"This is fake! FAKE!" she screamed like I had just proposed to her daughter.
The market went quiet for a second – you know that silence before all hell breaks loose? Yeah, that one.
"Mama, please, I found it... I mean, I got it... I mean..." My words stumbled over each other like drunk guys at a village disco.
"You found it? FOUND IT! Where have people been giving me fake notes, reducing my store? You are a Thief!" She had lungs that could wake the dead in Shivalandu Cemetery.
Before I could say, "I stumbled on the roadside near the Shimalavandu bus stage," hands grabbed me from all directions.
Someone's chapati-scented breath was hot on my neck as they yelled, "Burn the thief!" (Really, fellow villagers? Burn me over 1000 bob?)
My bladder decided it had seen enough drama for one day. As the first blow landed on my back, I felt the warm shame spread down my trousers. Yeah, I peed myself like a nursery school kid.
But trust me, when you're about to become a market barbecue, your bladder has its emergency exit plan.
The cops arrived like guardian angels in blue uniforms – I never thought I'd say that about the Shivalandu police.
Officer Wafula and his partner broke through the crowd, which was now more prominent than a mega-church congregation on Christmas.
"Officer, I can explain!" I tried to sound dignified, but it's hard to maintain dignity when you're soaked in your urine and smell like a public toilet.
The ride to the station was like being in a mobile oven with a broken seat belt. Every bump reminded me that my "lucky" day had become a nightmare. The cops kept their windows down—I can't blame them.
PART 3 LOADING......
