Part 2: Mtwapa Edition

After visiting the male prisoners, we find time to offer legal aid to women prisoners. A young woman barely in her twenties approaches me and speaks perfect Swahili. She is a Luhya but the way she speaks her Swahili is music to my ears. Sample this:

“ Ninatatizika kidogo. NImeshinda huku karibu miezi tisa bila kesi yangu kusikizwa. Kila mara kiongozi wa mashtaka atatoa sababu na kufanya kesi ihahirishwe. Wakili wangu sijamtia machoni. Yuwaja kortini na kujiendea bila ya kuzungumza nami..”

“ I am in a fix. I have been in remand for close to nine months yet my case hasn’t been heard. Every time, the prosecution will give excuses to seek adjournment of the case. I have not yet met my advocate. He does come to court but disappears after court sessions without talking to me.”

Swahili aside, the most depressing indictment of our court system in Kenya is the backlog of cases. One in remand could stay there for more than a year without his case being heard and as if that is not ‘torture’ enough, every other time the case would be adjourned. I heard from a couple of prisoners the common problem of them not being given an opportunity to address the court especially when they are representing themselves. They are conveniently ignored, they say. Two issues: One, how adequate is free legal representation in Kenya? Two, are there instances of blatant disregard of an accused’s right to legal representation? If so, what are their recourse in case of breach?

There was an interesting case of a woman whose sentence was erroneously computed. Instead of doing it concurrently, the sentence was made to run cumulatively! As such, the prisoner ( according to this error) was to be out of prison in 2017 yet in real sense she was to be free three months ago! So grave was this issue that our supervisors had to intervene and explain this anomaly to the prison authorities.

I met another case of a woman who had paid an advocate some sum so that she could be represented but the advocate went missing. That was embarrassing especially as I set out to explain the role of the Advocates Complaints Commission and how she could lodge her complaint.

I notice that a tree we sit close by has most of its lower branches chopped off. My imagination goes on a stampede. Is it to prevent a prisoner from running and hiding on top of this tree?

We handle a couple of other clients and by almost 4 p.m. we are done. Later in the evening, as we walk in the streets of Mtwapa, a friend admires a pair of shoes going for 450 shillings. On saying that she had 250 shillings, our good Mombasa businessman summarily dismisses us saying, “Jaribu kesho”. You see, these Mombasa businessmen don’t get it. We, the bara people know how to bargain. You say a pair of shoes goes for 1000 shillings and we divide that figure with 2 and minus 100 shillings and start bargaining from there. But again, Mtwapa is not Muthurwa and Abdulrahman is not Kamau.

Next day we visit the beach. At least with the consolation that I can swim, I secure a boat ride with my friends. It is a wholesome experience seeing the coral reefs under the glass in our boat. Our driver calls his wife and tells her that he is on a boat “in the high seas”, in the “middle of nowhere” and that “the problem is that he hasn’t signed a will”. We burst out laughing. After the boat ride, I get myself madafu, pose for some photos while wearing a palm-frond hat so that in case some of my haters decide to say that I never went to the beach at least I would have some proof. Plus I made sure that the cameraman captured the coconut trees and the boats. You can’t be sure with some of these things nowadays.

Then we are off to Nairobi. One positive thing is that I no longer talk fast, thanks to the coast.