You are quite unlikely to smile when, on your way to the car you parked hurriedly because you were late, you find that it has been clamped on the right rear wheel and some gentlemen in yellow coats are attempting to clamp the left rear wheel. Your disbelief lasts for all of a few seconds before you swing into battle with a barrage of questions, that a beefy man whose front teeth have a gap large enough to accommodate a pair of lorries side by side deigns to answer.

What is my name? {SPIT} Njoka. What the hell am I doing? {SPIT, SPIT} I am clamping your car. Why am I clamping your car? Because not only is it parked in a no-parking zone, but it also seems to be lacking a ticket. Where is it? {SPIT}. Now, now, there is no use for such language. What's that? Clamped already? Really? Ouma. Go check. {SPIT SPIT SPIT}.

Ouma, an individual with the dimensions of a boat looks remarkably like a school bus in his yellow coat. He departs and returns with confirmation. Indeed, the car has been clamped already. Njoka takes this is stride. Well, he concludes, the other clamp must have been put by Mustafa and his boys. {SPIT} Who the devil is Mustafa? Another employee of the city council. Where is he? {SPIT} How should I know? Do I look like his mother?

After a tirade of language that is not supposed to be in your vocabulary you settle accounts with Njoka and then look for Mustafa. Mustafa does not seem to want to be found. You have looked everywhere including in your pockets and under the soles of your shoes. When you run him to earth some fifteen minutes later, he is seated on the kerb helping himself to some groundnuts. You proceed to negotiate with him. At the end of it all, your finances for the day have been depleted to the extent that if you were to go to lunch it would have to consist of a Big G and another Big G.

When you finally get on your way, an hour of your time has disappeared and you head for the office knowing full well that the Boss is going to have some words to say about your timing. Those few words are unlikely to be of admiration. They are more likely to be short and curt. However, fate again conspires against you.

You find yourself beside a woman whom you immediately conclude must be called Mama Johnny. Mama Johnny is driving a Mini that looks ancient enough to have been driven by Adam himself. The Mini is belching evil smelling black smoke from its exhaust. And not to do things by half, it is also belching smoke from its engine. If you look closely you will see some seeping from the tyres and from the rear windows. But it is moving. The speed is about 50. Centimeters per second that is. She is no hurry. Hunched over the steering she is so low in her seat the only thing you can see are a violently yellow headscarf, horn rimmed glasses and a squint of concentration. She inches across your path, escaping death narrowly as you slam your brakes and postpone your appointment with St. Peter. Car diagonally across your lane she stops the car and proceeds to switch off the engine. Then she sits still looking forwards. Behind her in the rear seat are two small boys holding paper pistols, which is quite in order as the boys themselves are bullet headed.

One of the boys lets out an explosive sound that his brother clearly understood to be a gunshot, and the brother ducked immediately. The shooter proclaimed that he had killed the bandit. The bandit objected with spirit, claiming that:
a) He was not a bandit
b) The shot had missed by a mile

The shooter promptly and swiftly cuffed the other soundly on the head. Not to take things lying down or rather sitting down, the assaulted returned the blow with interest and vigor. Before long, a full-scale battle is in progress, with teeth, fists and feet being used without discrimination. Mama Johnny in a fit of energy turns around in her seat and with the skill borne of long practice effortlessly grabs each of the boys by the ear. The resounding howls are a testament to the effectiveness of the treatment.

At this juncture, the traffic lights turn green. And on this note, those of us who are scientific in nature may like to note this: if you wish to know what a split second is, it is the period between the light turning green and the jackass behind you blowing his horn. But I digress. The fact that the light has turned green does not phase our Mama Johnny. There, in the middle of Haile Selassie Avenue, she proceeds to scold her errant offspring and due to the way her Mini is skewed across the highway two full lanes of Sons and Daughters of Kenya, en route to building their third world country, are stuck where they are immobilized in the traffic. No amount of hooting phases this good lady. We hoot until we are blue in the face, black African or not!

By the time you get to work, your shadow is immediately below you chiefly because the sun is immediately overhead. Try explaining all this to your boss!

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