Before I secured a job, my little brother helped me to stay afloat. He had always been extremely generous. In fact, his last act on earth was that of kindness. He occasionally touted at the matatu stage but primarily maintained a public toilet facility for a living.
That day, someone begged him to allow them entry into the toilet block, shortly past the 10 pm curfew. Chatuu, out of his sweetness of character, heeded the pressed stranger’s request. It was upon leaving the block when he met the police on patrol. They would then immediately pounce on him with their batons and clubs, thrashing him ruthlessly. It didn’t matter that he screamed for help from nearby residents. My lastborn sibling died alone.
The cops made it crystal in their threats that anyone who dared come out of their houses was going to join in his anguish. I say anguish because he died handcuffed, tortured and was shot twice, in the chest and thigh. I also say anguish because of the deep pain his untimely death brought to his family, wife and child. All those who loved him, who were forced to accept the narrative that their boy died a thief.
VICTIM: Elvis Otieno (Chatuu)
WORDS: Kanyi Wyban
PHOTO: Kongo Peter