Playing a Dangerous Game

by Patrick Ochieng

In school we are taught that there were others who also fought for independence. Nobody is singing about them, though. Maybe they didn’t fight as hard as the Father of the Nation.

  A man with a loud, commanding voice on the radio announces what is going on at the celebrations. He calls out the names of the different groups in his bossy tone. He calls someone to narrate a shairi for the Father of the Nation, and you can tell from the poet’s voice that she is a girl. She praises the Father of the Nation until the man with the commanding voice stops her so someone else can also praise the Father of the Nation. The next person drones on like a group of bumblebees.

  Fighter jets roar past and I can feel the whole house shake. I rush outside to find Mose and Dado standing next to Block 10. Odush stands a couple of meters away from them. Yesterday’s tension over the photo and diary is far from over.

  We crane our necks and watch the silver jets do flips. The first does a double flip then tears up into the clouds. The second rolls over like a playful puppy that wants its belly tickled, then straightens and shoots up into the clouds. The third flips once, twice, even a third time, but does not rise out of it, and at first I’m thinking, he’s the best, until a dull distant thud followed by a ball of fire announces that the plane has crashed. A thick pall of smoke rises from where it went down.

  “Bloody old secondhand jets those whites sold us,” someone says.

  “No, it’s our pilots who can’t do anything right. They should have let the whites continue to fly those damn things.”

  “Don’t go blaming the pilots or the people that sold the planes. It’s the crooks that run this country. Trust them to go and buy scrap metal instead of planes, just so they can line their pockets,” a woman with a colorful lesso around her wide bosom says.

  “The pilot probably bailed out before the plane hit the ground,” Dado says. “They have seats that eject from the plane with the pilot strapped to it.”

  “Eish! And who do you expect to believe that?” the woman in a lesso asks and walks away.

  Dado is talking about the pilots who shoot out of burning planes in war films. But that’s acting. This here is real, with the smoke still thick and rising. Worst of all, we see no parachute in the sky.

  “If he jumped out we’d have seen him float down in a parachute,” I say.

  “Just because the plane looked like it was close by doesn’t mean it was. Those things move so fast, one minute it’s here in Nairobi, the next it is in Mombasa. Perhaps he jumped out miles away from here, and right now he is on the ground gathering up his parachute, laughing at everyone who thinks he is dead.”

  “But the smoke looks like it was from across the bridge, and not too far off.”

  We continue to argue about the pilot, whether he is alive, about the distance, the cause of the crash. Everyone has their own story of what brought the jet down. Someone even says it was shot down and that they saw something streak out from the ground before the jet burst into flames. I want to scream, it’s a bloody lie, but people usually believe what they want to, so I just let it go.

  When I return to our living room the Father of the Nation is speaking on the radio. He reminds everyone of the sacrifices that led to independence. He fishes out his most threatening voice when warning those he calls wasaliti. Those are the traitors who work with foreigners to bring the country down. He shouts “Haraaaambeee,” and the crowd’s response makes Baba’s radio cackle. He threatens to pound the enemies of the state to dust. He talks of himself in the third person, like he is speaking about someone else. After a long speech, he again shouts “Haraaambee,” but this time the response is not as loud as before. I guess people are tired and hungry, and need to leave. I’ve heard it said that you can’t leave the venue before the Father of the Nation does.

  BABA NO LONGER TAKES us to watch the march during national celebrations. He says he is too busy, but I’ve heard him tell Mama that it has become too politicized and dangerous, whatever that means.

  I loved watching the march, how the soldiers tilted their faces to look at the cheering crowd. These days I just listen to it on the radio.

  Mama celebrates by powdering her face and straightening her hair with a hot comb. She wears her favorite kitenge, and makes Apondi cook chapatis, rice, and chicken, which we wash down with TreeTop juice.

  All national days are about how we outfoxed the white settlers. The Father of the Nation says that independence was not given to us on a platter. Lots of blood was shed, and therefore we must be ready to defend it. He swings his flywhisk above his head and threatens anyone who would even think of disrupting our hard-earned uhuru. The Father of the Nation has people everywhere who see and hear everything. Baba says all the people who work for the government are his eyes and ears.

  His picture is on coins and banknotes, on office walls, in classrooms, hospitals, hotels, airports, people’s living rooms, everywhere. We always pray to God to give the Father of the Nation the strength to rule our land and nation. I stare up at his portrait on our wall and marvel at his fierce eyes and big beard that looks like a lion’s mane. I listen to his booming voice on Baba’s radio, and I am convinced our country is safe.

  “MY FATHER SAYS you can’t look into the eyes of the Father of the Nation.” Mose wears a solemn look as he speaks.

  “And what happens if you do?”

  “I don’t know, but my father says it is never done. Maybe you’d go blind,” Mose laughs.

  “So how are you supposed to work with him if you can’t look him in the eye?”

  “Who told you the Father of the Nation works? He only gives orders and makes declarations,” Mose says.

  “Of course that’s work. Even managers give orders. Doesn’t mean they don’t work,” I say.

  “Now just because your father is a manager you are comparing managers with the Father of the Nation?” Mose eyes me like I’ve committed a sin, and I back off.

  I don’t want them thinking I’m showing off.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  ***

  A POLICEMAN IN FULL UNIFORM, complete with a hat and whistle, comes to our house one evening. He must have been waiting outside, because I barely slip off my knapsack and school tie when he knocks on the front door. He has a notebook and a blue pen.

  He asks what I know about Mwachuma and the Bedford lorry that was pulled out of the ditch. I can tell from his questions that he has already spoken to Mose or Odush who have told him all they know. It’s obvious he doesn’t know about Mwachuma’s connection to the deserted house.

  Mama hovers around and doesn’t leave me alone with him.

  “Have you ever seen Mwachuma driving that green Bedford lorry?” the policeman asks for the second time.

  “He’s already told you that he has never seen anyone driving the lorry,” Mama interjects. “Unless you are asking him to lie, and I didn’t bring my kids up that way,” she clucks.

  “But your friend, what’s his name . . .” the policeman consults his notebook. “Yes . . . Odush said the lorry was in that man’s yard and that there were fresh tire marks?”

  “Everyone knows that lorry was parked in that crook’s yard,” Mama interjects.

  After the policeman realizes he’s not going to get anything new from me he folds his notebook to leave. Mama offers him tea but I can tell from her tone she doesn’t mean it. I think the policeman also knows, because he shakes his head and walks out.

  “Now you see why I keep telling you to stay indoors and read your books instead of poking your nose in other people’s business?” Mama says after the man has gone. “Next time the police come calling I’ll not concern myself with big-headed fools who do not listen to their parents. Your father and I have never had policemen walking in and out of our house. What do you think the neighbors will say?”

  The way she talks, you would think a whole squad of policemen has been investigating our house.

  “GO ON, tell your father about the police coming to our house today,” Mama corners me into reco
unting the visit to Baba.

  “Young man, you better stay off this Mwachuma business,” Baba says, reaching for the dial of his radio.

  Mama’s face twists into a frown, and you can tell she doesn’t think Baba is taking the whole thing seriously enough. She turns to give me one of her this is far from over looks and storms off to the kitchen.

  IT’S A SATURDAY, and there is no school for me or detention because the new demerits on my conduct card have not reached three.

  The ring of the newspaper vendor’s bicycle bell pierces the morning and I dash out to get Baba’s paper.

  There is a picture of Idi Amin frowning on the front page. His army uniform is weighed down by medals.

  “Lumumba, can I have my paper?” Baba shouts from the living room and I rush in to hand it to him.

  “Amin has ordered his soldiers to shoot anyone found smuggling coffee across the border. People are now trooping to some place called ‘Chepkube’ near the Uganda border to smuggle the ‘black gold,’ as coffee is now called,” Baba reads from his paper.

  “Why has everyone gone crazy about coffee?” Mama wants to know. “All these years people have grown it and no one has even noticed. Now they are willing to kill for it.”

  “It’s because Brazil, the biggest producer of coffee, lost most of its crop due to bad weather. Someone has to feed the white man’s hunger for coffee,” Baba lifts his head from his paper.

  Wow! So these Brazilians do things other than playing football. I know about Pele and how he is the best football player in the world. But I didn’t know about their coffee. I can tell from Mama’s face that she too didn’t know. I can’t wait to show off to Dado and Mose about how Brazil’s coffee has been destroyed and now places like Uganda are cashing in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ***

  I DO NOT SEE NJISH UNTIL she almost knocks me over. She looks smart in her green pleated dress with a huge white buckle at the waist. She takes my hand in hers and I look around to see if anyone is watching. Her face is radiant, her dimples round and sweet. We steal glances at each other but mostly look down into the ground when our eyes meet.

  “We’ll be leaving for America soon. My father says there are more opportunities there,” she says.

  “America, America?”

  “Yes, America,” Njish nods.

  We remain silent, but my heart is beating so loud I’m scared she will hear the thumping sound. She squeezes my hand, and though I want to squeeze back, my muscles won’t move. My whole body is frozen still.

  “America is a good place,” I say, as if I have ever been there. I’m not even certain why I say it. I’ve heard that people who go to America get lost and never come back.

  “We’ll write each other?” She brushes her other hand against mine and my mind is racing. “I’ll send you pictures from America.”

  “Good,” I say and we stay silent.

  When I steal another look at her, I see tears in her big round eyes.

  “I have something for you,” she whispers and slips a small beaded bracelet onto my wrist.

  I am still admiring it when, from nowhere, Apondi appears and Njish snatches her hand back and hurries away.

  “Ah! There you are,” Apondi says.

  “What is it you want?”

  “You think I don’t know what you and that girl are up to? Your father pays so much money to have you in that nice school and still you have to hang around with that useless girl. She is not even one of us. They are not our people.”

  “Njish is not useless,” I protest but Apondi is already walking away.

  I’m still rooted to the spot, my mind blank and my lips quivering, when I feel a faint touch to my shoulder. I jump and I’m about to cry out, only to find it’s Njish. I can tell from the look on her face that she heard what Apondi said.

  “Why does she hate me?”

  “Forget Apondi! She says things she doesn’t mean,” I reply quickly.

  “My mother also says you are not one of us. She says you’re different, and that your people are always making trouble. But I don’t care. I still like you more than anyone.”

  I try to think of something to say, but I can’t find the words. I always thought the reason Njish’s mother looked at me funny was because we are always darting about the estate causing trouble. I didn’t know it was me she didn’t like.

  “Don’t think much of those grown-ups. They are always complaining about one thing or the other,” I finally say.

  “Are you different?”

  “Of course I’m different. I’m a boy and you’re a girl.”

  “I mean different from, say, Mose. My mum likes him. She says they are our people.”

  “Grown-ups make a big deal about little things like where people come from, but who cares.”

  “I also don’t care,” she says and starts to walk away. She turns and there is this beautiful smile on her face.

  “You will wait for me until I come back from America?”

  I nod.

  “And stay away from that Hill School girl, Lillian,” she says, and is gone.

  I stand rooted to the spot.

  I’VE BEEN COMPOSING a letter for Njish. I’ve been at it for a long time. Some of the words I intend to use are from Baba’s Oxford dictionary. I wait until there is no one in the living room and then I pull it out from the top of Baba’s bookshelf. I flip through it in my room looking for words to impress Njish.

  I have a few words I’ve settled on like “affection” and “passion.” However, I have doubts about “passion” because it sounds a bit too grown-up-ish. I don’t want Njish thinking I am like those dirty men who spend their time next to the social hall hurling out dirty words after they are tipsy from drinking beer.

  I’ve not written down any of the words. I have them stored in my head where nosy people like Awino and Apondi cannot find them. Now that Njish is going to America I guess I’ll just leave them there till she comes back, even though I’m not sure when that will be. But I’ll wait because I like her and she likes me.

  I once saw a man go down on his knee and ask a woman to marry him. Though it was only in a film it looked good. When Njish comes back and we are old enough, I will wait until we are alone and go down on my knee to ask her to marry me. Then we will live in a big house and have children.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ***

  WE PLAN TO VISIT the house on Desai Street again tomorrow night. Even though we know it isn’t haunted, the idea of visiting it is no less scary. If Tumbo and the other crooks could get rid of Stingo for asking too many questions, imagine what they could do to us.

  “The more people we are, the greater the likelihood of being caught. And besides why did he have to hand over the photo and diary to the police behind our backs?” Dado argues why he does not want Odush along. He has followed me all the way to Amimo’s shed where I have gone to buy charcoal for Mama.

  But we also went to the house on Desai Street without telling them, I want to say, but I don’t. After all, it was my idea to exclude Mose the last time.

  “We need Odush in case we are cornered. You know the way he sprints off like an impala, he could run away and get help,” I say. “Besides we’ve always done things together. We’re a team and it should stay that way,” I continue.

  “Then we will have to tell them about our last visit and what we discovered,” Dado concedes. “Wait until they learn that the only ghosts in that house are Mwachuma, Tumbo, and their gang of crooks,” he laughs.

  “YOU’RE LYING,” Mose says and waves his hand.

  We have just told them about our last visit to the house on Desai Street and what we heard Mwachuma, Tumbo, and the tall guy say.

  “You want to say that all along it was those crooks who have been pretending to be ghosts, and that you heard them talking about the diary we found, and that Stingo was a police officer and all that other stuff? Man, that’s crazy.” Mose pauses to catch his breath.

  “Yes, that’
s the reason we need to get to the bottom of it all, so that the thieves can be arrested before they come for Odush who handed over our diary.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’ve made it all up to scare us. How do we know that you actually visited the ghost house?” Odush says, but he is unable to hide the concern on his face.

  “We’re going back tonight. If you aren’t too scared to come along, you can join us. Otherwise you can stay at home shivering and waiting for Mwachuma and Tumbo to come and slit your throat. Or maybe they’ll just knock you out and light a charcoal jiko next to you like they did with Stingo. I’ve heard that death from carbon monoxide poisoning is painless. You just fall asleep and you never wake up,” Dado sneers.

  “And who said I’m afraid of Mwachuma? I’m definitely coming along,” Odush says, slapping his chest hard.

  “Me too,” Mose shouts.

  “And afterward you can snitch on us to your little sister,” I sneer at Mose.

  “That only happened once and I said I’m sorry,” Mose averts his eyes.

  “Now here is a sketch of the compound of that house.” Dado gets down on his haunches. He uses a broken twig to draw on the dusty ground. “This here is the hole in the hedge,” he makes an “X” with his twig. “This is the house with a door in the front and at the back.” He marks a “D” at the two spots. “And this here is the big water tank behind which we hid the last time.” He marks a “W.” “I suggest one of us stays on the street outside the compound, ready to run and get help if we’re caught.” Dado looks in Odush’s direction. “You can hide behind the bougainvillea bush.” He marks a “B” on his sketch.

  “Why should I be the one to stay outside?” Odush complains, but there is little conviction in his tone.

  “Any one of us can be out there. We could decide for Mose to be there, or even me,” Dado says.

  “I’ll stay outside,” Mose offers.

  “No, we already decided I’ll be the one to stay outside. After all, I can run faster than you,” Odush says quickly, and we all laugh.