Since my wife left prison, our house has become un-liveable. I don’t know if that’s a word, but it’s the best way to describe the hell I’m living through. It’s like the people who go abroad for a day and come back speaking in foreign accents.

I graduated police college with a woman called Polly. Worse than me in English, when she went on a trip to England, she came back two weeks later speaking through the nose. That’s the situation with Sgt Sophia. Less than two months in jail and you’d think she’s a lifer.

“I’m going to the toilet,” she announced the other day.

“You don’t have to say it, hun,” I said. “You’re free to do anything you want.”

Like a starving hyena, she wolfs down her food while protecting the plate as if someone might snatch it. All the while, her eyes dart about.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“Trouble. No one catches Sophie by surprise.”

Oh, yes. That’s the other thing. Now she constantly refers to herself in the third person. It’s Sophie does this, Sophie wants that. Lately, I’ve been relishing any and every opportunity to leave the house.

This time, I answer a call about people sneaking wood out of the government forest that surrounds Jiji Ndogo. Basically, it’s theft of government property and I’m glad my CI (Confidential Informant) has brought it my notice. CIs are an important part of policing, and we try not to call them snitches, although that’s what they are.

“What’s going on?” I ask him.

“They’re poaching trees,” he tells me.

“Who is?”

“The tree huggers.”

Last week I had to contend with young people hugging trees for a social media prank or challenge or something like that. As I get into the area, I realise they have moved deeper into the forest, away from the fringes where they had been operating.

I leave my CI by the road and advance alone. Sophia declined to join me, saying she has to protect her clothes drying on the line outside our flat. Please, don’t ask.

I catch one of the perps with a load of what looks like firewood on her back.

“Stop right there!” I shout. My voice is a little higher than I’d like and I’ve had one or two people snigger when I attempt to be forceful. “Set the load down.”

She turns to me, first scared, then seemingly relieved. A smile comes to her lips. “Ah, Makini, it’s just you.”

“What do you mean ‘it’s just me’?”

“You’re the government. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, I understand you’re breaking the law by fetching illegal firewood from a government forest.”

She puts down her load and charges me with stern eyes. “Then you must also understand that since the government shut down my fuel supplier, I don’t have any other means of cooking. I have five children. How am I supposed to feed them?”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean the government shut down your fuel supplier?”

“Ever heard of Koko? I can’t afford regular gas, and even if I could, I don’t have money to buy another stove. So what am I supposed to do?”

I know of the fuel she’s referring to, but I don’t get how the government is involved in its closure.

“I don’t know either, the details, I mean,” she says. “All I know is that the government used to allow them to sell carbon dioxide. Now they can’t, and I have no fuel.”

Needless to say, I’m unable (or maybe afraid) to arrest her. Hell hath no fury like a mother with hungry children.