They say pride comes before a fall. Saturday, I was pretty happy to find a cute quilted leather handbag in the market and did my usual haul of vintage shopping that comes to all of £10 for me. I rationalise as fair trade, I’m paying the market price and usually a little over, and when I get home the dresses that don’t fit perfectly or suit me I sell on ebay or at car boot sales. Pretty win/win, right? There’s something about the thrill of a bargain, especially when it’s something as silly as fake Balenciaga for £2. I suppose my tweets would have been described charitably as childishly excited, at worst gloating.
I had taken to using a slightly scruffy bag that slings across my body, a chest strap that can’t be wrenched off easily. Sunday, still pleased with my new toy, I took my handbag instead. I was walking home from an internet cafe and ran into two volunteers who live at the hostel, teenage Canadians. We were almost home and chatting about nonsense. I had a bag on each shoulder, automatically tucked in my armpits and clamped to the sides of my body. It being broad daylight in an area we’ve walked through countless times, we felt safe and confident but it took a split second for a sharp downward tug to snap the chains and before I knew what had happened I’d screamed. There’s an instant where everything is frozen while your brain processes what’s just happened and the thief is SO close that you automatically reach out to stop them. By that time I was yelling, “Stop! Stop! Thief!” as he leapt out of my range, but Sam was faster at chasing and both of them took off sprinting across to the river than runs behind the hostel. Although my instinct was to run after what was not an inconsiderable sum of money, an iPhone and a cheap local handset, I was already terrified of what would happen if he was caught by locals. I’ve seen men lying unconscious in the street before as mob justice is meted out daily here; in a country where everyone struggles to survive, stealing is the lowest of the low and a sound beating or even death is the accepted outcome. When the thief dropped my bag Taylor and I slowed for a moment, but there was no sign of Sam so we kept after him, yelling for him to come back. All I wanted at that moment was for the chase to end, the thief to run away and hide somewhere and that to be an end to it. None of us were that lucky.
The river is a busy part of Themi. Water is scarce and it’s used for laundry. It’s a beautiful clear stream and children play there in the afternoon sunshine. The banks are sloped and lined with banana trees, flowering bushes and locals, locals, locals. Everyone had seen the guy being chased, and knew which direction “Bwana Mhindi” had gone. I think at that point I knew what we were going to find but since I had gotten everything back I …hoped or assumed… that we would be able to reason with a crowd. It was inconceivable to me that people wouldn’t listen to us, after all, it was my bag. No harm done, I’d say. Thank you for stopping him. Look, everything’s fine. There’s no problem, now. We can all go back to normal and carry on with our day.
At the top of a track there was a press of bodies. Taylor spotted Sam. He was standing up, talking, unharmed. Relief, dread. The thief was lying in the dust between Sam’s legs as we pushed our way into the circle. Several people asked whether the thief still had anything of mine and I kept repeating, “No, no I have everything. Stop now. Stop now. Please. Please. It’s finished, stop now”. Taylor was screaming “ACHA!” as young men darted into the circle laughing to aim another kick at the broken, slumped body. There were obvious cuts on his head and face, a gash across his legs. Urine seeped through his filthy jeans, and he groaned. “He’s acting. He’s fine.” one man told me. “You are really OK? You have everything returned?” someone else asked. “YES! So this is finished now… you have to go, all of you go!”
“No, sister! Now we’re going to kill him” a man next to me said with a shrug. The tone of his voice was casual, reassuring, calm. Every time someone picked up one of the rocks lying around, Sam batted their hands away. Crow bars, logs, he picked them up from the dirt and threw them out of the circle’s reach, only to have to slap away another arm rising to strike. The general feeling of the crowd seemed to be vague, patient amusement. Surely these silly tourists will stop interfering at some point. “This is what happens. He’s a thief. He will be buried here” someone indicated a roadwork ditch, 5 feet by 4, about another 5 feet deep. People would grab at the thief’s ankles and inch him towards the hole, the three of us would scream and block the move. We were met with roars of protest, catching flickers of laughter amongst the indignant rage. An old Muslim man in a fierce fury came up and beat the thief’s legs with a metal rod, more fists bearing melon sized rocks were pushed away.
Amongst the chaos Sam managed in desperation to spit out the offer of a cash reward for people who helped us disperse the crowd. A handful of twenty-something men picked up the thief’s ankles and began dragging him back down the track towards the river. Although people were still insisting that the man was going to die, they were also watching to see how our meddling would play out. They must have supposed that eventually we’d be satisfied and the delay would be over. We were told as much, so kept moving because there was no safe place. When we were back at the river, I spotted Ommy, an employee of the hostel. We could see the back wall of the garden, the dormitory buildings. The other residents had realised what was going on and Ommy had called the police.
The defectors sat the man up in the river to bring him back to consciousness, splashing water in his face. I caught sight of his eyes struggling to focus, his shock, confusion. The blood washed away from his head and I remembered thinking, it’s not as bad as I’d imagined. Ommy was there, taking care of it, the guy was coming round… then on the opposite side of the river, a thick set man holding a machete came sliding down the bank. “You go now…” Ommy said and this time we took off, begging him to ensure no harm came to the pathetic figure in the stream.
After a couple of hundred metres, we heard shouts from the other bank, “Run Wazungu! Bad men coming!” so we started to run, and by the time we’d found the railway tracks that led back to the gate of the hostel, the crowd had dragged the thief around the opposite side of the building and were waiting for us out front. Ommy came up behind us and told us that the men we’d promised money to had insisted he give it to them immediately. He’d emptied his pockets and they’d dragged the guy by the wrists away from the threat of the blade. He had lost his piss-soaked jeans, and was unconscious again, a froth of blood oozing from between his lips. Ziggy, the hostel guard dog, was frantic outside the gates, snarling and yelping. It was almost impossible to get him back inside as he tried to figure out who he was supposed to be defending.
Waiting from the safety of the compound, listening to the rise and fall of angry voices from outside, the story was told and retold by everyone trying to come to terms with what was happening. I was summoned outside by the Police. “They ask you… if you want him to die?”. I felt 50 pairs of eyes watching me, the single white face. It was the first time there was quiet, just murmurs. I was struggling to remain calm and answer any questions directly. Once we’d finished I went back inside and cried when I hugged Sam and told him that he’d just saved someone’s life. I sat alone on a bed for five minutes, and when the crowd had dispersed I followed on to the Police Station and gave a statement. Ommy knew the Officer in charge of the van that’d hauled the guy off to hospital, and left me trying to decipher how accurate the Swahili in my statement was. It seemed adequate, so I signed it and went back. It took me a long, long time to fall asleep that night.