From
Reading Room/7:
Msaliti
Julie R. Obaso
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It happened fast. Ten minutes ago, in my office in the back
room, I was trying to figure out what to do—I hadn’t been around
for a couple of days, you see. My head was pounding, my mind still filled with
images of the girl from last night. My breath stank of vodka and Kassie—well
Kassie was mad as hell. I look up and see three shadows in front of my desk.
From the kitchen the smell of fish and chips curls through the door. Something
else curls through my stomach.
“Yes?” I say.
These guys are watching me, not saying anything. I clear my throat. A tall,
fat one speaks up.
“Peter.” He glances at a piece of paper. “Peter…Mutuku?”
I knew right then who they were.
“Yes.” My eyes move down his oily face.
The telephone rings. It’s Charlie. He speaks rapidly.
“I can’t talk,” I say. I hang up.
The fat man continues, “You’re under arrest.”
I put on a sneer. “For what? Who are you to arrest me?”
The fat one smiles a little. “CID Special Branch. You’re under
arrest.”
“Kwanini?”
“You know why—if you don’t we will tell you when we get there.”
“You’re arresting me for…?” I try to harden my voice. “Come
on. Tell me.”
The man pauses. “Suspicion…of dissidency.”
I laugh derisively. “Dissidency? Is that a word? Don’t you mean ‘dissident
behavior’?”
Fat One looks instantly pissed. “Listen, I don’t have time for
jokes. Get up.
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