Usinimwagie unga boss- seller of old stolen radios

Usinimwagie unga boss- seller of old stolen radios

H

e wonders why I can’t mind my own business. That is the curse of being a journalist. Others’ business are our business. We are nosy, poking our sniffer buds on suspicious smells right left and center.

By MUSYOKA NGUI

Old radios alleged to be stolen cache on display

I bumped into an especially difficult interviewee. He was stern that no photos should be taken on his wide array of recycled assembly of radios, TVs and shaving machines.

What piqued my curiosity at first was the fact that the radios bore the same gray color. The TVs were black and from the distance they looked inoperable. The electronics, out of age were scratched and had several missing parts.

The limelight was on the verge of being shone to this otherwise shadowy trader of fake contraband. Suddenly there was a commotion as a crowd milled around the stand which was located along an already busy road.

Then I heard “Boss usinimwagie unga”

“Nataka tu kupiga picha”

“No no no. Si wewe watoto wako wakona chakula?”

“Eeh”

“Basi wachana na mimi nitafute unga.”

“Kidogo….”

“Sitaki.”

I later learned through an informer that the cache is allegedly stolen and sold away at a throw away price. Buying the said machines can land new owners to trouble since the law does not excuse ownership of stolen items. Actually the buyer could be charged with abetting theft and thus an accomplice.

Then should investigations reveal that the crime was violent the stiffest penalty is to serve a life sentence. Life sentence is a euphemism for being condemned to hang by a judge. Since in Kenya hanging is not implementable, yet convicts are sent to the gallows every day, the hangman seems a very idle person since 1987 when Hezekiah Ochukah, the military soldier  who was implicated in the infamous 1982 coup against Moi regime had his neck strangled in what was interpreted to be a mockery of international human rights law. And so like that Ochukah had his last breath snuffed.

That explains the mortal fear the seller of stolen paraphernalia. He did not want to be filmed. He knows and understands he deals in the underworld. He is upsetting the economy with dirty money. Why want to clean his filthy hands? He wonders why I can’t mind my own business. That is the curse of being a journalist. Others’ business are our business. We are nosy, poking our sniffer buds on suspicious smells right left and center.