Due Justice

There was a Terror in the neighborhood. From the rumors, this Terror stalked like a shadow. It could slip through even the smallest hole or disappear into the ground in a puff of dust. It killed instantly, and without sound. This Terror was immune to fire, cold, and poison. And it was not afraid of snakes.

This Terror's prey were chickens large and small, and any other animal that can be easily assassinated and inconspicuously carried off. Elusive and annoying, this Terror was a menace to all the chicken and rabbit keepers in the area who all wished dearly for its abrupt demise.


My neighbor's bitch had recently given birth to four puppies. Although she was a grainy yellow, each puppy she birthed had its own unique color: solid brown and white, smokey black, Oreo cookie, and a blended brownish black. The children on the compound took special interest in each puppy, naming the one they each liked best, and secretly playing with them when my neighbor was not looking (they say that if you play with puppies when they are small, they become worthless as watchdogs when they get older).



The puppies were nearly two weeks old. Their eyes had only just fully opened and they were learning to walk. At times we would just stand and watch as they awkwardly took each step and then paused, bow-legged, with their cute faces searching around for approval.

On one fateful Saturday, the children were playing outside when they heard an unusual wail from the puppies, followed by desperate and incessant yelping sounds. The children and the housekeeper ran to investigate the commotion to find The Terror with the smallest puppy in his mouth trying to escape, but obviously encumbered by the weight of its prey. The children screamed. Instantly the housekeeper surveyed the ground, grabbed the biggest stone in proximity and hurled the projectile at The Terror. With a great thud, the stone made impact, knocking the puppy free and disorienting the Terror. The children did not stand idle, they grabbed their own weapons and began hurling, beating, and abusing the Terror until the housekeeper came by with a larger rock, and loosed it on the head of the beast, killing it instantly.

The children rushed to the puppies, to find that all of them had been injured by The Terror, but that they were thankfully all still alive. The puppy being carried by The Terror was in the worst shape; blood trickled from his neck down his foreleg, and open gashes splayed across his belly. After checking that the puppies were alright, they ran to the carcass of The Terror.



“Let's roast it,” one child said after they spent minutes staring at the dead animal. So they got to work placing sticks and dry grass under the carcass and then setting fire to the dead beast. The children all huddled around, the younger ones screaming in delight at the sight of the open fire while the others watched intently as The Terror's hair burned away and the skin began to bubble and melt. After half an hour, The Terror was well-cooked, and so they carried the roasted meat to the mother and the four puppies.




“Eat.” The children commanded the dogs, as they laid the meat in front of them. “Eat, so that you heal quickly!” The children felt it was only fair that the bitch and her puppies were fed the meat of their attacker. The dogs usually had vegetarian food, so this was actually a treat for them. Hungrily the mother ate her fill and breastfed her puppies.

The housekeeper glowed as neighbors lauded her for her great aim and triumph over The Terror. Finally, after months of poaching chickens and puppies, The Terror had been slain. Finally, due justice had been paid.

From hearing rumors of The Terror, I was suspecting a much more vicious, malicious, monstrous creature. But in the end The Terror simply turned out to be a mongoose. No wonder it wasn't afraid of snakes.

The Matatu Race

Two vans screamed down the road, kicking dust into the air like a raging wildfire in a strong wind. We all turned our heads away from the dust, shutting our eyes and mouths tightly to prevent the particles from entering. As they flew by, I recognized the vans to be two matatus, the 14-seat public transportation vehicle in Kenya. “Why are they going so fast, and so close together?” I asked my friend. Matatu drivers are known to be reckless, but even I had never seen them go so fast.
“They are just racing.” my friend replied.
Just racing. I thought to myself. Seems a bit dangerous..
If you think about it, two registered public transportation vehicles racing down a one-and-a-half lane dirt road while carrying more than the capacity of passengers is not exactly the safest mode of travel. But who can blame a couple of matatu drivers for wanting a bit of excitement to spice up the day, right?

It was morning, I walked out leisurely from my friend's house with a few large bags. A good thirty kilometers of bumpy, dirt road separated me from my home, and I was hoping I did not have to wait too long for a matatu to come. As I came in sight of the bus stage, I saw two matatus revving up, kicking dust from the ground, and spewing black smoke from their exhaust. The conductor looked back at me as if to telepathically ask me if I wanted to go, and with my affirmation he made the signal for me to hurry to him. I began to jog awkwardly with my cumbersome luggage, but his impatience prompted him to meet me halfway and help me carry my things. He grabbed them, threw them in the trunk of the vehicle, and nearly shoved me in, all the while yelling, “Twende! Twende!” or “Let's go! Let's go!” to the driver.

The other vehicle had the jump on us, and was already just a billow of dust in our windscreen. The driver smiled confidently as he shifted the gears, second to third, third to fourth. He knew the roads better than anyone, feeling the corrugated bumps and the muddy soft spots twice every day. The matatu shook violently as it hit bumps, rocks and uneven terrain. With each violent jostle, all of the passengers leaped out of their seats, me included, and every now and again my head would strike the metal roofing with a muted thud. But personal comfort or safety did not matter now, nor did the integrity of the van's suspension. That billow of dust ahead was all that mattered, and it began taking the form of a vehicle. We were catching up.

“Wait!” The conductor yelled, beating furiously on the metal roof to signal the stop. We had just hit an especially large bump, and the trunk had flung open. I looked back through the rear window to see some luggage had spilled out as well, and was scattered behind the van on the road. I chuckled to myself at how reckless these guys were, spilling people's luggage without consideration. Then, as I looked closer, I realized that it was my luggage that had fallen out! Angrily I glared at the conductor for his negligence, while hoping that nothing had broken. As the van came to a stop, the conductor ran out to gather the luggage and hastily fasten the trunk again. We were off again, and this time, we went faster.

Up ahead the other matatu had stopped to pick up a passenger, and so we took our chance for the lead. We were finally ahead after 10 miles, and still with about 20 miles until the finish. Yet, passengers speckled the road side, and we too stopped to pick them up. A game of “leap frog” then ensued, trading off abrupt stops to pick passengers, while trying to maintain the lead. I realized then, the matatu with the lead actually picks up more passengers and has a greater financial benefit because of it. That financial incentive was probably the underlining motivation for the festive matatu race. It felt like I was living in a rural version of the old video game “Crazy Taxi,” as each matatu was still going at reckless speeds, and each driver was not willing to yield a passenger or be second at the finish line.

For a good stretch of road we developed a lead, so much so that we could no longer see our competitors behind us. But again, with a loud Thump! The matatu hit a huge bump and the trunk opened wide again, splaying my luggage again across the road. “Put the luggage in the cabin, not the boot!” the driver yelled at the conductor, his frustration soaked deeply into the tone of his voice. This time I laughed as the conductor rushed out to gather my things. I couldn't help but enjoy the whole experience. It gave enough time for the competing van to appear behind us, raising the tension of the race again.

My home was still on the racecourse, so as I approached, I told the conductor that I would alight as quickly as I could. As the van screeched to a halt in front of my home, I wished them luck so they would win the race.

I have no idea if they did.