Dog Meat Samosa

by Stanley Gazemba

  The boys looked at one another, their excitement building at the miller’s long-winded disclosure.

  “Well, what did you have in mind?” asked Shikwe at length, unable to stand the suspense. “What is it with the dogs?”

  “The deal, my two friends, is this,” said the miller, stubbing out the spent cigarette butt and grinding it in under his heel. “I was thinking of selling a number of the puppies off.”

  “Is it?” said Shikwe, evidently disappointed. He had half-hoped that Sudi would invite them over to his compound to pick one for free. Shikwe had been desperate for a herding dog to accompany the boys to the grazing fields.

  “Indeed,” said the miller, opening the sliding barrier that allowed Shikwe’s maize to trickle into the mill. “I have been thinking of selling the puppies, but I am willing to give one away, in return for a favor.”

  The boys watched the miller’s face keenly, their hearts beating with excited anticipation. “And what favor would that be, Sudi?” asked Shikwe eagerly.

  “You really want the dog, don’t you?” asked the miller.

  “We sure could do with a herding dog,” Andati acknowledged. “Maybe we can train the dog to catch squirrels and rabbits—there are so many to be hunted down in the valley.”

  “And maybe it’s just about time you had one,” said the miller, pushing the battered metal pail in place with the toe of his akala26 shoe as the flour started trickling out of the spout. “I had my first hunting dog at about your age; a brown little terror called Popi. I never saw a dog that could pick up the spoor of so many rabbits on a single hunt. And Popi always caught anything that he routed. Not a single rabbit could outrun him! It is a pity he died of old age last year, but not before siring the puppies that now run all over my compound.”

  “Is it?” said Shikwe, bright-eyed.

  “Indeed. He was a fine stud, too, my Popi was,” said the miller, reaching into the folds of his well-worn coat for another cigarette.

  “So, what is the favor you had in mind?” asked Shikwe, sizing up to the little miller, impatient with the round-about manner in which everything was unfolding.

  “Well, it might even be a puppy for each of you, if you do the job well,” said the miller, turning the lever that switched off the idling mill.

  

  Shikwe and Andati were silent most of the way back home, each mulling over the miller’s strange request.

  “Just what do you think they want to do with Uncle Mukolwe?” asked Andati as they neared their compound.

  “I’ve no idea. Maybe they want to teach him a lesson. Give him a beating, perhaps, just to keep him from messing around with other people.”

  “It could be. If you ask me, I think the man deserves a lesson or two. I hate the way he bosses everyone around. Remember how he slapped us last time he came visiting?”

  “How could I forget?” Shikwe replied. “My cheek stung the rest of the day at school. Father doesn’t beat us that way, and I do not know why he tolerates Uncle’s bullying of us.”

  “Father cannot stand up to Uncle Mukolwe because Uncle was the one who placed Father in his clerk’s job at the sugar factory.”

  “It figures. Uncle Mukolwe looks to me like a crafty weasel who will offer you a seemingly harmless gift, but later uses the fact that he helped you to visit terror on you every day of your life. Maybe Sudi was telling the truth. And surely Father, too, must be fed up with the man’s endless visits and his demands for more money to bail him out all the time.”

  “So, should we do it?” asked Andati.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” said Andati with a shrug. “All I know is that I sure could do with a puppy.”

  “Me too,” said Shikwe. “Wow! What fun we’d have with the boys down at the valley!”

  “Well, why don’t we sleep on it and decide tomorrow?”

  “That sounds like a good idea. Nonetheless I can’t help but wonder what Uncle Mukolwe did to anger Father, and how the miller is connected to all this. Do you think it is Father’s plan to keep Uncle from visiting us anymore?”

  “Could be,” said Andati with a shrug.

  

  When Uncle Mukolwe alighted from the battered bus at Ekero market the following evening, a number of people stopped to look at him surreptitiously. Uncle Mukolwe, oblivious of the interested glances of the villagers, walked quickly down the street, carrying his worn leather traveling case, his coat draped over one arm, and a well-thumbed newspaper tucked beneath his arm. He paused at a shop to buy some groceries, gifts for those he was visiting, and as he waited for the shopkeeper to wrap up his purchases, Mukolwe removed his shiny leather hat and wiped at his bald head with a crisp white handkerchief.

  Among the people keeping a close watch on Mukolwe were five men seated on the veranda of a little pub directly opposite the bus stop—Andati’s father, Sudi, and three others. These silent observers were hidden from view of the road by a screen of bamboo, erected by the proprietor to shield his customers from passersby looking to cadge a drink, as was the custom in this part of the country. The five had just completed a business meeting and were having a beer as they watched, with particular interest, as the traveler removed his hat to wipe at his head.

  Down the road, the new mill towered above the rickety shops that made up the market, its new blue roof and white stucco walls gleaming amid the twisted, rusty mabati27 roofs and weathered moss-covered brick. The mill was easily the tallest building, with an upper story that provided storage space for grain. The old delivery truck was parked outside the mill, backed up next to the double steel doors, beside which the night watchman, who had just reported for duty, had settled into his leaning wickerwork chair.

  As the traveler collected his purchases and made his way through the narrow passage between the shops, the five men at the pub followed him with their eyes. But they were not the only ones watching.

  In a corner of the darkening pub, an old man from the village by the name of Wekulo sat nursing a drink. He was working his way toward spending the last of the lump-sum payment he had received from the sugar company for the delivery of his crop. The barmaids did not pay him much mind—he rarely gave away free drinks and had little interest in idle chatter. The few friends Wekulo still possessed were fewer in number than the fingers of one hand.

  Wekulo’s pleasure lay in the daily portion of a kilo of roast ribs that the butcher next-door reserved for him, and through which he carved his way with a ritual concentration, using the long pocketknife he carried in his coat pocket. Thereafter, he burped over his beer and picked at his browned teeth with a matchstick as he watched the light slowly fade over the little market. From his vantage point, Wekulo could see everything that went on in the little pub. Indeed, he had been watching the five men at the veranda for the better part of the afternoon.

  The old man was not fooled, and neither were the other elderly men of the village. Makokha, the cobbler, had visited his in-laws in Funyula to attend to some urgent business that had arisen; Nangabo, the schoolteacher, had received a summons from the Teachers’ Service Commission in Nairobi; and there were others. Mysterious disappearances, all of them, and only one thing in common—the men had all been bald. It was an old story. A bald head was just what the mill needed, if the talisman that had been planted was to work. It had always been that way, whether it was a matter of building roads, cathedrals, factories, or any other construction projects. The machines had to be appeased before they could commence work. It was their way, and had been so ever since the days of their forefathers.

  Poor man; walking right into the jaws of a carefully laid snare, the old man thought to himself as he cast a glance at the five men huddled in conspiratorial silence on the veranda.

  

  Shikwe heard the light tapping on the window first. Stiffening, he turned over slowly on the mat and wh
ispered, “Andati! Andati!”

  “Oh, I heard it,” the other boy whispered back. Although it was pitch dark in the hut, both of them had been wide awake, lying on their backs side by side, waiting for the signal. It had been impossible to go to sleep with the impending business yet to be completed.

  Sitting upright, Andati called, “Uncle! Uncle! I need to use the latrine.”

  The boys listened for a response, but heard only the muffled snore of their uncle and the creak of his bed as he shifted in his sleep. Andati called out again, a little louder, and the two boys listened anxiously for a response, but there was none; none but the deep and steady rhythm of their uncle’s wheezy breathing. Moving like phantoms in the dark, the two boys rose slowly to their feet and inched toward the bed.

  “Here,” Shikwe whispered, pushing a napkin into Andati’s hand. Shikwe’s voice had a tremor and his hand was trembling. But Andati fared no better for nervousness. They approached their uncle’s bed, which had been pushed up against the wall. A shaft of moonlight from the window fell across the bed, partly illuminating the face of the sleeping man. Andati dug into the pocket of his shorts, searching amongst the bric-a-brac he carried there. He found and retrieved the little vial Sudi had given him. Using the light of the moonbeam, Shikwe folded the napkin carefully into a quarter, both their hearts pounding and their breath whistling in their throats in the hushed stillness that had settled over the room.

  Andati carefully removed the vial’s rubber stopper and poured the liquid over the napkin. “Now!” he whispered softly, nudging Shikwe in the ribs. Shikwe hesitated, and Andati poked him sharply in the ribs with his bony elbow. As Shikwe stepped reluctantly forward, the two boys were startled by a soft rap on the window, and the urgent whisper of the miller.

  “Everything ready in there? Hurry up and open the door!” Sudi whispered.

  “Come on,” whispered Andati earnestly.

  Shikwe bent forward and pressed the napkin firmly against his uncle’s mouth, squeezing his own eyes tightly shut. Andati added his hand to Shikwe’s and both boys held the napkin in place, their limbs seized with nervous trembling.

  Only five seconds were needed, Sudi had said. But each passing moment seemed like an eternity. The sweat poured from the boys’ brows, their breathing increasingly labored, their eyeballs glowing like white marbles in the dark. Sudi’s impatient tapping at the window only added to the boys’ growing tension. The sleeping man’s breath held in his chest and he snorted deep inside his throat as if he was going to cough. He made the terrifying choking sound again as his breath, failing to exhale, choked him. In the electrified silence it took every ounce of willpower the boys possessed for them to keep the napkin pressed in place. Five seconds seemed an eternity.

  Just when the boys were going to loosen their hold on the sleeping man’s face and bolt he turned suddenly, his eyes flying open, his head whipping from one side to the other. Marshaling the breath in his tightening chest, Uncle Mukolwe bunched his massive shoulders and flung his arms in a violent motion that threw the boys halfway across the room.

  “Aaaaaghh!” he gasped, springing upright, his deep baritone startling in the stillness of the night. “Shetani! 28 What a demon of a dream!” He swung his legs over the side of the creaky bed, gasping loudly as he groped about in the dark. “Will someone turn on the lamp? Eh? Boys…!”

  * * *

  26 A hardy handmade sandal cut out of an old automobile tyre, popular among the Maasai herdsmen

  27 Corrugated-iron sheet roofing

  28 Swahili for “Satan”

  Chinese cuisine

  Fanta sat at the counter of her aunt’s shop and watched the street. It was a stifling hot afternoon, and not many people were moving about. She watched the street boy they called Pinchez approach, carrying his grubby, oily sack, a bottle of glue stuck to his upper lip like a ludicrously large boil growing on his mouth.

  As soon as Pinchez appeared the street mongrels, which had crawled under the vegetable stalls to escape the heat, sprang up, arranging themselves on either side of the street, their hackles raised, growling deep in their throats. The lad competed with the stray mutts for garbage and food scraps that were tossed into streets.

  Fanta wondered that the mongrels did not greet anyone else that way, not even Sudi, the madman, who was equally ragged in appearance. The only other person she knew who provoked such a response was Jomo, who would aggravate the mongrels whenever he set up his mutura 29 brazier in the evenings.

  Pinchez strolled down the street, his greasy gunny sack swinging across his back, seemingly oblivious of the noisy yaps of the dogs. One of the mongrels lunged at his heel, but Pinchez, watching the pack from the corner of his eye, took a swing at the mutt with his oversize boot. The mongrel, yelping in pain, retreated as the others made energetic but half-hearted lunges at Pinchez’s heels.

  Pinchez, stopping in front of the shop, leaned back on his stick, gazing at Fanta. At first she pretended not to notice, busying herself arranging and rearranging groceries on the counter. Pinchez liked that. He was watching the way her red print cotton dress hugged her slim back and dipped above her small round buttocks. For the umpteenth time he caught himself wondering why anyone would choose to name their child after a soda. Whatever was her mother thinking to call her Fanta? Perhaps the mother had just downed a soda before she went into labor, Pinchez concluded with amusement. About him, the mongrels had settled back upon their haunches, growling low in their throats, tails stretched straight in the dust, their eyes fixed on him.

  Pinchez extracted the glue bottle from where it was wedged under his nose and examined it. He gave the viscous goo at the bottom of the bottle a hard tap against the heel of his hand before returning it to its place under his nostrils. He took a long sensuous pull, the fumes zinging home deep into his nasal cavity and warming the base of his belly. Fanta turned and saw him still standing there, a stupefied grin creasing the cheeks of his grime-coated face. When their eyes met, he winked. She made a face and went back to rearranging the groceries. He liked that very much. The dogs had lost interest in their game and now sprawled on their bellies in the dust, eyeing him and his long stick from a distance.

  Leaning on his stick in the dusty street, Pinchez followed Fanta’s movements, taking in her thin, pale arms and her translucent albino skin. Her limbs were baby-like, almost like a mzungu’s,30 the fine hairs that adorned them like those of a plucked chicken. He didn’t care for her rashes, or her pale, pale eyes. But he felt that he could live with those minor imperfections. He wondered what it would feel like to have her arms roped about his neck, how it would feel to have her. Maybe it would be like having a mzungu. He had never been with a mzungu, but he imagined that she would feel smooth against his skin like…like what? Like an eel. Yes, supple as Fanta might appear, of one thing he was certain—Fanta’s body would not be warm next to his.

  Pinchez looked up and caught her staring, too. The moment their eyes met, she made a face and turned her back on him, ducking behind the screen that concealed a door to an inner room. Pinchez clicked softly and licked his lips before collecting his gunnysack and setting off down the street. Instantly the dogs sprang up and escorted the boy along his way with their frenzied barking.

  As Pinchez scavenged the garbage heaps on the side of the street his mind was whirring. He had been so engrossed in his fantasies he had momentarily forgotten some important business. Kassim, the mganga31 at the bus terminal—who many believed was from Tanzania while he was actually a Wanga from Mumias—had revealed an interesting tidbit the week before. Kassim had sworn him to secrecy then revealed that across the border, in Tanzania, there was a significant demand for albinos like Fanta. The Tanzania waganga were doing a booming business, selling amulets prepared using albino body parts. An albino arm, he exclaimed excitedly, fetched as much as a quarter of a million shillings.

  Now that was some money
to kill your own mother for! A quarter of a million for just an arm? He wondered if Kassim was fabricating stories as they passed the time sharing a spliff32 in the junk-strewn yard behind his tiny tin-walled shop. But the old man had had a certain look in his eyes, a fervent intensity that convinced Pinchez he had been telling the truth. Kassim had contacts, and if they could only get her across the border.…

  Pinchez thought about this as he flattened a rusty biscuit tin underneath his oversize Caterpillar boot, a different make and color from the one on his other foot. He opened the gunnysack, and the dogs, which prowled watchfully about his heels, followed his hands as he stuffed the flattened tin within. Wiping his moist brow with the back of one hand, Pinchez raised the sack to his shoulder. As he made his way up the street, his unwelcome entourage in tow, a slow, smug smile spread across his grease-streaked face.

  Pinchez knew exactly what needed to be done. First, he would devise a way to lure Fanta into a trap. Then, he would indulge his fantasies…after all, he would have all the time in the world. Thereafter, he would remove his hacksaw, and the rest would be easy, just like sawing through a dog’s carcass. Yes, it would be easy, he convinced himself, his breath rasping in his throat with excitement. And he knew just who would lend him a hand—Jomo. That old boy would get into any job for a cut of the takings. Pinchez could already see the glow of excitement in Jomo’s eyes at the prospect of such a landfall. It would be up to Kassim to arrange the transport, with half payment due on delivery and the rest when the cargo was handed over at Namanga on the border. Afterwards everyone would get their share, and everyone would be happy.

  Pinchez, knowing the wily nature of his potential partners, fully expected that one of them might double-cross him, seeking all the profit for himself. Jomo would insist upon being the boss, right up to when they handed over the cargo, carved up and nicely packed in crates (complete with ice-packs if the blighters who would be paying insisted). But Jomo was unlikely to betray him. Kassim, too, surely knew better than to play around with Pinchez? The old mganga would be toying with a razor across the throat, and he knew it. The whole thing was tight as a virgin, Pinchez thought with a laugh.