11/03/2026
MEMORIES:
Cheptuya is a small village in West Pokot. It borders Trans-Nzoia County on the west. This Village boasts of a vibrant cattle market that operates two days in a week; on Tuesdays and Saturdays. The inhabitants of West Pokot are largely pastoralists who depend on livestock for their livelihood. A single household has up to hundreds of heads of cattle, sheep and goats. These in turn, apart from providing food and clothing to the inhabitants, need large areas of grassland to graze and get nourishment.
Because of the limited grazing grounds, cattle owners are forced to curl or cut to size their herds in order to meet the issue of grazing and farmland. It is these curled stocks that are sold to the neighbouring communities for cash. The people of Trans-Nzoia have been the biggest clients for these for ages.
Sometime back, in 2003, I left my teaching job in a school in our rural village and decided to seek employment elsewhere. The reasons for the same should not worry you so much. The thing here is, with my first salary from that employment, I decided to engage in the business of buying livestock from Cheptuya at a cheap price and sell the same to our butchers at almost double the price. It was good business but, as usual, when it got better and bigger, middlemen, brockers commonly referred to as ‘Wachurusi’ or Chemung'ara set in. They spoiled the market by going to the pastoralists days prior to the market day and negotiated the price of the animals to a lower price. Then, the next day, they'd take the animals back to the same market and sell them exorbitantly, gave the farmers the agreed price and pocketed whatever remained on top.
Initially these chemung'ara were ordinary men. But as days progressed, KPRs (Kenya Police Reservists) set in and took over the job. When we got wise and instead perfected their game by going directly to the herders’ homes, the KPRs set up roadblocks along the roads leading to and away from the market. Here, they fleeced businessmen clean by demanding to see moving permits, sales agreements, vaccination cards etc before they could let the cattle pass. And, whether one produced the said documents (which were often handwritten notes from the local chief) or not, you were sure to leave behind two hundred shillings for every head of cattle at every roadblock you came to. The roadblocks were many and the charges dependent on the number and size of cattle you had.
These KPRs were an arrogant lot because they were in collaboration with the local administration and police. So they could do anything without fear of reprisals. If you got too clever for their tricks, they could brand you as a cattle thief and force humongous charges that'd make you run for your life and leave behind your charges.
On the very day of my business at Cheptuya, I was a victim of the same. Having parted with a sizeable wad of paper money, I got incensed and decided to lipiza kisasi for that mnyanyaso. It felt bad to buy cattle then pay almost an equivalent of the same to see the cattle to your boma.
As my elder, who was more conversant with the routes, was leading the cattle, I followed him on my new Raja bicycle, famoulsy known as Baiskeli ya waalimu. Our herd, combined, was quite large but trouble was getting profit of our money. Chemung'ara had taken almost all the profits and, going by the pitiably thin structures of the animals, it'd be a miracle to get back our money.
I was thinking thus, when we reached Kiptuimet Junction. As my brother shooed the animals down the slope towards West and Marinda, I stopped back and asked a local where I could get something for my throat. He was a seasoned kalewa, going by the bleary eyes and dry cracked lips and bloated cheeks.
“Ni hapo chini kwa kona, Afande,” he pointed with his chin. “Nibebe kwa baik nikupeleke.” And he jumped onto the carrier without the slightest inclination to invitation.
I pedaled fast towards the location he had pointed and he jumped down shouting to fellow drunkards that Afande wanted a drink. Several people fled in different directions. But many were too drunk to even get up. The owner of the pub, which sold Busaa, Machozi Ya Simba and Bangi came towards me with trembling knees.
“You are the new Afande we were told about. Karibu Mweshimiwa.” I was offered a seat which I declined. Up to this point, I hadn't uttered a word. Thoughts were racing through my mind. How can I be a new Afande? What is it that has made these folks mistake me for a policeman?
Then it dawned on me. I had had a smart crew-cut the previous day. My clothes were pressed to perfection and I donned a pair of black gleaming industrial boots, a gift from my younger brother, Mike-Nerico who worked with CAC, a cane transporting contractor in Mumias. In addition, I had on an army-type raincoat from the same brother!
In short, I presented the picture of a perfectly new cop in the area. My refusal to have a seat nor alight from the Raja bicycle further served to confirm that indeed I was a cop.
The barman called all his compatriots and, amongst them, pooled together 4k which they pressed into my hands. The idea being to bribe this new cop into getting friendly.
Sensing danger here, I turned around the bicycle and made it as if to cycle towards the gate.
“Afande usikasirike na hii kidogo. Wacha tukuongezee. Hata ingine tutakuwa tukikuletea huko kwa kambi yenu,” the fellows whined.
They rounded up all the drunkards who lay helpless on the ground, ransacked their pockets and emptied the contents in a bowl. A further 6k was realised and my palms were, once again, greased.
I pocketed the loot and swung onto the bicycle. My drunk companion, he who had brought me to this dangerous luck, jumped onto the carrier and we went out.
“Do not forget to bring in the money every end month without fail,” I sang over my shoulder. “Msipofanya hivyo na nirudi hapa tena hamtafurahia matokeo.”
“Afande hatutasahau hiyo. Karibu tena,” they sang.
Down the slope towards Webuye, my companion begged to alight.
“Afande, unajua hawa wakora hawajui kuwa wewe sio askari. The GSU at Kirita Post were transferred last month and it was rumored that they were to be replaced this week. These fellows have lived large by bullying me and not giving me a drink. When I saw you and your carriage, first I too was almost sure you were a cop. But how you entered the compound and never did the usual things cops do in order to get ready cash, I concluded that it was a case of mistaken identity.”
I was taken aback. Kwani this kalewa had known all along that I wasn't a cop but played along and even suggested that I was one!
Wonders will never end!
“What do cops do that I did not do?” I asked, knowing too well that the first thing a cop does is produce handcuffs, a firearm and proceed to search the homestead and people of any illegal substances. This guy was smart.
“sasa tufanyaje?” I asked.
“Si unitupie kakitu kisha we plan you come back next week which is end of the month. I have a feeling no police officer will be brought here because security has long been bolstered and incidents of cattle-rustling have been unheard of for over 10 years.”
I took out a 500/ and gave him, praying that he did not take count of the money I had been given. But he was much sharper than I thought.
“Afande ongeza ifike thao,” he coaxed.
I gave him another 500/ and promised that come next week, we'd split the loot equally. He thanked me profusely and I pedalled away furiously. Never looking back.
I found my brother resting with the cattle at Kapomboi primary school.
“Wee bro, shika hii 200/ utajipanga. Mimi tukutane nyumbani.” And I went away like an Olympic cyclist, leaving my brother puzzled.
I was determined to put as much distance as possible between me and Kiptuimet Centre as I could. At home, I took off my clothes and boots and stowed them under the bed. Couldn't afford to risk it when word started trickling out that there was a rogue police officer conning people around.
And although nothing of the sort came out, I never again ventured into the business of buying and selling cattle. I had gotten back almost thrice the money that the KPRs had taken from me. I'd not want the same people who had mistaken me for a cop to see me driving cattle from the market. That'd be stretching it too far.
Kazi ya Karao ni tamu wewe!
