The small plane touched down with an unexpected thud on the tarmac. I sat up and peered through the window, it seemed to be a particularly dark night and the lights of the distant terminal did little to help differentiate between earth and night sky as we taxied toward them. I didn't want to be there, I was apprehensive about the business at hand, but before I knew it I was sitting in the front seat of my friends van and we were heading to the Langata police station in Nairobi.

I had been at that same station a few weeks prior to file a complaint on a guy who I had bought a car from over a year ago. He had stalled and broken a string of promises and I was still not in possession of the logbook (or pink slip as we call it in the U.S.) so really I didn't have legal title to the vehicle. But on the day I had filed the complaint, I had also stared into the ugly, evil eyes of corruption after two police officers, who had taken the report, were subsequently paid off to locate and repossess the car. They had failed since they were looking in the wrong town. Fortunately I had not exactly been too precise about the whereabouts of the vehicle when I became suspicious of their motives. Now I was there to take the matter to a higher level with the help of my friend Chris Okuma, the same guy I had 'bumped into' at the airport a few weeks earlier while I was returning from Tanzania.

"We're going to see the chief sergeant at his home right now and tomorrow morning we have an appointment with the OCPD" Chris announced, "they're both friends of mine." I hadn't realized how 'connected' Chris really is but after working in a massive slum like Kibera for over 25 years I guess one would have to be. We entered the station compound and parked the van. Several square looking, three story buildings with sagging, torn curtains covings dimly lit windows were at the back of the compound. "Staff housing for officers." Chris answered my question before I had asked it. "Follow me, watch your step." We made our way in the dark through the compound to one of the buildings on the far side, my eyes straining in the dark. The glow of a cigarette lit the dark face of someone standing by a wall as we passed by and I wondered how many others we had passed un-noticed. A dog began to bark as we climbed the stairs to a second floor unit and Chris knocked on the door. A teenage boy opened the door and welcomed us into the sparsely furnished room where an impressive looking man rose from his chair and greeted us as the boy disappeared into another room. During the customary introductions and greetings I learned his name was James Otwoma. He already knew the story behind the missing logbook from Chris but needed to hear it from me so he could take action. I gave him a detailed account and showed him copies of receipts and other documents, the whole time wondering if this was really happening or was I watching a movie. "We shall arrest this man tomorrow Mr. Paul, but you will need to assist us," James announced. I agreed with all the enthusiasm I could muster, which wasn't much, and we arranged to meet the following morning. So by 8:30 the next morning, Chris and I were back at the police station for our meeting with the OCPD who is the 'big man' as the Kenyans say.

Now I had thought James was an impressive figure but Maurice Wamangari dwarfed him. Three different colored telephones, black, white and red, sat on his desk, and a bank of mobile radios crackled with chatter at his side. Maurice rose from his desk and greeted us, crushing my hand with a hand shack, the braided epaulets, stripes and badges of his kaki uniform displaying his credentials as he did.

"Ah, so you are Mr. Paul" Maurice said, "I have heard of the problem you are having. I attend the church of Mr. Okuma, he is our friend so don't worry, we will solve this matter today. Yes, today I say." He picked up one of the phones and gave someone instructions to come to the office. I glanced over at Chris, he wore a 'I told you so' grin all over his broad face. The door opened and James, the man I had met the previous night and two other plain clothes officers entered. Maurice gave them instructions to deal with the case immediately. Outside the police station a plan was devised to arrest the man who had sold me the vehicle. Since no police car was available I found myself sat in the front seat of Chris's vehicle with the three officers in the back heading toward the shady industrial center of Nairobi to the dealers place of business. Through my recent classes in Kiswaheli I gleaned enough from the officer's conversation to find out they had 2 weapons between them. All I had was an adrenaline rush. We barged our way into the office after identifying the car dealer, and the undercover officers produced their I.D. badges. The dealer, named Darius, told of how he had been paid to import the car on behalf of someone else named Makala and it was he who held the title for the car. He was told to call Makala and tell him to meet at the police station that evening since the car had now been located. Makala excitedly agreed, thinking the corrupt officers whom he had bribed to 'carjack' it had seized the vehicle.

It was dark when Chris and I once again made our way to the police station that night. We were ushered into a dimly lit room, illuminated by a single light bulb. Wooden benches were attached to two walls and an old broken desk and chair sat opposite the doorway. Makala and Darius arrived separately and were met by the three officers and duly escorted into the room upon their arrival.

The customary cordial exchange of greetings and introductions gave no indication of what was about to happen but suffice to say after two hours of intense questioning, some mention of tax evasion, bribery of officers, and car theft, two men in that room had beads of sweat running from their brow on that chilly November evening and it wasn't Chris or myself. The 'meeting' adjourned with the promise that the title of the car would be surrendered to police within 48 hours and we all went our separate ways, Darius and Makala, relieved to be outside the building, drifted off into the darkness. I walked up the steps to my room in a Nairobi guesthouse that night with the same sence of having just walked out of a movie theater. The past 24 hours seemed surreal and my mind wrestled with accepting the fact that what had happened was not a story. I had to be at the airport early the next day for my flight home but I couldn't sleep. I first had to marvel at how not only am I, but my possessions too, are in His grasp.

P.S. I have since heard that the 'logbook' is in police custody awaiting my return to collect it and that the two officers who were bribed have been 'transferred'.