ISSUE IV: Mirror of Society

PROSE
and clipped print chapbook reports
were laid before every inspector for
reference. The Inspector-General
walked straight to the front. Against
the wall was a large computer screen
that showed the Reret Valley. He
indicated this, and for a moment he
looked lost for words.
“This, as you all know,” he
said,“ is Reret Valley. This beautiful
valley in the purlieus of Lake
Turkana has been lately the scene
of violence and murder. What is
hard to understand is, who gives
us away every time we attempt to
stand between the residents and the
bandits who’ve wreaked havoc in the
valley? Only a week ago we lost near
eight of our officers when robbers,
obviously having been tipped by one
of us, surprised them unexpectedly
from behind. They were surrounded
between two gangs of cattle rustlers
and executed
point-blank.
An Italian
businessman
who has
invested
heavily in
the country’s
tourism was killed by a stray bullet.
Crime in the area has become an
eyesore of national concern, scaring
investors.”
An inspector raised his
hand. The IG nodded to him.
“Somebody has been
making an income from betraying the
force. Someone very unscrupulous
and very dirty. Apart from the loss
of our officers in the valley and the
lamentable loss of civilian lives,
a page of these chapbooks states
clearly how a tapped line between
a convict and his visitor appears to
point to underhand deals.”
Another inspector raised
his point.
“Am for watching this
convict scheduled to be released. His
much-hyped resolve to live crimefree
should be totally disregarded.
He will lead us to whoever has been
"Crime in the area has become
an eyesore of national concern,
scaring investors."
betraying the force, and this tapped
chat, if am not mistaken, confirms
that Gerald Sando was still very
much in control of his gangs from
prison.”
“Good,” said the IG. “From
tomorrow we set up a special
commission to investigate the rot in
our midst. Good afternoon.”
Two burly prison warders
were seen marching briskly one
autumn morning along the corridor
that led to the dungeons of General
Atea Maximum Security Prison. A
heavy bunch of ancient-looking keys
jingled between them. They met at
one of the gates, neighboring the
wicket where the visitor had engaged
with the prisoner three years ago,
the turnkey, who returned their
salute with casual condescension.
He turned his back to them, and keys
and heavy chains were heard to grate
deftly against
the metal of
one gate after
another. They
were black
gates mounted
with spikes
in high walls
of concrete in turn mounted with
broken bottles.
In a yard of the prison,
hundreds of convicts in the gray and
white striped uniform breakfasted
on tea and toast. In a second yard
behind that another hundred
convicts breakfasted, the stewards
busy at their heads with cauldrons
and ladles. The place was crowded
and noisy. They stood in smaller
groups within the crowd chatting
apparently without the slightest
scruple in the world. Among the
convicts and stewards were warders
attentively keeping order.
“Listen here,” said one of
the cops, producing a slip. “If I call
your name step forward. Dolla Golla.
Wait over there.”
One of the burly officers
conferred briefly with one of the
warders.
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