When Shipwoni saw the motorcycle in the isimba, the hut he shared with his brother Maremwa, he was elated. He knew, then, that he would make the trip to Khayega after all.

Not that he had planned to make the trip today; Atamba, his girlfriend who lived in Khayega, had called him desperately insisting that he should go.

Shipwoni had just arrived from the neighbour’s farm where he had gone in the morning to weed the maize crop.

Since the onset of the rainy season a month ago, Shirere village had been busy with farming activities. The long rains heralded the season of planting maize and beans, the major food crops grown in the village and the larger Kakamega County. Just like during the planting season, weeding was done by all able-bodied members of the family.

Those who could afford it, or had large farms like his neighbour, would hire the services of local youths. It was from such work that Shipwoni, standing at the entrance of the isimba, stumbled upon the motorcycle in the dimly lit room, reclining majestically like some mystical, regal, feral beast — against the wall that partitioned the bedroom from the sitting room.

It could only have been Maremwa, his elder brother who worked as a motorcycle taxi operator, who had left it there.

Since Atamba’s call while on the farm, Shipwoni had agonised over how he would raise the Ksh100 fare to and from Khayega — the market located some six kilometres east of Shirere village. The Ksh50 wage he had earned would only cover half the journey. Now, with the motorcycle, he would be able to save the day’s earnings. He could easily make the trip without Maremwa being the wiser, he thought.

Shipwoni emerged from the isimba pushing the motorcycle. Outside, he saw the name “Lion” emblazoned on the fuel tank. He checked the gauge and ascertained there was enough fuel to last the trip.

Once again, he mused over Atamba’s call: “Heartbroken” captured his initial impression when they spoke. He put on the reflector–jacket and helmet that lay on the pillion.

He then mounted the motorcycle, and hit the kick-start. The roar from the rickety engine roused the otherwise quiet homestead. His mother, startled by the noise, confronted her son.

“Is this how to announce one’s presence?” she asked.

She was not amused to see Shipwoni dressed and leaving, without even as much as acknowledging her.

“Mother,” he shouted, because the motorcycle’s engine was sputtering noisily. “I did not want to bother you.” Shipwoni knew he had erred, but he was rushing against time. Atamba needed him, and he intended to return the motorcycle, without the knowledge of Maremwa. Perhaps when he came back, he would concoct a convincing story to assuage her.

“I am in a hurry. I will explain later.”

With a dismissive wave with his right hand, he pushed the visor down, revved the motorcycle and rode out of the gate.

Shipwoni hoped Atamba would not be long with her story. Why she had refused to confide in him on the phone, he could not tell. At the bustling, open-air market he rode slowly to avoid colliding with people. He then made a detour to the red soil road that would take him to their rendezvous, not far from the main market.

The rendezvous was under an imposing Mukumu tree. Shipwoni cut off the engine and surveyed his surroundings. Women who were unable to find space in the crowded market sat beneath the Mukumu tree. They sold yams, potatoes and cassava. Shipwoni salivated at the sight of tsisaka and libokoi, his favourite vegetables. He made a mental note to buy some after his talk with Atamba.

Next to the market-women were motorcycle taxi operators. They were about 15 of them, perched on their motorcycles, engaged in youthful banter.

As Shipwoni’s hand reached for his phone in his trouser pocket, he saw a rider tapping his colleague’s shoulder, and pointing at him. His mind set on Atamba, he ignored the rider. He removed the helmet from his head, dialled her number, and listened to the throbbing Isukuti ringtone.

But something was amiss.

Shipwoni noticed the riders engage in a seemingly heated but whispered argument as they pointed in his direction. Then, they started walking towards him. Atamba had received his call, and he could hear her on the other end: “Hallo hallo!”

The motorcycle taxi operators were animatedly pointing at Maremwa’s motorcycle as they got closer to him.

“Wait a minute,” he managed to say before cutting off the connection with Atamba.

The taxi operators surrounded him. The hostility in their faces unnerved him. Their eyes spoke of trouble. Beyond them, he could see the market-women and passers-by coming nearer to see the unfolding drama. The air was thick with tension. The rider who had initially drawn the attention of his colleagues to Shipwoni, now confronted him.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, pointing at Maremwa’s motorcycle.

A deafening silence ensued.

Before Shipwoni could respond, everybody started talking at the same time. They looked angry: Whatever excited them revolved around his brother’s motorcycle.
“What is it?” he blurted out.

Nobody was listening.

It was then that, with trepidation, he realised he was in trouble. He was being accused of having stolen the motorcycle, which he had merely pinched. It seemed that they had mistaken Maremwa’s motorcycle for someone else’s, probably one of their colleague’s bikes that had been stolen.

The crowd grew. The market women moved closer to witness the altercation.

“I am not the owner of this motorcycle!” Shipwoni screamed. There was so much noise. Everybody was babbling. “I just borrowed it...!”

Shipwoni did not finish the sentence. The blow that struck him on the head startled him. He turned back sharply to reprimand whoever had hit him. Someone else slapped him across the face. Another one grabbed his phone.

“I am not a thief! I only borrowed this motorbike!” he cried, pleading his innocence to no avail.

“Where did you get this? Where? Where?” someone from the crowd shouted.

Then, as if at a signal, they descended on him. The beating was indiscriminate. His cry for mercy, only served to infuriate the mob further. His protest that this was a case of mistaken identity, that the motorcycle belonged to his brother, fell on deaf ears.

“Aiiiii! Aiiii! Aiiii!”

“Thief! Thief! Thief!”

Shipwoni begged and pleaded, but the irate mob continued to pound him: With sticks and stones, and any object within reach. Blood was trickling from his head and nose and mouth. And then it was all over his body.

And the pummelling, battering and beating increased.

Shipwoni’s body could only take so much. His puffed, torn mouth could only mumble incoherently. Curled up in a foetal position, he was lapsing into his own surreal world, where things were happening in a disjointed maze. A world in which phantom images appeared from a bottomless abyss to ensnare his mind.

He could neither feel the barbaric desecration of his body, nor the pain. He stopped hearing the riotous cacophony of the multitude. His swollen, glazed eyes stared inward, his spirit was ebbing away.

The huge rock that crushed his head, scattering brain matter all over the road, found Shipwoni trying to escape from the sharp fangs that were devouring him...