It all started with my partner Sophia’s kidnaping by some rogue cops who had it in for her for testifying against them. Somehow, they managed to get her booked as an inmate in Shimo la Tewa Prison.

To a regular person, it would seem easy to just have the prison say we’re sorry and set her on her merry way. It seemed so to me, too, an officer of law enforcement. Of course, I’m not naïve. I know there are some people in prison who shouldn’t be there. I know of a man who spent years in jail for raping his daughters. Only for the girls to turn adults and reveal that their father was innocent. That they had been coerced by their mother into accusing their father so the mother could inherit land. There are more, but I’m too pissed off about my wife’s case to list any other.

Sophia’s case is quite different. There was no trial, and it must be a fake judge who signed the orders to incarcerate her. I mean, High Court Judge Uhuru Kwisha? If a name ever sounded made up, there was none better than this.

“Guys, I have some bad news,” Inspector Noklu, the man leading the case to find Sophia, says. We’re in his office in Mombasa, strategising on how best to get her out. “It turns out that Uhuru Kwisha is real and an actual High Court judge.”

“You can’t be serious.” Inspector Tembo, my boss and Sophia’s father, shakes his head. “But it must mean he’s a very bad judge to do something like this to my only daughter.”

“I think the more likely scenario is that someone forged his signature. Surely, he can’t have signed such a bogus order. But I’ve got more bad news,” Noklu says.

“Getting Sgt Sophia out isn’t as easy as going to Judge Kwisha and telling him someone forged his signature. If indeed someone did so, it’s a criminal case and the DCI will have to take it up.”

I almost scream with frustration.

“What the hell does that mean?” I shout. “Forgive my French, but what the hell does that mean, really? That she’ll have to stay in prison until the Department of Criminal Investigations investigates and proves someone forged the judge’s signature? How is that fair?”

For a moment, I expect a hiding from my superiors, but I’m surprised when none comes. Inspector Noklu, usually abrasive and bossy, is actually quite sedate.

“I understand your frustration, young sergeant,” he says calmly, “but the system is an unforgiving beast. When it goes rogue, it consumes everything in its path, good and bad alike.”

“We’ll need to get her a lawyer,” Inspector Tembo says in a rare moment of clarity for a man battling a case of senility. “I’ll get her the best lawyer money can buy and get her out of prison. Then I’ll personally hunt down every single son of a—”

Noklu pats his hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We start with the lawyer. I think that’s a splendid idea.”

Just then, a sing-song voice asks, “Do I have to do everything myself?”

We all turn to the door. There, in all her tipsy glory, is Sophia’s mother, a woman who brings more drama than the Kenya National Theatre. She and I don’t see eye to eye.

“What is she doing here?” I bellow.

“I called her,” Tembo says. “She’s her mother, isn’t she?”