.

That young man is yours truly. And if you think that’s sad enough, there’s more. My wife and I got into a marital spat that got me kicked out of the house. Now I’m living with my father-in-law. Yesterday he went to Mla Chake shop for a packet of milk only to realise he hadn’t brought any money with him.

Always ready with a witty quip, Dr Selitol, the shopkeeper, said, “Wewe taka chukua maziwa bila pesa. Wewe ni kama mwizi tu.”

So, my boss came back into the house, fetched his gun and walked out the door.

I went after him. “What’s the matter, sir?”

“I just came from the shop,” he said, “and the shopkeeper said there was a thief at his shop.”

In a nutshell, that’s my life. I have to uphold the law at Jiji Ndogo, while concealing the fact that my boss isn’t fit for his job. If I lived in one of those hoity-toity Western countries, I’d be spending a tonne of money on therapists.

But I’m in one of the smallest villages in Kenya. If you mention the word “therapist” here, someone would quickly assume you meant “the rapist” and were only pronouncing it wrong.

Would you, therefore, blame me for getting a little kick out of my work? Policing in Jiji Ndogo is no nuclear surgery, as my friend Mwendaa likes to joke. Yes, he’s the village madman, and we call him Mwendaa since no one knows his real name. Believe it or not, he’s one the brightest spots in my day whenever he decides to pop in.

“Have you ever thought that maybe they’re lying to us?” he once asked me.

“Who are lying about what?” I shot back.

“Everyone might be lying. I mean, seriously, what if the moon is only the sun at night?”

Yes, that’s our Mwendaa. Sometimes very philosophical, most times bat-crap crazy. “I can’t even be sure I was born,” was another gem from him.

“Why?” I asked, if only to humour him.

“Because I don’t know my parents. That’s proof, isn’t it?”

Today, another interesting anecdote brightened up my day. An older gentleman, probably in his fifties, came to my office all innocent like.

“Afande, habari?” he says. “Naitwa Juma. Nimenunua shamba hapa Jiji Ndogo juzi.”

He goes on to narrate how he employed some young men to help him move furniture into his new home. During the move, he complained how his back ached and that he should probably consider getting more comfortable seats.

“Zii, zii, mzae,” said one of the men. “Chenye unahitaji ni ki-foreign. Ukitaka upone mgongo, saka ki-foreign, jo.”

“And you want me to help you?” I ask him.

“Si ndiyo. Sijui Jiji Ndogo vyema. Waweza nielekeza kwenye nitanunua ki-foreign?”

“You do know this is a police station, right?”

“Najua. Huduma kwa wote, ama?”

“And yet you came to ask me for help to buy marijuana?”

“Eti bangi? Sijaongelea bangi. Nataka kununua kiti foreign. Kama kiti ex-UK. Ama kwani ki-foreign inamaanisha nini?”

“Look, Mr Juma, if anyone talks of Mary Jane? It’s not a woman. Also, weed? Not what you think. Neither does grass, or pot.”