The Atheist's Messiah: Yanif

by Saul Dobney

  The next morning the patter of rain gave way to drips from the roof and the skies cleared from grey to blue. In the dorm, the boys woke late and the hubbub and smiles returned.

  “You all look better,” said John as he entered with a video camera. “And I was thinking I’d be filming you all being sick.”

  “Hey Papa John,” called Kwasi. “Over here, over here.”

  John pointed the camera towards Kwasi and Mosi and the boys began to clap and sing. The others in the room joined in with the chorus and Osca jumped onto his bed bouncing in rhythm.

  Yanif joined them from outside.

  Mosi pointed and shouted, “Welcome Doctor Yanif who makes everybody well.”

  John swung the camera at Yanif. “Smile Yanif, this is for Martha and Lyndsay.”

  Yanif stepped backwards trying to hide and almost fell on top of Beth behind him. Beth caught him, then sneezed. She sneezed again and sniffed loudly.

  John turned the camera towards his wife. “Why don't you go back to bed Beth? Perhaps Yanif could be doctor for you too?”

  12. Reaction to Johannes

  Jill was standing in the window of the house as Dr Hill got out of the police car. He walked along the driveway shaking his head and Jill opened the front door.

  “What happened James?” she asked. “Why the police?”

  Dr Hill said nothing, put his bag down and hugged his wife.

  “James what happened? You’re crying.”

  “What should I do?” he asked. “I run into religious people who say I should respect what they believe, no matter how odd or outlandish. But then as a scientist don’t I have a duty to say when those beliefs are wrong or dangerous?”

  “I don’t understand,” said Jill. “What happened?”

  “A young man jumped off Kelsey Kerridge to try to prove to me that he was the messiah. Can you believe it? He was trying to prove it to me Jill. To me.”

  “Oh James.” Jill wrapped her arms around her husband.

  “I hate it. It seems so reasonable, like it won’t hurt anyone; the piety; the charity work. And anyone making a criticism is turned into a demon. But these ideas can hurt people Jill. When belief crushes humanity don’t we have a duty to stand up and say no?”

  “James. James. You’re taking it too hard. I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

  Dr Hill shook his head. “I need a walk. I need to clear my head.”

  “Oh, James,” said his wife. She squeezed him. “You can’t change the world.”

  “I need to think,” he said. “I’ll be back later.”

  He left and followed the pavements with no intention in the walk. One foot placed in front of the other, lost in his thoughts and headed away from the terraced streets out along the river Cam southwards out of the city.

  As he reached Grantchester, the sound of thunder shook him out of his contemplation. Heavy droplets of rain rebounded on the footpath and soon the surface of the river was white with splashes. He scurried under the hedgerows trying to find shelter. Not far ahead was the church in Grantchester. He pulled his coat over his head and sprinted through the church grounds to the porch.

  The rain was incessant, turning the path into a brook of flowing water. With nothing to do, he read the church notices several times until he knew the times of the services by heart.

  Restless, he tried the door to the church. It opened and he peered inside at the vaulted ceilings. Fresh flowers stood around the font and rows of empty wooden pews filled the space between the Gothic arches.

  He had not been inside a church since he was a teenager. It never felt right. The great atheist tiptoeing into someone else’s sacred building. But seeing it was empty, he went inside and sat on the last of the pews, his thoughts echoing around the walls, oblivious to the weather outside. As he sat, time drifted and in the quiet seclusion his mind emptied of the events on Parker's Piece. His eyes closed and stillness touched him.

  He was woken by the sound of the church clock. For a moment he could not recognise or remember where he was. Outside the rain had stopped and a cool silence filled the church. The clouds had lifted and rays of the evening sun pierced the stained glass windows. He shook himself awake and crept out of the church. Outside the grass was wet around the gravestones and two wagtails looped and flitted along the path. He stood and watched, mesmerised by the bouncing tail-feathers until the sound of the gate closing brought him to his senses.

  13. Tremus and Eshe find work

  “Tremus, good news for you. John has found someone who can give you a job,” said Beth as she walked to corner of the courtyard where Yanif was sitting with Tremus.

  Tremus put down the book he was reading. He was wearing one John’s cast-off Hawaiian shirts as none of the orphanage’s purple t-shirts would fit. Yanif was sitting beside him, whittling at a block of wood with the pocket knife that Martha and Lyndsay had given him the previous Christmas, the first spurt of puberty stretching his lean frame.

  “It’s just in town,” continued Beth. “Nothing glamorous, but Mr Atinga said he has need of help for his repair shop, and well you’re so good with your hands and all, that John suggested you.”

  Tremus grunted.

  Kwasi and Mosi ran over, curious to know what Beth was saying.

  “Well don’t be so thankful,” she said. “Do you want me to tell John you’re not interested? We’ve all got to start somewhere you know.”

  “You can tell Papa John that I am thankful that he is trying to help me. I will visit this man and see if it is a job for me.”

  “You’re not the only lucky one Tremus,” said Beth. She scanned the courtyard as she spoke. “Have any of you seen Eshe?”

  Yanif nodded towards the girls’ dormitory.

  Beth made her way to the building and stepped inside. A few minutes later, Eshe came out skipping and singing as she danced across the courtyard to where the boys were seated.

  She bounced in front of Tremus and took his hands, dimples of delight on her cheeks. “I have a job. Tremus. I have a job too. Look. Beth just gave me the letter.”

  She waved an envelope in Tremus’s face and took out an official looking piece of paper.

  “I have an apprenticeship. I am to be a hotel maid in the Bush Hotel in a month’s time. John arranged it for me. They have all these tourists from Europe and America and Japan. And I’m going to be working there. I’m going to have my own money. My own things. I’m so happy. It’s like my perfect dream come true.”

  Tremus grunted and folded his arms.

  “She’s so happy because she’s going to be washing sheets and dirty towels and cleaning the toilets and handling the garbage,” Kwasi chipped in. “If it makes you so happy you could do it for me and Mosi when we leave. We’ll let you, we don't mind.”

  Kwasi nudged his brother with his elbow and they both chuckled, but Tremus just grunted again.

  Eshe ignored Kwasi’s teasing. “Can you believe it? If I work hard I could become a fully paid maid, or even a housekeeper, or could you imagine, I could have my own hotel.” Eshe grinned and pulled at Tremus to get him to join in with her dance.

  Tremus stayed still.

  “Hey grandpa don’t be so miserable. It’s the best,” said Mosi.

  “Working for someone else.” Tremus snorted. “Who would want to work for someone else? I could not work in such a job. Smiling all day at people you do not like or do not know. Taking their dirty things like you enjoy it. For me this is not a job. It sounds like being a slave.”

  “But you’ll be working for someone else grandpa. What’s the difference?” said Mosi.

  “If I have a job I will work as I please. Do the work I want when I want. I do not have to bow to other people, or touch their dirt.”

  “Oh Tremus, people like different things,” said Eshe. “You like making things. I like looking after people and I so much want to have a home of my own, to settle down and become normal. A normal girl with a real life.”

  14. At the market with Tremus<
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  “You want to come and see Tremus?” asked Kwasi, kicking a stone across St Peter’s courtyard. “See how old grandpa is getting on? You can tell him your news.”

  Yanif shrugged and went back to carving. Tremus had been working for Mr Atinga for two months and with Eshe having started her apprenticeship, Yanif seemed marooned at the orphanage with no-one to read to him.

  “Come on lazybones,” said Mosi. “It’s Saturday. You need to stretch your legs. You can’t sit around here all day.”

  Mosi grabbed Yanif’s hand and hauled him to his feet. Yanif sighed and put the figurine he was carving in his pocket and followed the twins out towards the track that led to town.

  In town the market was in full swing. Men lined up along the wall with blankets in front of them laden with fruit and vegetables, or squatted by sheets covered with clothes in bright fabrics and trinkets and beads.

  The three boys walked to the auto-mechanics. Kwasi and Mosi were singing, making up rhymes in the rhythm of the walk. As they entered Mr Atinga's workshop, Mosi tapped out a beat on the old oil drum with his fingers, the sound bouncing around the rusting tools and old tyres.

  “Shhh!” said Tremus from the gloom inside. “Mr Atinga is still sleeping.”

  They boys stared into the shadows. At the back Tremus was working on an old motorbike, surrounded by manuals and diagrams spread around the floor. To the side, Mr Atinga snored in his hammock, sleeping off another bottle of cheap spirits.

  “I have just about finished,” said Tremus. He picked up a wrench and tightened a few bolts. “I must clean up. I will see you outside.”

  The three sat on the wall looking at the market watching the theatre of buying and selling, women haggling in loud voices and exaggerated gestures, some carrying babies, gossiping and passing the time of day.

  “I thought you said you would never do someone else’s dirty jobs,” said Mosi as Tremus emerged from the workshop, blinking in the sunlight.

  “Mr Atinga lets me do as I please,” said Tremus. “He sleeps all day, so I am in charge. And he said if I can fix the motorbike in the back I can have it.”

  “Papa John has jobs set up for us too now,” said Mosi.

  “Out on one of the farms,” said Kwasi. “And then it will be Yanif's turn…” He nudged Yanif with his elbow. “…when he comes back from America.”

  “America?” Tremus's mouth opened in surprise.

  Mosi and Kwasi nodded in unison and Yanif smiled meekly.

  “His American fairy godmothers,” said Mosi. “Cinderella-Yanif, we call him now.”

  Mosi nudged Yanif in the ribs and he squirmed where he was sitting.

  “Then you must be the ugly sisters,” said Tremus laughing.

  The boys jostled on the wall, but were disturbed by a raucous honk behind them. They turned to watch as an old Chevrolet convertible pulled up alongside the neighbouring workshop.

  “Some dealer from Nairobi,” said Tremus nodding in the direction of the car. “He's at every market sniffing around. His should get his car fixed though, the exhaust is blowing.”

  Tremus bought half a watermelon from the nearest trader, and they returned to the wall. Across the road women carrying bunches of carrots and vegetables or pushing shopping bags were waiting in line for the bus.

  Tremus scooped the red flesh out from the melon carcass with his fingers, spitting the seeds onto the floor, the juice dripping from his chin. He passed the watermelon to Mosi and watched as the bus arrived.

  “Hey leave some for me,” called Kwasi, pushing at Mosi.

  But something had caught Mosi’s eye…

  “Eshe,” said Mosi pointing across the road to where the bus had stopped. “That’s Eshe.”

  Along the side of the market square, Eshe’s forlorn figure trudged along the sandy track from the bus-stop, her head down, shoulders quaking as she walked.

  The boys scrambled from the wall and sprinted across the road to see her.

  “What’s wrong. What happened?” asked Kwasi reaching Eshe first.

  “It all went wrong,” said Eshe breaking into sobs. Her clothes were dirty and sullied, scratches and bruises on her arms and her face was swollen and blotched with tears.

  Tremus took Eshe by the shoulders and held her, helping her across the road to the wall.

  “What went wrong?” asked Mosi.

  “The house manager, …” said Eshe in a half whisper. “He said I didn’t work hard enough and that I dropped the sheets on the ground and got them dirty again. He hit me. He kept on hitting me.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Tremus.

  “Mr Joho, the house manager.” Eshe sat down next to Tremus and pressed herself into his shoulder. “He beat me. Every day this week he beat me Tremus. For nothing. And then last night he had been drinking and he tried to…” Eshe wiped her eyes with her hand. “… to touch me. His hands were everywhere and when I pushed him away he hit me again and again.” Eshe started to sob and hid her face in Tremus's chest.

  Tremus squeezed Eshe close and brushed the hair on the back of her neck, her tears mixing with the dust and grease on his t-shirt.

  Eshe sniffed and cleared the tears from her cheek with the heel of her hand. “I had to hide in my room to get away Tremus. I could only get out this morning when he was asleep. But all my things,” she wailed again. “All my things are in my room.”

  Tremus wrapped his arms around Eshe and she sobbed into his chest.

  “We will go to St Peter’s to see Papa John. He will know what to do,” said Mosi.

  Tremus shook his head. “We are not at St Peter's now. This is our business. And I will deal with it. I will get Eshe's things.”

  Tremus went into the darkness of the workshop. A few moments later he came outside pushing the motorbike he had been working on. “If Mr Atinga wakes up, you will tell him where I have gone,” he said to the twins. “Make sure you look after Eshe until I come back.”

  He climbed onto the motorbike and kick-started it with a brutal force that seemed like it might snap the lever. The engine fired up with a cough of black smoke and Tremus roared out in a plume of oil.

  After Tremus left, Yanif poured water over his hands and washed Eshe’s cuts and eyes with his fingers. He rubbed at the bruises, smoothing away the pain. Eshe sighed, her head resting on Yanif's lap. She gazed up at him as he tended to her cuts as if he was now looking after her, like she used to look after him. She closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.

  As the evening came, John’s Jeep bounced into the square. It scrunched to a halt by the boys and John jumped out leaving the engine running and the door open. Eshe stirred and sat up.

  John gesticulated at the boys. “Kwasi, Mosi, get back to St Peter’s,” said John half out of breath. “Yanif. Come with me. Tremus is in trouble.” He realised that it was Eshe sitting next to Yanif. “Eshe. What are you doing here? What happened to you? There’s no time. Come with me both of you.”

  Eshe and Yanif climbed into the Jeep and John accelerated down the road.

  “I had a call from Mr Gates at the Bush Hotel,” he said as he jabbed the gear lever. “Something about Tremus. Is this to do with you Eshe?”

  Eshe bit her lip and started to blub. “It wasn’t my fault,” she said. “It was him. He did it.”

  John looked at her confused. “What was? Who was?”

  As they drove Eshe repeated her story. By the time she finished they had arrived at the Bush Hotel where Mr Gates was waiting at the entrance.

  “John,” said Mr Gates. “This is serious. Is Tremus one of yours? He said he was a friend of Eshe's from St Peter’s.”

  “I know Tremus,” said John. “What did he do?”

  “Come this way,” said Mr Gates.

  He hustled them through to a storage room at the back of the kitchens and Eshe gasped as they entered the room.

  Inside, Tremus was seated on a upturned crate, his arms tied behind his back and flanked by two staff holding broom sticks. A third man wit
h a gun stood by the door. A group of other staff were watching from around the corner by the kitchen.

  “He half killed my house-manager,” said Mr Gates. “Rode up here and went straight to the staff quarters, took everything out of one of the rooms and when Mr Joho caught him, he almost beat Mr Joho to a pulp. It took three of us to hold him down. He said he was from St Peter's, a friend of Eshe. So I said I'd give him a chance. Do you want to deal with it, or do we send him to the police?”

  Tremus rose growling, and made a movement towards Mr Gates. Yanif stepped forwards and put his hand on Tremus's arm and Tremus sat down again still glowering at his captor.

  “Eshe,” said John. “This is your story. Tell Mr Gates what you told me.”

  Eshe repeated her story showing Mr Gates her bruises, then dipped her head in shame. “Tremus just came to get my things. Mr Joho attacked me and Tremus just came to help.”

  “Joho makes sure things are done properly. He doesn't do things like that. I've known him for more than ten years,” said Mr Gates. “You’ve only been here two weeks. More likely you were homesick, or couldn't cope and wanted an excuse to leave.”

  Tremus growled again, but with Yanif's touch he stayed seated.

  “That’s not true,” said Eshe. “Mr Joho did hit me. He did touch me. I’m not the only one. You ask the others, they'll tell you.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Mr Gates. “Pamela, you've been here longest. It's never happened before has it.” It was a statement, instead of a question.

  A large woman from among the staff in the kitchen bustled forwards. She looked at Eshe and then back at Mr Gates, feeling the eyes of the other staff on her. She breathed deeply. “Eshe is not the only one, Mr Gates, sir. Mr Joho hits all the new maids. Takes advantage of them if he can if they don’t yet have a husband. Calls it ‘breaking them in’ sir.”

  “That’s what he did,” said Eshe. “He hit me everyday. And then yesterday…”

  Other staff members nodded in agreement.