by Saul Dobney
“Cgghh,” he spluttered as he tried to clear his lungs. “Cgghh, cgghh.”
He dropped to his knees next to Nurya and Yanif, holding his chest, his face red.
Nurya banged Marid on the back as though she was trying to dislodge a fish-bone. But the smoke was in her lungs and the effort made her cough too.
Nurya pulled Yanif towards the floor, trying to seek clean air. For sixty seconds they stayed still behind the counter concentrating on trying to breathe.
Nurya passed Yanif over to Marid. She covered her face with the tail of her blouse and crawled over to the small wash-room in the back of the shop. Hurrying, she disrobed and ripped her blouse into three, soaking each piece in the sink. She placed one sodden cloth over her mouth to try to prevent the smoke entering her lungs. Marid took his piece and covered his mouth trying to hold back the dry rasping coughs before placing the third piece over Yanif’s mouth hugging the boy tight to his body to try to protect him from the heat.
The flames had reached almost all the shelves and smoke billowed against the ceiling. Only Yanif seemed unaffected.
“The front door,” rasped Marid. “We have no choice.”
Nurya nodded, pressing the cloth to her mouth to fend away the toxic fumes of burning plastic.
Marid took a breath and charged through the flames to the door. Fire licked at his clothes, burning the man-made fibres in his trousers.
He yelled in pain and tried to pat away the flames as the cloth melted to his skin. He coughed, spitting out the smoke, almost vomiting. As his breath came again, he returned to the door, keys in hand, fidgeting them into the lock. But the coughing deepened. He dropped to his knees as he tried to suck in air, unable to stop the choking. Coughing and holding his chest he collapsed and lay shuddering on the floor.
“Marid,” Nurya screamed, her eyes wide in shock. “Marid.”
Nurya sheltered Yanif under her arms and forced herself through the heat to where Marid was lying. She pressed her hands against his chest, trying to get him to breath.
Marid did not move.
Outside. They must get outside. She turned the key and pulled the handle to open the door. But the door was stuck. Her husband's prone body lay in the way. With no other options, she dragged Marid by the arm, hauling him away to free the door.
Pop. A small bang like a party cracker erupted from her right. Pop. Pop.
She turned to the noise and in that moment a burst of burning colour flew onto her naked back. She shrieked in pain her voice resounding over the sound of the flames. She tried to brush the paint off her skin, but the burning syrup coated her fingers. She pushed Yanif away from her.
Pop. Pop.
More aerosols exploded. More paint hit her skin. Nurya tried to scream again, her mouth open in horror, but her breath would not come. A hollow rasping cough from deep inside was choking her, the smoke burning her throat. She staggered and fell, wheezing and shaking, paint still smouldering on her body. Then she too was still.
Yanif shook at his mother, prodding her shoulder to revive her.
Nothing.
He tried again. An aerosol exploded near him and he jumped. In shock, he pulled the door ajar and squeezed into the open air outside.
The bright daylight stung his eyes and he took a moment. He still held the small piece of cloth from his mother’s blouse to his mouth. The gang stopped throwing stones and were staring at him.
Yanif blinked and rubbed the smoke out of his face, breathing in the clear air. He stared back at the boys, watching them. From behind him came a crash as part of the ceiling fell forcing a plume of smoke to billow out from the half-open door. Yanif started to take measured steps away from the building and onto the forecourt.
The peace lasted for only a few seconds.
From close to the fuel pumps, Helicopter Joe picked up a rock. “A present for you white boy.”
Joe’s lips curled upwards in a vicious determination. He threw the rock hard and fast at Yanif as though the boy was a cat or other wild animal to be chased away.
Yanif kept his measured pace.
Two or three others followed Joe’s lead and started to throw stones, each trying to get the shot that would make the little boy run or squeal in pain. Others joined in, a salvo, but for all their efforts and attention no stones hit their target.
Yanif kept walking towards the pick-up truck.
As he walked a low rumble of noise came from behind him. He turned and a great crash shook the air as more of the ceiling of the shop caved in, sending a pillar of flame and smoke out from the building. The gang of boys stopped throwing and cheered and whooped, dancing and drumming their feet on the forecourt.
Yanif ignored them and kept the same steady deliberate pace towards the red pick-up. He reached the tailgate, his head barely above the height of the bumper and stared up at Adu. Behind Yanif, the younger boys hustled together to watch the theatre.
Adu took the rifle from his back and drove the butt down towards Yanif’s head, stopping it just before contact.
Yanif did not flinch.
Adu did it again, but still the small boy stood stock still staring into the eyes of the aggressor.
Adu cursed and did nothing. He looked at the others who had gathered round. “Let’s go,” he said. “There is nothing more here.”
The younger boys turned and chucked their last stones at the ruins of the shop before climbing back into the truck, squashing along the sides.
Yanif stood alone on the forecourt.
He watched Joe’s legs dangling over the back of the truck as it disappeared into the distance and when the truck was out of sight Yanif turned to sit and watch the flames still licking at the delapidating building.
6. Discovery
Yanif spent several hours sitting in silence in the grass staring at the remains of the service station, watching the fire die down until all that was left was a fine grey smoke above the silver ash of the debris. It was only when night had fallen and the stars filled the deep black Kenyan sky that he fell asleep, curling up on the forecourt by the pumps in his yellow t-shirt and sandals with the teddy-bear logo on the strap.
When he awoke he was hungry. He turned to look at the embers of the still smouldering wreckage of the service station shop. There was no sign of either his mother or father, no trick or treat surprise, nor sudden ‘found you’ of hide-and-seek. He was on his own.
He stood, silent, unable to understand the magnitude of the event, almost as if this was something normal, something that was supposed to happen to all three year old children. Then he walked to the entrance and linked the rope to close the forecourt as he had seen his father do before.
He looked out along the road, choosing what to do.
In the past, he had travelled with his parents in their car to the village some four miles away. But that was the direction the pick-up truck had taken as it left. In the other direction, into the bush, was where the truck had arrived from. So fearful of what he might find along the road, the little bundle of a boy headed into the wilderness of the savannah grasses and the acacia trees, through the long grass of the scrub, away from the road that had brought the pick-up truck the day before.
Though Yanif could not know, the police did not visit the service station for another four days. The delay might have been through neglect, but more likely was from fear or a warning. Cars and trucks had passed along the road as the station had burnt, but the presence of the red Toyota and the gang of men meant no-one had stopped, and once the burning had finished no-one had cared to report the fire or had dared to see what had happened. So by the time police did arrive, there was just the low heap of rubble of the building with cold ashes blowing in the breeze.
The police investigation was cursory. People had been spoken to and the officers had been warned not to pay too much attention. But then there also wasn’t much evidence to go on. The combination of the fire and the collapse of the walls and upper storey into the void that had been the shop, meant tha
t for the police with their limited resources, it was almost impossible to tell what had happened or who had been there. The police hunted through the rubble and found the wedged back door. Near the front door in the ash, they found the remains of a watch and ring and after making enquiries they concluded that the family had died in the fire – a tragedy, but there are many tragedies in Kenya. The police did not know that Yanif was still alive, but neither did they particular care to know.
All this was unknown to Yanif. After he left the service station he walked into the dusty grasslands underneath the flat-topped trees that are so characteristic of the Kenyan plains, following the worn dirt routes of the goat herders that lived in the district. As it was morning, he walked west, away from the rising sun so as to keep the sun on his back and his face cool. At times he forgot himself and stopped to watch butterflies or to grab a stick to help him bat away the long grass. At other moments the loneliness would catch him and he would collapse to his knees, throwing up his arms and staring at the sky, crying out in hunger or thirst. His father had taught him that grass seeds could be eaten and he chanced upon the occasional small streams for water. In the evening when tiredness took him, it was his father’s voice again that told him to find refuge in the branches of a tree, away from the snakes and termites. He was lucky that other animals did not find him.
Yanif had walked and wandered for two days and was several miles from where his parents had lived when he found himself back on another road, this time a busy tarmacked main road with a beat of trucks and cars. Less fearful of the red Toyota pick-up he followed the road heading north. Every ten minutes or so a lorry would thunder past and he would be blown sideways by the blast of air from their wake but he paid the passing cars and trucks no attention, and they paid no attention to him. In Kenya it is not uncommon to see children out on the street or in the roads on their own and Yanif in his dirt-covered clothes might have been mistaken for any other Kenyan urchin, were not for his light coloured skin.
He had been walking along the road for about an hour when he saw a car ahead of him parked by the side of the road. Two middle-aged white women were eating bread and meat and cheese sitting on large boulders. Yanif shuffled towards them until he was just a few metres away and stood without speaking, staring at the food and the women eating.
The older woman with flecks of grey in her dark black hair was talking and breaking bread off the loaf that she had on her knee.
Yanif fixed his eyes on her and she caught his gaze and looked back at him, curious about this small figure who had appeared by the side of the road. Yanif was dusty and his clothes were blackened with soot and there was a faint smell of smoke about him. She deciphered his plaintive stare at the bread in her hands.
“Would you like some?” she said, holding out a piece.
Yanif shuffled forwards like a timid bird. Gingerly he reached out to take the bread then suddenly lunged forwards snatching it and backing away a couple of steps. He continued to stare at the woman seeking confirmation that he was allowed to keep the bread he had taken.
She smiled at him and nodded.
Reassured, he ripped off a morsel and placed it in his mouth, gobbling it down without ever taking his eyes of the woman in front of him.
“Do you live near here?” she asked, a gentle kindness in her voice.
Yanif did not seem to know what she was saying. He stared at her blankly.
The older woman smiled at him and tried again. “What is your name?”
Yanif gave her another blank stare. He had finished his bread and held out his hand for more.
The older women ripped off another chunk and gave it to him. “Do you speak English?” she asked.
Yanif remained impassive and focused on her smiling face.
Pointing at herself she said slowly, “My name is Martha. Martha.” She pointed to her companion. “Lyndsay,” she said. “You?” She pointed at Yanif and Yanif took the hint.
“Shmee Yanif,” said Yanif.
“Shmee. You are Shmee?”
Yanif smiled and shook his head in long slow turns as children do. “Yanif. Yanif,” he said emphasizing the sounds the second time and pointing to himself. “Shmee Yanif.”
“Yanif,” said Martha glancing at Lyndsay. “So he can speak.”
“Mummy. Daddy?” Lyndsay asked.
Yanif just watched her uncomprehending as before.
“Maybe he doesn’t speak English,” Lyndsay said to Martha. “I wonder where he comes from?”
“There’s nothing here. I can’t remember seeing any buildings or houses from the road. Can you show us Yanif?” Martha pointed to Yanif and then down the road. “Where’s your home?”
Yanif's expression showed he did not understood what she was saying.
Martha drew a picture of the road in the dirt. She pointed to Yanif then walked her fingers along the road she had drawn. “Where are you from?”
Yanif drew circles in the dirt over the road.
“So what do we do with him?” asked Lyndsay. “There must be somebody nearby who knows him.”
Yanif watched as the women ate in silence. When the bread was finished they began to pack up, putting all their bags in the car. At the moment he saw Martha moving towards the driver's door he grabbed her hand, bringing it to his cheek so he could feel the gentle comfort of her skin against his. Martha opened the door to the car, but Yanif would not let Martha’s hand go and pointed to the car with his other hand.
She dropped down to her haunches to be at eye level with the boy. “What do you want? Do you want to come with us? Where do you belong?”
Yanif shrugged his shoulders. To Martha it was not clear if it was because he did not understand the questions or because he did not know where he belonged.
The women shared a look and spoke in hushed tones.
“What should we do?” Martha asked Lyndsay in a whisper.
“He’s so young,” said Lyndsay. “We can’t leave him. Is there a town or village nearby? Maybe they can help?”
They studied the map for a while. A few miles ahead, the road passed through a small village. “We’ll ask here. We can always bring him back if they know him.”
Martha let Yanif climb into the back of the car. Yanif grasped the seat belt and pulled the end down, holding it out for Martha to plug in.
“He’s been in a car before,” Martha said to Lyndsay. “I wonder where his parents are?”
The three of them drove in silence back along the road in the direction Yanif had come making a final search, but there were no visible signs of habitation and no signs of any people, so they turned around and continued their journey towards Nairobi.
At the next village was a small shop and church and they made enquiries, but no-one knew the boy. The nearest police station was still another ten minutes on and by the time they arrived at the police station, Yanif was many miles away from the service station where he had lived with his parents.
“We need some help,” explained Martha to the policeman on the desk. “We found this boy…”
The policeman stared in bewilderment at Yanif. “But it is a white boy,” said the policeman.
“We found him,” insisted Martha. “He was lost and we didn’t know what to do with him.”
“Who are you?” the policeman asked Yanif.
Yanif just stared. The policeman spoke in a different language but still Yanif said nothing. He tried again, but Yanif seemed unable to understand anything.
“He does not appear to speak English or Swahili or other local languages. I will have to make enquiries. You will wait please.”
Martha and Lyndsay sat on a bench and waited. Martha gave Yanif some coins and he squatted on the floor rolling them along the tiles like toy cars driving this way and that.
Three long hours later the policeman returned.
“Madam, I am afraid that we cannot help you,” he said shaking his head. “This boy is a mystery. Truly a mystery. We have had no reports of accidents on the
road today, or yesterday or even this month. We have not seen or heard of any tourists in trouble. We have asked all the people who we know and no-one knows of a white boy of this boy’s age who lives in this district and all the street children around here are African as far as any one knows.” He raised his hands in futility.
“But you must be able to care of him,” said Martha. “There must be a place he can go while you find out. I can’t believe his parents are that far away.”
“We can put him in the cells and call the government. The social service inspector will come in three or four days. Children without parents are common in Kenya and we have no place for wild children here.”
“You can’t do that,” said Martha. “He’s only a child. Look, he can only be three or four. There must be somewhere he can go.”
“Madam, Kenya is not a rich country like America. To have this child looked after we will have to keep him here until the social service inspector arrives. But this is not an orphanage. We cannot take every stray dog that people find on the side of the road. There are many children in Kenya in much worse conditions – at least it looks like he has been fed.”
“Are there no alternatives? Somewhere better he could stay until you find out what has become of his parents?”
“Madam, I think his parents are long gone. Look at his clothes and the grass in his hair. He has been sleeping in the fields. It is normal for him. You can take him to Nairobi yourselves, but we cannot spare the time or men for such a journey,” said the policeman.
“That's no use. We’re only in Kenya for another three days. We fly back to the States on Sunday. Could you recommend someone who can help? Someone who can take him in? We can’t leave not knowing what will happen to him.”
“Martha?” said Lyndsay. “Doesn’t the church have connections in Kenya? We could call home and see if they can help.”
Martha nodded. “Officer, we will take the boy and find someone who can help. Tonight he will stay with us at our hotel, then we will tell you where he his so that if his parents are found they will know where to find him.”