Dog Meat Samosa

by Stanley Gazemba

  Demosh was just stepping over the threshold of the pub when he fell.

  

  Demosh’s gangster friends formed a menacing half-circle around his bed at Kenyatta National Hospital where he had been rushed. The hospital orderly waited with a steel trolley.

  “You heard the doctor. The man’s dead,” the nurse pleaded with rising panic. “Please step aside and allow him to be wheeled to the mortuary.”

  The men remained unmoving, their gazes wooden, staring down at their strongest man, refusing to acknowledge the nurse’s plea.

  “I am sorry, but I may have to call in security,” she said with false bravado. “For the last time, please step aside from the bed.”

  The group of thick-necked thugs favored her with looks of utter contempt, angled jaws chewing furiously on wads of gum. Skelle, the second-in-command, jerked his head slowly toward the door and they walked silently to the exit. Stares followed them as they passed through the crowded hospital corridors, the patients agog at the polished studded leathers, bulging biceps, and garishly flaunted bling. The men emerged in the parking lot, where they piled into their flashy vehicles, parked haphazardly across designated slots, and noisily drove out of the lot.

  

  The funeral cortège of the following day was as flashy as the men who attended it. The cars wound their way slowly through the city streets en route to Lang’ata Cemetery. Demosh’s family, flanked fore and aft by the long motorcade, had been herded into a huge Cadillac the gang had hired at ten grand an hour. The massive white casket had been strapped to the roof rack of the navy VW Barbie that Demosh used to drive around town. The boom boxes in the VW’s boot were going full blast, the deep bass jarring the peace inside the walls of the roomy casket where the dead gangster was having his last nap. Two outriders on powerful Harley Davidson bikes cleared the traffic ahead, shooing aside the gaping kids who crowded the sidewalks.

  A little service was held by the graveside. As the clearly overwhelmed pastor led the gathering through the hymn, the gang members remained with their heads bowed, chewing furiously, at a loss for what to say because they didn’t know the lines. The ceremony wound to an end, and as the attendants prepared to lower the deceased into the grave the gang intervened. Skelle opened the lid of the casket so that they could have a last look at their buddy before it was nailed shut.

  “I say, you were a true gangster, boy. You need to go in style,” Skelle whispered softly to himself, adjusting his friend’s Armani suit. From a parked car, Skelle retrieved a portable CD player, which he wedged into the casket beside the deceased’s feet. He pressed the play button and Coolio’s “See You When You Get There” filled the lace-lined casket. On cue, Denno, the gang’s master locksman, reached into his jacket and pulled out Demosh’s heavy silver chain, which he had skillfully relieved the fallen gangster of as they were putting him in the ambulance. With shaking hands—the after-effects of a night-long binge—Denno carefully placed the chain around the neck of the corpse.

  As for the huge fellow who was being feted, he remained snuggled in the soft laces, his dark face screwed in a half-frown, his thick lips pouting, his eyes not quite shut. Demosh’s expression suggested that he wasn’t happy that the grim reaper had taken him in such a cheap fashion after his fast-lane lifestyle; he would have preferred, it seemed, to go out with a little more drama.

  As they were preparing to nail the lid shut, Kauzi, one of the gang members, his protruding eyes glazed from excessive weed, elbowed his way forward, yelling at the attendants to wait. He was waving the deceased’s expensive cell phone, of which he had deftly relieved Demosh as he had been helped up from the floor of the pub. Kauzi’s eyes roved over the expensively dressed corpse, as if debating where to place the cell phone.

  “You were one mean bastard, Demosh,” Kauzi muttered under his breath. “Always meddling in a job to get your cut, while all the while you sat on your fat ass and let others do all the work.” His gaze weighed the value of the clothing and jewellery that the dead gangster was taking with him to the grave. “Always liked freebies, didn’t you, old boy? I think you deserved what you got in the end. I for one certainly won’t be missing you. In any case, you were kind of crowding the pen, you know. Here, I think you’ll be needing this,” he said, placing the expensive cell phone in the corpse’s hip pocket close to his stiff right hand. “You might need to call that fiery place, where they are surely expecting you with a three-pronged fork, and place a booking for an air-conditioned room. Much as I am tempted to keep the snazzy phone, I don’t want you spooking me in my dreams. I’m not ready to join you just yet. I’ve still got some incomplete business in this world. Someone’s got to fill the boots you left, you know,” he said with a soft laugh. “Well, good riddance, you old bastard. May your fat ass fry in hell.” Kauzi crossed himself as his mother had taught him. “Bon voyage!”

  “That was quite a eulogy, Kauzi,” said Skelle, after Kauzi retreated from the graveside to join the rest of the mourners.

  “Yeah, I liked the guy. I’ll miss him a lot.”

  “You are right. We all will.”

  After the rites had been completed Skelle slipped the deceased’s designer sunglasses over his half-open eyes and nodded at the cemetery attendants, who nailed the casket shut and started the winch to lower it into the gaping hole. Skelle completed the ritual by opening a bottle of Bushmill’s to anoint the coffin. The casket duly consecrated, the cemetery attendants began the task of shoveling in the dirt.

  

  He woke with a start. It was pitch-dark, and in the cold stillness he could hear strains of Tupac’s “Life Goes On.” He opened his eyes and tried to take his bearings, but he felt as if sledgehammers pounded about inside his skull. Dry gauze lined his mouth and throat. His tongue was swollen with thirst, and a surfeit of bile set his stomach walls on fire. Marshaling his strength, he tried to rise on his elbows to take his bearing, but the splitting headache kept him pinned to his bed. With a sigh he sank back, feeling beads of sweat pop up on his brow and trickle down his temples. Somewhere in the recesses of his strange surroundings Snoop Doggy Dog yapped on, as if making a joke of his predicament.

  Christ, where the hell was he? He felt about him with his open palm, trying to make sense of the lacy bed sheets and the strange smells. And as his lungs started to burst in the closed airless place he rummaged in his pocket for his cell phone, his breath hissing out through clenched teeth, sweat soaking into his stiff starched collar.

  

  The gang—excepting Kauzi, who had disappeared earlier in the evening—were seated around a corner table playing high stakes poker. Cans of beer and cigarette ash littered the floor around the table. It was approaching the closing hour and the pub was mostly deserted, save for a couple in the corner and the bored barmaids hovering around, stifling sleepy yawns in their fists. Skelle was shuffling the cards, preparing to issue another hand when the cell phone on the table rang. He deposited the cards on the table, and was reaching out to take the phone when he stumbled back in shock, his face ashen.

  “What is it?” chorused the rest of the cardsharps.

  “Take a look,” whispered Skelle, his eyes wide with horror.

  “What?” Denno exclaimed, toppling his chair as he fell back from the table.

  The men stared open-mouthed at the ringing phone, each frozen in place. The dead man’s name flashed blue on the little screen. Skelle, gathering his courage, reached forward with a trembling finger and pressed the speaker button.

  “Hey, why the hell ain’t you picking up your phone, you bastard?” Demosh’s angry tones filled the suddenly silent bar. “Where the hell is this? I hope this is not some kind of joke, as I’ll sure kick some ass bad when I get out of here!” A hushed horror descended upon the table as the men froze in their sweats, faces shining with sweat, wide eyes white and glimmering in the dim light of the bar. “Hey, talk to me, won’t yo
u?” Demosh insisted. “You son of a bitch! Speak to me!”

  The men stared speechlessly at each other, the poker cards strewn on the table, forgotten.

  “I said speak to me, you damn bastard! I know you are there!” yelled the agitated caller. “Pick up the damn phone!”

  It was drizzling outside as the gang raced from the table to their cars. The poker game would have no winner.

  

  Meanwhile, as the gang ran about in a scare after the bizarre call, the grave-raiders were busy at work. It was a muddy job, with the drizzling rain showing no sign of abating. All the same, Kauzi and the two crooks he had picked up on River Road were determined that they would haul up the casket, rain or not.

  It was dark and deserted in the cemetery at that hour, the rain-washed gravestones showing faintly amongst the bushes. The fence who had approached Kauzi with the job had offered a good price for everything that had gone into the grave minus the corpse. He had been at the funeral, and had seen the casket, the suit, and the bling that the gangster was taking with him to the grave. Struggling to shovel wet mud out of the deep grave, Kauzi reflected on his folly at leaving the expensive cell phone in the dead man’s pocket. Burying good money due to some stupid premonition…he was clearly losing his touch. After all these successful jobs he had pulled off, perhaps he was nothing more than an old woman after all, he thought dismally.

  The men were covered in mud by the time their spades scraped the wood of the casket.

  “Hey, careful there, boys,” Kauzi said, switching on a little flashlight, the beam of which was filtered through a white handkerchief. “We don’t want to mess up the polish now, do we?”

  It took all their combined effort and careful manoeuvring to get the casket out of the grave. Breathing heavily, they sat for a moment by the graveside. One of the boys took out a cigarette and prepared to light up.

  “Hey, don’t you light a match now,” said Kauzi, snatching away the match. “We don’t want to attract company now that we are almost done.” Glancing over his shoulder, Kauzi confirmed that the pick-up truck was where they had left it—parked in the bushes, waiting to cart away the loot. “Hey, let’s get this over with now. We’ll have time to rest later,” he said, leaping to his feet. Retrieving a little jemmy from the muddied pouch of his dungarees, Kauzi went to work on the lid of the casket. One of the boys held the flashlight steady while the other kept an eye out for unexpected company. Kauzi, musing upon the many treasures that were doubtless buried six feet beneath rotting crosses and gravestones all around them, thought a new career as a grave raider might be just to his taste. Treasures that lay in the dark, awaiting the harvest.

  The coffin lid came loose and Kauzi and his cohorts swung it slowly to the side, careful not to muddy anything inside.

  The dead man sat up slowly, shaking his head to clear his befuddled mind.

  “Ai…Yawa!” cried one of the boys, springing back, his hair standing on edge.

  The dead man shook his head again and opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to get his bearings, spitting out the strange gauze filling his mouth. “You sure took your sweet time, you falas!”45 he snapped, his thick brow knit. “Someone get me a glass of water. Boy, isn’t it thirsty over there!”

  * * *

  45 Nairobi street slang for ‘idiot.’

  Hearse for Hire

  I’ve always gotten my way, ever since I lay on my back for a farm boy in my village in western Kenya at ten. I took his twenty shillings—his wages for the day’s labour—and he left with a smile on his face. And none since have yet accused me of robbery, delighted as they are with the value I provide.

  Thirty-two years in the business gives me something to say to those young green-horns who try to catch a man on the strength of their looks alone. While these young things will obligingly get on their backs for anyone who will pay, women in my league have the privilege of choice. Why waste time chasing after sardines when you can live off a big fish for a month? These novices do not understand that patience is a virtue. I take my lesson from the big cats that rule the savanna. Lions select their prey carefully; they take their time stalking their chosen prey, ignoring the rest of the herd. Isn’t that why they are kings of the jungle? I have learned from the best, and I’ve never gone wrong so far.

  While I am not as well educated as my younger competition, I speak fairly good English, practicing as I do with a native speaker—my English employer. He likes to discuss the early papers with me as I prepare morning tea. I have now mastered the art of smoothly rolling my tongue around words that trip up these fresh schoolgirls. Education aside, I do have papers that speak to my professional credibility. I have a certificate in cookery and am a trained ayah.

  These daily English sessions with my boss have sharpened my knowledge of world affairs. I know about global warming, the Middle East crisis, the English Premier League, Al-Qaeda, piracy in the coastal waters off Somalia, and U2’s Bono and his campaign to encourage Western countries to write off debts owed by the poor of Africa (who never saw a cent of the money themselves). On any given day I could hold my own in conversation on any topic for five minutes or more with my employer’s guests.

  In addition I have read Dreams From My Father; Things Fall Apart; The Number One Detective Agency; one of the Harry Potter books—I don’t remember which exactly; Weep Not, Child; Animal Farm; and, of course, the Bible. These books are stacked on my shelf in the servants’ quarters, beside a pile of Cosmopolitan, True Love, and Readers Digest that the mamsaf46 had finished browsing. By “reading” I mean that I have labored through a few chapters before sleep overtakes me; enough, though, that I can give my two cents’ worth in a conversation on any of these books. If book talk fails, I can dance the salsa, and I know a little about jazz, which I frequently listen to on my employer’s stereo. Occasionally, I accompany Mamsaf and the kids to the movies. We have seen Titanic, Pirates of the Caribbean, Tomb Raider, Out of Africa and a number of others that I can’t remember, all while stuffing ourselves with popcorn and sodas—childish food sold at outrageous prices. That makes me a super mama, right? But the icing on the cake, the experience that really elevates me above these fresh-faced girls, is the fact that I have been to England! I traveled with my United Nations employer on holiday, babysitting for them as they visited family.

  I know quite a bit about men, and I know that they will pay top dollar for a pea-brain who is nicely packaged. In this, I knock the competition flat. I buy my clothes from fashionable stores in European cities, and on those specific occasions when I opt for an African look, I depend upon the services of a talented Ghanaian tailor at the Kenyatta market, who imports her fabric. You wouldn’t catch me dead in those dead-men’s clothes sold at the Gikomba flea market; nor would I buy my shoes from the pile under a street lamp or wear the cheap plastic accessories manufactured in China. My perfume is the real deal, and my hair is styled at the top downtown salons. But the crown jewel is my warm smile. I have a natural gap in my big white front teeth, and when I smile I can make the meanest man’s heart melt like butter in a skillet.

  So it is, with all these attractions, I am able to lure and keep regulars like the flashy Munir, who takes me to business conferences—a decision that would send his wife searching for a rope and the nearest tree branch if she were to find out. I see my competition gape at those stretch limousines in society magazines and laugh softly to myself—for unlike those greenhorns, I have ridden in them. My confident sense of style allows me to walk through the entrance of Tribe Hotel as a booked guest, commanding a smile and a bow from the maître d’. And I never disappoint. I know to keep my mouth shut when the men are talking business, and to massage their bloated egos afterwards as I peel off their dollars.

  But perhaps my biggest advantage is that I know the secret to a man’s heart: treat him as his mother would. With a full African figure and butter-melting smile, I understand full well that i
t is the comfort of a warm bosom that lulls a man to sleep. While men might pay to gape at skinny figures in fashion and strip shows, at the end of the day they are just that—shows.

  Looking back over my long career, I think I have done society a great favour. While shrinks charge a fortune to have rich folks lie on their couches and tell them about their problems, I charge relatively little to calm nervous CEOs, keeping them sufficiently relaxed to run their companies. Who knows how many dull marriages I have kept going by distracting the head of the house and keeping him happy?

  My chosen occupation has its own thrills. Once I dated a big-shot businessman whose wife worked as a newscaster with a local TV station. We used to leave the TV on as we went about the business of peeling the bananas. My client would start dressing by the time the newscasters got to the weather forecast, and by the time the madam got home her husband would be warming their bed, snoring like a meek lamb. Now, that was one thrilling set-up. Too bad he got greedy and wanted to put a chain on me.

  All the same, I’m well aware of the risk, and I am prepared. I can hold my own in a catfight with a furious missus any day. In fact I wouldn’t advise any of those pantywaist sisters—yes, for some reason the wives of most rich folks always look like survivors of a Nazi camp—to dare have a go at me. I am a big African mama who treats her body well—I eat solid food that sits squarely in my belly, and want nothing to do with those five-star hotel’s tiny salad portions. I always carve my helpings, and I’m not shy about it. Question is, if all of us were to eat fresh leaves, then what would the goats eat?

  Anyway, the goats business aside, I’ve had a run of good luck so far. I have built upcountry homes for my parents and myself, and put my son—who lives with my parents—through good schools. I have invested in real estate in my hometown upcountry and own shares in two top companies listed at the NSE, thanks to one of my clients. You see, my money doesn’t all go to clothes and shoes. With close to half a million shillings in the bank for a rainy day, I have padded the nest well, and, should I need to retire today, I would not starve.