Day In Court, Never Again!

For driving a car with worn out tires 🛞, I appeared in court on a peaceful Monday morning. Spent nine hours as a court patron. Half the time listening to cases I had no interest in. The other half, detained in an overcrowded court cell.

To save face, I should have bribed💰my way out that Saturday morning, when the female police officer flagged me down. She asked for Ksh.4K. At the police station, her male colleague discounted it to Ksh.3K, only. An easier way out 🤷‍♂️.

My stubborn faith pointed me to paying the cash bail of Ksh.5K. 

Walking in the light isn’t light. That Saturday morning, my muscles tightened in readiness, as we drove to the police station. The female officer perched herself on the back right. She couldn’t pardon me. I couldn’t yield to her demand. First mistake I did, was to ferry her in my car.

She should have used her own means to the police station, tupatane mbele.

The police station was like a marketplace. I mentally encouraged myself to succeed. A noisy public space where everyone was talking and shouting from their corner. Unwritten rules of the game were, the uniformed police were the sanctioned bullies. Everyone else was raia. Answering, ‘Yes Sir‘ or ‘Yes Madam‘.

The vanities and vagaries of ‘power’ that come with a police badge!

For those who work at Coop Bank in Upper Hill or went to Marion Group of Schools, you will find the traffic department extremely chaotic and archaic. They have long and wide tables. Like we used to have in our high school dining hall.

Offenders were booked on A4 size books, which have seen better days.

Perched at a corner facing the entrance was the male officer in charge. He gave me one sizing-up glance. Called my attention saying, “Wewe, macho nne kuja hapa!” For the four years I’ve had specs, this was my first time to be addressed that way.

I was being identified with my accessories. Like calling a lady by her glossy lip balm! The same dehumanizing attitude would play out in court, when I appeared on Monday.

Seeing I didn’t fit his bill for quick cash, he ordered me out. Sent me to an Mpesa shop to withdraw and bring cash bail. How convenient it would have been to digitize cash bail!

Are police stations intentionally designed for inconvenience?

Everything is manual. Except phone calls with their faceless superiors. Getting or updating instructions on (cash or case) targets for the day. Offenders were booked and categorized as such, cash or case!

My accompanying female police smiled with satisfaction as her colleague booked me. She walked back to Nairobi traffic for her next catch. Her first case for the day, out of the way. She needed two more, to meet expectation for her day’s target.

For not bribing, I wasted an hour. Wandering, then paid the cash bail.

This was going to be my second appearance in court as a traffic offender. Kinda, I knew the drill. When facing the Magistrate, you plead guilty, show remorse and ask for pardon. Depending on his/her mood, you are judged.

The first time I was slapped with the full fine of Ksh.20K. This time, things would take a different twist. I came out scathed and scratched, psychologically.

On Monday @8am, I was in Court to take plea. If you doubted Kenya is 80% Christian, then please know that junior judicial officers start off the day in the court premises, with praise and prayer to God, at a common area.

They invite a preacher to speak to court patrons, every morning. 

On this day, a female judicial officer called us to order. She went through her welcoming remarks and orientation spill. Similar to a KQ flight attendant. For newbies, she described the seven courts operating in the building. Each handling different cases. She then pointed to a list of cases being heard in the day, plastered outside the gate.

Directing us to verify our names or cases.

After warning us not to trust another court patron, but consult Customer Care for any inquiries on navigating the judicial processes, she led us in a praise song (thanking God for His goodness). Then invited us to stand as she ushered in a street preacher. 

The charismatic man of God engaged us for 10 min. Telling us to turn to our neighbors and cheer up one another. He read from Jeremiah 1:19, “They will fight you, but they will fail. For I am with you, and I will take care of you. I, the LORD, have spoken!”

What more hope did we need than his generous dose from scriptures!

After exhausting us with more that five rounds of ‘turn to your neighbor and tell them this or that‘, he wound up leading us in the song, ‘Mungu wangu atanipigania.’ The song sounded like direct translation from mother-tongue. Rather than an original Swahili song. He concluded with prayer.

Queues were already forming, by the time he said amen. We majestically marched into the courts. Hope held high. God is fighting for us, pushing back the darkness. This was actually, my fourth time appearing in court. Two earlier instances as a witness or guarantor. Two other times (including this one) as a traffic offender. 

In the first offense I had used the wrong lane at a roundabout. The case was filed as causing obstruction. Fingers crossed this time, that pleading guilty and sharing evidence of remorse (receipts of new tires) would earn me pardon from the Magistrate. 

Judicial processes are painful. Wheels of justice turn, VERY slowly.

Justice isn’t our shield and defender. People pay bribes or avoid courts for what I was to be subjected to, for nine hours. The court session started at 9:30am, when the Magistrate arrived.

In the first three hours, she listened to and made determinations for 30+ cases. Ranging from physical assault, sexual abuse, land defraud and forgery to all sorts of petty offenses. All this time, I waited to take plea for driving with two worn out tires. 

Holding on to my two receipts, cash bail and evidence of new tires purchase.

With the stroke of a pen, she deferred most of the cases to March or April 2025, for mention or hearing. Whatever the difference is 😀. 

At some point, the court burst into laughter when a child molester-cum-monster defended himself. Arguing that he was in a romantic relationship with the mother of the child, not the child. For a minute, I wondered how the Magistrate whizzed through 30+ cases in 2-3 minutes, each. She must be a extrovert!

My day was grinding to a halt. I was sure, I would be done and off to work by 11am. At 12 noon, sleep caught up with me. However, court benches aren’t your bed of roses. Courts are public spaces. Splashed with furniture that should last 100 years. Designed to keep you comfortable for 10 minutes at ago.

I kept switching between crossed- and close-legged sitting positions. 

You wonder, why does the Magistrate have to write down everything as dictated by the prosecutor? Can’t they just make her a copy and all she needs to do is read or follow through the prosecution? Or does writing involve the brain for making judgements?

It felt like our college-definition of what is a lecture. ‘The transfer of notes from the lecturer’s file to the student’s notebooks, without passing through the brains of either.’ It just didn’t make sense why everything was manual. Alternatively, she could enroll for touch-typing classes online. Then use a computer in session, like in private hospitals.

Justice is public. With no private alternatives. Like schools and hospitals.

English-Swahili translation was another time waster in court. For example, there was an English-speaking Government Chemist who took the witness stand to give details of a DNA analysis to the Swahili-speaking child molester. 

Translating names of male and female laboratory specimens (to chembe chembe) used in a sexual abuse case. Or decoding Swahili names for undergarments and descriptions of such evidence is a long shot! Let alone, explaining statistical DNA results of matching the profiles of the plaintiff and the defendant.

The wheels of justice keep turning, albeit slowly! I felt a hardening of the stomach.

At noon, the court went into recess. The Magistrate retreated to her Chambers.

Two hours later, she appeared in a more foul mood. Five accused persons were called out as the rest of us were asked to vacate. At first, I thought it was a high-level murder or divorce case, which required privacy.

A few minutes later, traffic offenders were ushered in.

We were only six of us, out on bail. The rest were produced from detention over the weekend. Petty traffic offenses. A driver without uniform, a kamagera without a badge, or an excess passenger in a PSV, besides a car washer driving with expired NTSA stickers or motor insurance.

Parallel to the judicial processes are judicial brokers.

Before the Magistrate resumed, a police officer spoke to me in broken Kikuyu. He was seeking connection with and cash from me. Asking me to double my cash bail to skip standing in the accused dock. Arguing that, either way, I would be fined twice the amount he was asking for. 

For what it’s worth, it made sense to take the second ‘discount’, while it lasted!

However, I was knee deep in the pool, to bend my faith and integrity. God said it won’t be easy. He hadn’t provided a way of escape. I wasn’t going to create or take a shortcut. I was going for the whole hog. With an acute sense of purpose, I refused to engage.

Between 2:30 and 3:00pm, the Magistrate made 30+ determinations for petty offenses. All pleaded guilty and were fined at maximum penalty. Ranging between Ksh.500 and Ksh.20K. A slight chill crossed my gut as I listened to the judgments of others.

Taking the stand, I bit my lip as I pleaded guilty. I wasn’t spared either.

From there, things took a different turn. We were handed back our cash bail. Unlike my first court appearance, where I paid the fine in the courtroom and left. This time, we were escorted to the court cell, irrespective of whether you had money to pay or not.

For the next 2-3 hours, I shared a 10m by 12m space with 60+ men in a court cell.

In the cell, we gossiped and shared frustrations. A brotherhood created in crisis. Racing against time and our dying phone batteries. We made frantic phone calls to whoever could save us from being shipped to Industrial Area Remand.

A Green bus was parked outside. An imminent threat to our status. To the police, we were cash cows. They would do everything to strip us of the cash bail.

Telling them I had Mpesa to pay my fine didn’t help. Adamantly, they charged a fee to send someone to bring the invoice from the Registry, on the court’s first floor. It took a full hour for me to come around and pay for this un-necessary service, at their price!

A few minutes to 4pm, I forced a smile 😊 as I received my invoice from a uniformed afande. In between, I was being humiliated with self-loathing remarks.

Referred to as macho nne and rangi ya thao. Thanks to my being light skinned. Isn’t this racism? After making the payment, the officer asked for an expediting fee, to process my Release Order (faster). To beat the 5pm remand deadline. Sherks, I was in a different rabbit hole!

The harassments continued as we were bundled into the Green bus!

It completely didn’t make any sense! I had (unnecessarily) paid to receive the invoice. Then paid the fine. I was now paying to ‘expedite’ the Release Order. Yet, I was being escorted to the Green bus. Being told that the Release Order will be brought tomorrow.

By whoever comes to pick it from the court to present it to Industrial Area Remand.

Everything behind the courts was an extortion. Blatant extraction!

As if staying in a crowded court cell wasn’t enough. The floor was wet 💦, for maximum discomfort. Acting like demigods, the officers hurled verbal abuses at the slightest provocation.

They had their own self esteem issues. Yelling to some remandees, “Do you think I am your wife?” True or not, no one can make you feel inferior without your consent. Courage is fire, and bullying is smoke.”

It was my first time in incarceration. Never again, if it depends on me!

In the morning, I left home dressed for work. Here I was @5pm. Sharing space with all sorts of criminals. I feared for my life and safety. Most of my fellow remandees looked menacing. As if plucked out of drug dens. They were asking each other and everyone for phones to make reverse calls to whoever would come to their rescue .

To keep safe and sane, I stayed in the washroom for 5 minutes, intermittently.

With a pinched mouth, I paid for a final ‘service’ that I didn’t need. Just in time, my cousin and savior delivered the pink colored Release Order. Securing my freedom. At 5:23pm, I stepped out of the court cell, scathed and scratched.

By this time, I was unnaturally quiet 🤐 and pitifully sad 😢. That was my day in court, for driving a car with worn out tires 🛞. Staying on the straight and narrow was costly!

Joseph Ngaara is inspired by people’s life experiences. This is my story. Views and opinions expressed are mine. Do you have an intriguing life story and need to share your triumph or tragedy? Email: j.mungai@hotmail.co.uk