Have you ever met a drug Lord?
For the longest time, I have always had a certain answer to this question but not anymore.
I have drafted this particular story in my archives before because I have never felt sure if sharing it publicly is a wise and safe decision. I was worried about the possible consequences for myself and others, I still am but here is the story.

It was a Wednesday evening sometime back when a friend called requesting for a quick meet up to clear a few things between us. Being a weekday, I was certain that whatever they had to say was either brief or too pressing to wait till the weekend. We agreed to meet in a popular café later that evening and discuss over coffee. If there is coffee, count me in.
I show up at our agreed meeting place a few minutes earlier and decide to keep myself busy on my phone. Thirty minutes later, he shows up and in hand is a brown envelop. Let’s call him, ummah Bill. Bill is a timekeeper so his delinquency demands an explanation but I brush that off. What was so urgent that we had to meet on a weekday?
At this point, I had known Bill for slightly over four months and he was your usual campus student, eating life with a big spoon. He attended the necessary lectures, missed a few cats here and there but overall he was a good person with a big heart. However, behind his charming smile was a truth that only a few knew about.
On this day, his cover cracked and I became part of the few.
We discuss our differences over a cup of coffee and an hour or so later, we part to head our different ways. It’s a weekday evening which is a busy evening.
Like the gentleman that Bill is, he offers to drive me home and I agree. I prefer being stuck in traffic in a private car than in a matatu blasting a mix by Demakufu.
However, before our short journey begins, he receives a phone call and he picks it via blue tooth.
“Hey Mkubwa, Leo kimeumana..” The man on the other end blurts out sans the courteous hello. (Hey Boss, things got thick)
“Leo maziwa imekwama, kuna delay..” he continues and at this point Bill asks him to hold on and he disconnects the call from blue tooth and receives it on his ear.
To say my curiosity is not piqued is a lie but I keep my keep calm. Bill starts the car and reverses out of the parking while still on the call.
What follows is a chain of monosyllabic responses; Yes, Okay, Fine, No.

I try to gauge his mood but these responses are said in no particular tone so the mood is not recognisable.
After a ten minute call, Bill makes another call to someone who I assume is higher in the food chain from the respect with which he addressed them with.
“I’ll be there in 10 minutes” he says and hangs up. This second call is brief but the Milk situation is quoted more than twice. My curiosity gets out of hand and my mouth is quick to act.
“I never thought you were in the dairy industry,” I say hoping it sounds more like a question than a statement.
He gives me a quick side glance and continues to drive taking Thika Road highway exit number 8.
His silence is a cue for me to let the subject go but instead it urges me to dig deeper.
“How is the milk business going?” I ask again this time sure to raise the intonation indicating its a question.
He gives me another side glance and murmurs in distinctly”It is doing well”
“We’ll make a quick stop over, I need to pick a friend before I drop you off,” he quickly adds and raises the volume of the music playing in the car.
At this point I am sure that this milk business is not about milk. Call it a gut feeling. It is only normal that any young man running a dairy business would be eager to mention the number of his heifers, the liters of milk they produce per day and how the kijana back at the farm isn’t that trustworthy. A proud farmer doesn’t brush off an opportunity to show off their farming skills with a bare ‘It is doing well.’ This milk is not white.
We make a stop at a petrol station and a guy in a black hoody boards and what ensues is a conversation in level 5 proficiency sheng( a Slang language in Kenya)
I can only make out a few things from their conversation but the term maziwa remains a constant. It is symbolic for something I was about to discover. The hooded guy said their delivery was late because makarao(the police) had laid their hands on it. The Boss was getting agitated and the guys across the Northern border were losing their patience.
Still and all, the maziwa analogy was not making sense to me at all so I listened harder to their conversation. I must have made a loud gasp because Bill turned my way asking if I was okay. Amidst their conversation, it had slipped that the edibles needed to be made and delivered on time.
I fake a choke and cover it up with a coughing fit. I grab a bottle of water from the gloves compartment and swallow huge gulps in a futile attempt to mask my shock.
From then on, Bill and the hooded guy stick to the milk story. Nevertheless I am able to pick that the milk on transit is powdered cannabis which is later on to be infused in cookies, cakes and ice cream as ordered by the Boss. This particular stash of Cannabis is smuggled from Ethiopia and has a street value of Ksh. 100, 000.
According to the Kenyan law, trade of cannabis is illegal and jail sentence of a minimum of eight years awaits the offenders.
For Bill and his friend, they are simply the base of the food chain and their Boss has a boss who is probably a tall relative.
The level of enforcement of anti-bhang laws in Kenya is low, giving the Lords a free space to thrive and catch more small fish for the big fish.
But then I want a coffee date with the Big Boss.The big man bazu!
Am I now a loose end in their drug business?

Hello
Due to unavoidable circumstances, the guest article would not be published today.
However, every Tuesday issa blogtuesday!!

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Happy 2021 Fam🤩
^Faith ❤