Dog Meat Samosa

by Stanley Gazemba

  Under cover of darkness, Amukanga and his gang would creep into the overgrown graveyard carrying a bundle and a little hoe; shortly thereafter, they would leave behind a little mound of fresh earth that the next downpour would promptly uncover. But by then they would have long since collected their pay, the tears would have dried on the faces of the bereft, and memories would have faded. The tiny fetuses were simply dropped in the brown river for the mudfish to finish off—for wasn’t that the watery equivalent of the job the grubs completed under the earth?

  By the time I hung up the phone I had grown substantially wiser in the ways of the world. My mind worked through the details as Ezina had relayed them, and I found that I no longer condemned Amukanga for his deeds. At the end of the day someone had to dispose of the dead, and unlike the funeral homes, Amukanga didn’t charge an arm and a leg for his services. And being a man of God, he ensured that each customer was dispatched with full honours and ceremony.

  The truth of it was that I didn’t exactly live a pious life myself, and now that I was an accomplice, by virtue of occasionally sharing in the profits of the business, I might as well offer a hand. I made a mental note to get Amukanga a bottle of my employer’s Brut Fabergé to replace the Yolanda. Brut would certainly smell better on his fares. It also occurred to me, surprised as I was at the revelation, that I looked forward to my promised drink at Bora Bora when Amukanga returned.

  * * *

  46 A colonial term by which house servants referred to their mistresses, meaning ‘madam.’ It is still used occasionally, fifty years after independence, particularly by older servants in the affluent, previously white-only residential neighborhoods of Nairobi.

  47 A vigorous traditional dance from Western Kenya.

  48 tribal elders

  49 triangle-shaped buns

  50 a washer of public laundry/ launderer

  51 loin-cloth made of cotton

  The Swindle

  Abu walked with a slouch, in a well-practiced rolling street gait, the heels of his thick white Adidas sneakers just barely making contact with the ground. He wore his NY Knicks cap at an angle over his right ear and his heavy shiny “bling” chain—adorned with a heavy crucifix—hanging all the way down to his navel. A row of multicolored stones glinted from rings that adorned four fingers of his right hand, and which, in other circumstances, served as effective knuckledusters. Diamond studs gleamed in his ears with every swing of his head. With his right arm slightly bent at the elbow and his palm cupped—as if ready to scoop up some overlooked treasure—he might have been rolling along on a basketball rink in a Brooklyn neighborhood. It was, all in all, the carefully mastered walk of a “yoyo.”

  Abu was flanked by the Kirinyaga Road rat on one side—a little man in a worn corduroy jacket with canvas patches on the elbows and a frayed newsboy’s cap—and his mechanic on the other, carrying the samples wrapped up in a greasy newspaper parcel. The rat moved with a rapid, shuffling walk that enabled him to navigate his way around people’s elbows, greeting street-side acquaintances with a cursory wink or a furtive tap on the shoulder as he passed.

  From beneath the lowered rim of his cap, the rat’s bright dark eyes constantly moved, surveying the crowds, his manner pleasant, his lips spread in a ready grin, revealing browned teeth. The only characteristic of his companion that mattered to Abu, however, was that the little city man was completely in awe of Abu’s ‘yoyo’ act.

  Although Abu had initially been uncomfortable at his mechanic’s suggestion that they seek vehicle spares in this part of town, he quickly warmed to the idea once they arrived. The jostling crowds of downtown Nairobi were imbued with a sense of purpose. Time was of the essence; these city people didn’t have time to waste idling around and were focused on getting the job done before tackling the next one. It was a hustler’s paradise, a Mecca of sorts for the serious scammer wannabe. And there was safety in numbers.

  In Mombasa, where Abu had lived all his life, things were different. People went about their business with an embellished panache, whether they were buying a shirt, eating a meal, making love, or even taking a crap. There was an unhurried ritualism to almost all aspects of life (mdogo mdogo)52 and commercial connections were carefully and cautiously made. In Nairobi, however, business alliances were easily struck and just as easily broken up. Although strange to “a coastal” like Abu, this experience was not unpleasant. He was a hustler now and had determined that he’d better learn to roll along Nairobi-style.

  As they made their way down the street Abu glanced at his watch, a flashy diamond-encrusted bijou which had cost a small fortune in a Dubai store that specialized in the finest imitations.

  “Hey, wazzup yo guys? Hurry up with this, will ya? I’m getting late,” Abu said in a Brooklyn drawl, a frown marring his baby-soft Jay-Z face that was just starting to sprout a beard. Abu’s pulpy pink lips, highlighted with a dash of lipstick, protruded like a woman’s as a result of the grillz he wore on his teeth. A country man wouldn’t have understood a word of what he said.

  “Ah, don’t worry, brother,” said the rat, with the best imitation of Abu’s twang that his Kirinyaga Road-bred tongue could manage, flashing his companion a bright grin. “Everything will go chap chap,” he added with a snap of the finger. The rat had watched enough gangster-rap videos in Nairobi matatus to be fairly confident in his swagger and tone. His darting eyes had already assessed the watch in the brief moment that Abu had lifted the sleeve of his dazzling white Eckó T-shirt, though his face gave nothing away. “You must be very busy, eh?” he added as way of conversation.

  “Wazzat?” said Abu, his frown deepening.

  “Busy…busy…” said the rat with an elaborate flick of his hand.

  “Oh, yeah… Busy as hell, man,” Abu drawled. “I operate a fleet, man, a fle-et. Know what that is?”

  “Phew! It must be tough work,” the rat acknowledged with an air of bewildered eagerness.

  “I tell you, you ain’t seen half of it. It ain’t like running a jua-kali kiosk,53 man. You need to be on your toes all the time, beating schedules and deadlines and stuff, you know what I mean?” Abu’s fingers snapped like pistol shots, sharply punctuating his speech. “You either hustle with the flow, or you lose business, man.”

  “Phe-e-ew!” whistled the rat, impressed.

  “I tell you, you ain’t seen nothin’, man!” added Abu, as triumphantly as a choir master who has successfully pulled off a high starting note. “And hey, yo! What’s your name?” he asked, patting the little man on the shoulder.

  “Kiki,” the rat replied, baring his mouthful of rotten teeth.

  “Funny name,” said Abu with a chuckle, skirting around a handcart laden with greasy gunnysacks of scavenged scrap. “Had a dog in ma neighborhood with a name like that.”

  The broker laughed good-naturedly at the joke. “Just ask for Kiki. Anyone on Kirinyaga Road will tell you where I am. They know me all the way to the Industrial Area,” he said proudly.

  “Oh, really?” said Abu with a raised eyebrow.

  “Sure, man,” said the little man cheerfully. “All the Wahindi in the spares business know Kiki. Why, if you ask the street kids, even they’ll bring you right to where I am!”

  “I bet they would too,” Abu said with a chuckle. “Seems like every dude on the street knows you.”

  “Man, Kiki is famous, I tell you,” said the little man, fairly bursting with pride. “Ask in Nyamakima, Ngara, Eastleigh…all those places. Everyone knows Kiki. It is the reason your mechanic came to me.”

  “Is that so, Rama?” said Abu, turning to his mechanic, who seemed preoccupied with the problems that needed fixing in the two buses in the garage. He wasn’t much of a talker by nature.

  “He’s right, boss,” said Rama. “He sure is famous; but only on Kirinyaga Road.”

  The broker laughed good-naturedly. “S
ee? I can even stand for Governor. These people will elect me!”

  “Ow, really?” said Abu, baring his grillz in a grin. “I bet ya would, too. You can charm a snake!”

  “And what’s your name, boss?” the rat asked, emboldened by the easy camaraderie he had managed to whip up.

  “My name?” Abu said, scratching his head daintily with a manicured finger. “Ma boys call me Boo-Gee. That’s my name.”

  “Yeah, man,” said the rat with a bobbing nod, imitating Abu’s drawl. “And you’re a cool dude, too.”

  “Real cool, man…just ask ma boys back in the ’hood, they’ll tell you Boo-Gee is a real cool brother!” Abu proclaimed, evidently pleased at the impression he had made on the little city man. “When I’ve made a good round trip from the coast and back and the dough’s in, ma boys know that I throw a party like a real gangsta….I splash the G’s around, man, wow! Feels great, I tell ya!”

  “Really?” said the rat, his eyes aglow.

  “Man, you ain’t seen nothin’, I told ya!” Abu said with a throaty laugh, slapping the little man on the shoulder. “You should come down to the coast someday, man… I tell ya!”

  “Phe-e-ew,” mused the rat, shaking his head, reminded that it had been several days since his last solid meal. Kiki’s belly rumbled as he imagined a plate full of roast chicken and pilau 54 rice, washed down by a gallon or two of beer.

  They walked on for a while in silence until they arrived at the end of the street, near the Race Course Road junction. There Kiki stopped next to the disused public toilet. “We are here,” he said, indicating a little side alley that departed from the busy street.

  “What?” said Abu, surprised.

  “Easy,” said the rat with his infectious smile. “Relax, brother. This is just the front office. The store is at the back of the street.”

  “Your office is in a public toilet?”

  “Not a toilet, Abu. It is a base. A front office,” said the broker earnestly, his moist face suddenly anxious. A couple of street kids lounged against the graffiti-covered wall of the commandeered City Council toilet, plastic bottles half full of industrial adhesive stuck to their upper lips. The broker made a face at them and they scattered into the traffic, their oily gunny sacks slung across their shoulders.

  “Well, where’s the merchandise then?” Abu asked impatiently. “I am a busy man, y’know,” he added, with a glance at his flashy watch. “I’ve got two full bookings waiting for me. I don’t have all day to waste.”

  “In a moment, Abu,” said the broker. “But first I need the samples in order to get the right parts from the shop. It’s right at the back, through the corridor. It will just take a minute, and I’ll give you a bargain that you’d never get with anyone else on this street; that is my guarantee.”

  “Wa…wa…wait,” Abu protested as the broker reached for the newspaper bundle the mechanic was carrying. A hint of alarm showed in the depths of his eyes. “You mean we trust you with the samples just like that? What if you disappear with them?”

  “Now, boss, there’s something here which I think you do not understand,” said the broker, his mouth curling in an infectious grin like that of a prankish elf in a bedtime tale. “Please let us understand each other. As I told you, all the dealers on this street know me. I have worked here since I was a kid. This is where I get the money to feed my family; this is where I get my unga. I have no other job, and I depend on customers like you to bring me business. I cannot pretend to own any of these stores,” he said, waving his arms to encompass the myriad cubbyhole stores that lined the street, selling auto spares. “These stores are owned by the Wahindi, and my arrangement with them is simple. I bring them business, and they give me a cut.

  “They trust me to bring them big-shot customers like you, and they give me a handsome bargain. You could never get a bargain like that if you haggled all day. But the Wahindi say I must not go up to the front counter because then other customers will overhear our prices and demand the same discount. Now, do you understand why I have to conduct my business from the back of the store? No, my friend,” the broker continued, taking Abu by the hand. “Any dealer on this street will tell you that the moment you start playing dirty in this business you are sunk. All the customers will vanish into thin air and you will never be able to do business again.”

  “I see,” said Abu, nodding slowly as the little man wound up his animated chatter. “If that is the case then I will give you the samples. But I will not part with any cash until I see the new parts. What do you think, Rama?” he said, turning to the mechanic.

  “Sounds fine to me,” said the mechanic with a nod. “We only give him the money after we’ve seen the new spares.”

  “Of course,” the broker agreed, his face lighting up. “I assure you the parts will be genuine Mitsubishi, and you will have no problem with them. My business partner will help me find the right parts. The Wahindi stock both genuine and fake parts, and which you get depends on how much you want to spend.”

  “As I told you, money is no problem to me, boy, un’erstand? Man, you truly don’t know Boo-Gee,” Abu said, reverting to the drawl that had momentarily slipped him. “I deal only in genuine parts. I’ll pay top dollar for good parts. I take nothing short of that, un’erstood?”

  “And genuine you will get,” said the broker, nodding earnestly.

  Kiki whistled and a lanky man in drab, grease-streaked dungarees emerged from the alley. His sleeves were rolled up, and several wrenches poked out of his back pocket. In all attributes, save his height—for he was tall and gangly where Kiki was short and solid—he was a carbon copy of the broker, having the same pointed chin, shifty eyes, and disarming smile.

  “This here is Ng’ang’a, or simply Ng’ash,” said the broker, laying the greasy newspaper upon the ground and unwrapping the samples. “Now, Ng’ash, come help me sort out these friends of mine. They need Mitsubishi parts urgently.”

  Ng’ang’a got down on his knees to examine the parts. He picked up a brake pad and examined it carefully; then a fan belt, to which he gave the same scrutiny before nodding up at his accomplice. “Mitsubishi Coaster,” he said. “A luxury vehicle.”

  “Do we still have all the stocks?” the broker asked.

  Ng’ang’a nodded, smiling.

  “I say, hurry this up, will you?” Abu muttered, glancing again at his watch. “How much will they cost?”

  The broker started folding the samples back into their greasy parcel. His accomplice whipped a small notepad from the kangaroo pouch sewn to the front of his dungarees and started adding up figures using a stub of a pencil that had been tucked behind his ear. Ng’ang’a finished the math and handed the slip of paper to the broker, who pored over the columns briefly before handing the note to their client.

  “This is outrageous!” said Abu after a brief glance at the figures. “You mean a single bush goes for this much? Shit, man! You think I’m some kind of fool or what?”

  “You said you wanted genuine, didn’t you?” said the broker, licking his lips nervously. “That is the cheapest price we can get those parts for, brother. These are luxury brands—”

  “I know that,” said Abu irritably. “I know what kind of vehicles I got in my fleet, or do you think I’m a fuckin’ moron?”

  “Sorry, brother,” Kiki apologized. “Alternatively, we can try the other option…”

  “No, don’t even think of it,” said Abu, wagging a fat finger. “I told you, I don’t touch fakes, man. I don’t touch that fuckin’ shit.”

  “Well…” The broker shrugged, licking his lips anxiously as he waited.

  In the end Abu had little choice but to reluctantly agree, and as the two brokers hurried into the corridor he glanced again at his watch and pulled out a perfumed white handkerchief to wipe his brow. The mechanic, who had been quiet all this while, began to speak, but Abu waved him to silence. “Keep you
r eyes on those two, will you?” he snapped. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”

  Shortly Ng’ang’a and the broker reappeared. Kiki held a little carton box under one arm, while his lanky companion carried a stack of heavy boxes, all bearing the Mitsubishi three-diamond logo.

  “Sorry I kept you waiting,” Kiki said apologetically, after he had hurried across the street. “These parts were stacked right at the back of the store. Here, have a look at this,” he said, handing Abu his carton. “I told you it was genuine stuff from Japan. See for yourself.”

  Abu opened the carton and reached inside the nylon wrapping. He pulled out an oil filter and held it up to the sunlight. The broker watched him carefully as he examined the part, noting the satisfaction on his face.

  “See? I told you. Kiki knows his business, brother,” said the broker, with a broad smile.

  “Wait. Let ma boy here have a look at it,” said Abu, passing the part to the mechanic, who scrutinized it carefully, pausing now and again to tap his thumb nail on the shiny metal canister.

  “Genuine,” the mechanic pronounced at length, nodding.

  “Well, let’s have the rest of the stuff then,” said Abu with a sigh, dabbing at his moist cheeks with the now soiled handkerchief.

  “The cash, boss,” said the broker, whipping out a receipt book. “You have seen the goods. They are what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  Only then did Abu notice that the broker’s accomplice, Ng’ang’a, still held the heavy cartons on the far side of the busy street, as if waiting for final instructions.

  “You see that Mhindi over there?” Kiki said, pointing toward the shop next to the alleyway. Abu followed his gaze and saw a stocky, stern-faced Asian trader; he leaned against his shop counter, jaws working furiously as he ate his way through several bundles of tambuu 55 leaves, watching them. “That is the owner of the store,” said Kiki. “His name is Samijee. As we are speaking he is waiting for the money so that he can give the okay for Ng’ang’a to hand over the stuff. He cannot release the parts until he sees the money.”