by Saul Dobney
“Here for the football Svaldi?” said Monsignor Straus. “Come to see the talents of the young faithful?”
Svaldi shook his head.
“A pity. One of the delights of teaching in Rome is watching the new hopefuls, wondering who will be a new star. I feel my destiny is to find the next primus inter pares.”
“Football is not my game I'm afraid Monsignor. But I have some news from Africa that might interest you. From Kenya. A communication from Luca Di Mante—”
“Wasn't he a student here a few years ago?”
Svaldi nodded. “—about a discussion among the local priests. They have been talking about a travelling preacher carrying out miracles and healings.”
“Not just one or two?” Straus turned away from the football and looked into the face of his colleague.
“Apparently. The priests said that many people claim to have been cured by this man. It seems he or his followers move from village to village preaching and delivering blessings.”
“What types of miracles?”
“We have had stories that his has cured paralysis, cancer, broken bones.”
A shrill whistle on the pitch, called the Monsignor's attention back to the game. The referee was marking out a free-kick and across the pitch the supporters of North American College roused themselves chanting, “NAC, NAC” as the NAC team lined up to take on the Urbaniana goal.
“So is he a showman? A charismatic? An intellectual? Pro-church, anti-church?”
“None of those,” said Svaldi. “He is young. They say he is quiet, shy even. An orphan. Luca visited his orphanage and there they said he was found and the only white boy in the orphanage. They said he knows the Bible from memory. And no-one could find out anything about his parents.”
“How long has he been conducting these miracles?”
“Some months, perhaps a year or more.”
Straus turned back to the match to watch the free-kick being taken. A fierce shot hit the Urbaniana wall and ricocheted into the net. Straus clicked his cheek in disappointment.
“Then this is someone we should watch. I would like to know more about this young man. Ask Luca to keep me informed.”
45. The wedding dispute
“Yanif. Yanif. Yanif,” echoed around the schoolroom.
The wedding reception guests banged their fists on the tables and the benches and cheered as the bridegroom’s father led Yanif to the head table. As Yanif approached, Henry, the groom in his long Kanzu robe bowed and his bride, Alaya, in her wedding dress curtsied and the chanting broke into a round of applause.
As the noise subsided, Henry’s father simply said, “Yanif,” and waved for Yanif to start.
Yanif smiled and began. “God gives His blessing to this marriage of Alaya and Henry in the joy of the people here, touching our hearts and reaching to God inside us. The words say:
“Let thy fountain be blessed: and rejoice with the wife of thy youth. Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts satisfy thee at all times; and be thou ravished always with her love.”
He paused and smiled as Salina took his photo on her mobile phone.
“From a husband’s happiness, comes a happy wife; his smiles become her smiles and joy is doubled. And when the marriage is fruitful such joy can be times a hundred more, for when she shares her joy with him, the world sings with happiness. And in this joy is God and God is happy. Be joyful.”
Henry’s father lifted up his cup and raised a cheer. “Joy to Henry and Alaya.”
From around the room the guests clapped and banged their hands on the tables. Yanif placed his hands on the foreheads of the bride and groom and said a small prayer.
The band started again, picking out the plinky notes of a swinging Mugithi song. As Yanif returned to where Tremus and Riaz were sitting, guests patted him on the back and kissed his hands or they put his hand on their forehead for a blessing.
Alaya gathered the women hustling them into the centre of the schoolroom as the band played. The women turned to face their seated menfolk and started to move in unison dipping left and right, stepping out the beat with their feet. Alaya began to clap and the other women joined in, tapping out the rhythm of the guitar.
The dancing continued until it was time to cut the cake. At that moment a car’s horn sounded outside. A large dark Range Rover had pulled up at the school gates. The driver ran round the car to open the passenger door and Mr Chiumbo stepped out and came into the schoolroom.
The room quietened to a nervous murmur. Mr Chiumbo smiled at the guests, noting the attendees, nodding in acknowledgement to one or two. He spied the bride and groom and walked forwards, and the crowd parted.
Henry’s father bowed and shook Mr Chiumbo by the hand. “Please,” he said. “You are welcome to join us.”
Mr Chiumbo took Alaya's hand and was about to kiss it when Henry stood up and pulled Alaya away.
“This is my wedding not some political rally for you Chiumbo,” said Henry. “I will make sure the Popular Front know about this.”
Henry’s father touched his son's arm. “Sit down Henry.”
Henry sat back and glowered at Mr Chiumbo.
“The Popular Front,” said Mr Chiumbo. “What have they ever done but make trouble. And when I am here to wish you prosperity on your wedding day.”
Mr Chiumbo kissed Alaya on the cheek, then whispered into Henry’s father’s ear. Henry's father took a thick envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Mr Chiumbo.
Mr Chiumbo opened the envelope and cast his eye over the bills inside. He grinned and took two or three notes out and handed them to Alaya. “A gift, from me.”
“This is not right,” hissed Henry. “Taking money at our wedding.”
Mr Chiumbo took a cup filled with beer off the table and raised it towards the ceiling. “Ladies and Gentlemen a toast to the bride. To prosperity.”
The guests took their cups and lifted them up, mumbling the words.
Mr Chiumbo ignored Henry and approached Yanif and the others, smiling a plastic smile.
“Yanif. Riaz. Friends,” said Mr Chiumbo. He clapped Yanif on the back in an embrace then shook Riaz by the hand. “I have been helping you no. You enjoyed my party, and the article in the paper? I told you, I am a man of influence. Now it is my turn to ask something of you.” He fingered the envelope he was holding. “And I have a party rally coming up. Yanif would be a good attraction.”
Riaz nodded and took a roll of notes out of his pocket.
“Riaz, no!” said Angelie snatching the roll from Riaz's hand. “We do not pay crooks.”
Mr Chiumbo glared at Angelie. “Who are you to say no? Yanif and I have a deal.”
“Yanif is here to do good,” said Eshe. “Why should you take money from us?”
Mr Chiumbo looked Eshe up and down then stroked her upper arm. “You’re pretty,” he said rubbing her cheek. “Pretty girls will always have a place at my table even if they say some things they do not understand.”
Tremus stepped closer to Eshe, overshadowing Mr Chiumbo. At the door, Mr Chiumbo’s driver started to move closer, but Mr Chiumbo waved him away.
“Gentlemen,” said Mr Chiumbo. “I have organised things that are helpful to you. Now you need to understand I can organise things to be unhelpful. It is time for you to show your support.”
“No,” butted in Angelie. “Politicians shouldn’t be taking money from people for favours.”
“Angelie be reasonable—” started Riaz reaching to take the bills from her.
Angelie scowled at Riaz and put the money in her bag. “You told me I had to look after the money. So I am looking after it.”
Eshe locked arms with Angelie. “It’s like Mr Coombe said, ‘corruption is killing Kenya.’ ” She turned to Mr Chiumbo. “You should leave.”
Mr Chiumbo snarled. “You are showing me up in front of all these people and that makes me angry. This will cost you double.” He turned, paying attention just to Riaz and Tremus. “Gentle
men,” he said, “it would seem you have a problem with your women. Perhaps we can leave them to their dancing and discuss business properly.”
Eshe gasped and grabbed Tremus's arm.
“It is not possible.” Tremus stepped closer, standing over Mr Chiumbo.
At the door the driver took three steps forwards.
“When I give someone help—” said Mr Chiumbo. He looked up at Tremus. His eyes narrowed. “—it is usual that someone gives me something back in return. Helping me with fund-raising for instance.” He waved the envelope in front of Riaz and Yanif.
Tremus stood up straight and breathed out fiercely through his nose. “Eshe said you should go Mr Chiumbo. The discussion is closed. I believe your car is waiting.”
Mr Chiumbo stepped forwards and smiled a politician’s smile. “You should be careful big man. You have insulted me. Think about it. You will not want me as an enemy.” He turned to Riaz. “Riaz, you understand Kenya. Your friends need your help to overcome their innocence. Persuade them. I will expect your call and extra help for the trouble they have caused.”
Yanif put his hand on Mr Chiumbo’s shoulder. “Why do you take from those who have less than you? All your power and money is nothing if it does not do God’s work.”
Mr Chiumbo swung round to face Yanif. He brushed Yanif’s hand away. “Meddling healer. You should learn your place.”
Yanif clapped his hands in front of Mr Chiumbo’s nose.
Mr Chiumbo jumped back, startled. He looked up at Tremus hovering over him and the expressions of the others in the room and shivered. He hustled past Angelie and Eshe to the door, slamming it behind him as he left.
From around the tables people started to bang and clap.
“You should speak to the Kenyan Popular Front,” said Henry from behind them. “Anyone who is an enemy of Chiumbo is a friend of theirs. He cannot come to my wedding and insult my family like this.”
Outside, as Mr Chiumbo reached his car, Reverend Farr appeared at his shoulder talking and gesticulating at the school building.
“What's Farr doing?” asked Kwasi. “Keneth said he wouldn't come to the reception if Yanif was here.”
46. Response to the chaplain
“I saw you at evensong again yesterday James,” said the chaplain walking through the office door. “It's becoming a habit isn't it?”
“Jill is in hospital,” said Dr Hill looking up from his computer screen. “I didn’t want an evening on my own. And I find the music strangely reassuring. It’s like being back in primary school.”
The chaplain smiled. “We all need a little peace from time-to-time. I wondered if perhaps you’d like to come out for more birding next week? There’s a hide on Wicken Fen with a perfect view of the grebes.”
“Maybe,” said Dr Hill. “If Jill’s recovery from surgery goes well I might be able to go.”
“Then I will mention her in my prayers. If she doesn’t know it won’t harm.”
“She'd swear at you if she found out,” said Dr Hill enjoying the thought.
He paused in reflection and tapped his pen on his desk. “You know I was thinking about your St Paul’s argument and Christopher Wren the other day: seeing the bricks but missing the purpose, the mind of the creator.”
“You’re coming round to my view?”
“Hardly,” said Dr Hill. “It’s an empty argument. It presupposes there is a reason.”
“But there must be a reason. That’s the point,” exclaimed the chaplain.
“But that reason could be anything. We could be here as food for some other being or an art project for some intergalactic school or a fish in someone higher being's goldfish bowl.”
“But we’re here,” said the chaplain. “Isn’t that obvious. We are, so He is.” He sat down on the opposite side of the desk. “You’ve been thinking about this.”
“Well then, how would you know what ‘the reason’ is, if there is one?” Dr Hill twiddled a pen in his finger. “You’d be looking for evidence, physical evidence. So for ‘the reason’ for St Paul’s Cathedral you’d look at Wren’s notebook, accounts from the time, Acts of Parliament. Historical evidence. For the universe it would be the same. So you have to have evidence and reasons for faith, the same as for science. Otherwise isn't it just a guess?”
“A guess is not how I would describe faith.”
“OK. OK. Let’s take an example. I get letters and emails from people claiming to be a new messiah. But how would you judge whether someone is a new messiah, or a new prophet?” He emphasized 'you'. “For me, it’s easy. None of them are. But how would you know Nicholas? How would you know?”
“He would show us with miracles and signs and I would feel it. I would know it in my heart.”
“But what if your bishop, your peers didn’t have that opinion? Would you be able to have a different view to them? And how would you convince them, that you are right?”
“If it really is the messiah then he would give me the strength and I would see the evidence. When we pray we understand the world more clearly.”
“But Jesus never convinced the Pharisees or other devout Jews. They threw stones at him. He didn’t even convince the people in his own town. Of the eyewitnesses, the people who were there at the time, he convinced none but a small number. Yet two thousand years later you and millions of others believe. Why is that? What do you have that they didn’t?”
“I guess I have the benefit of time and the long view.”
“But that’s hand-waving. Let’s be more specific. I have a real example.” Dr Hill clicked through the bookmarks on his browser and turned the computer so the chaplain could see it. “Jill’s decided this young man fits the bill for the new prophet I predicted.”
The chaplain put on his glasses and read down the page.
“See?” said Dr Hill. “Lots of details of healing people, so that’s miracles. Blessings and speeches. A growing band of followers. This could be the man. So my question to you is how would you know? What criteria would you use to judge? You are now a Pharisee among Pharisees. How would you know if this Yanif or any other person were a prophet?”
The chaplain scrolled down the page taking in the photos and reading the text.
Halfway down the chaplain grinned. “I'd ask the person in the photo,” said the chaplain. “That’s Niall Coombe. Or at least it's a dead ringer for him. He was a tenor in the choir when I was a student. The first place I’d start would be to call him up. He'd tell me if all this is true.”
47. Mosi runs into trouble
“Tremus. We have a problem,” shouted Mosi through the front door of the house.
Tremus and Yanif came into the hall. Mosi was staggering across the threshold, propping Keneth up by the shoulders.
Keneth’s head lolled on his chest, his legs unable to support his own weight, smears of blood around his mouth and streaked across his shirt. Outside, the beer truck was parked askew, half-on half-off the pavement.
“What happened?” asked Tremus. He caught Keneth under the arms and lifted Keneth into the house. “Who did this?”
“What is it?” asked Riaz running down the stairs. “What the…?”
“We got ambushed,” said Mosi panting. “We were out making deliveries and they set upon us.”
Eshe half-screamed as she came out of the kitchen. “Oh my God.” She composed herself and fetched a chair and helped Keneth sit down.
Keneth sat dazed and put his hand over his cheek, his breath slow and heavy, sweat running from his forehead and eyes glazed over. A trickle of blood ran down the back of his hand from the gaps in his fingers.
“Who’s they?” asked Tremus. “Who’s they?”
“The men in the car. A black car like Chiumbo’s.”
“Chiumbo?” said Riaz.
Yanif prised Keneth’s hand away from his face and examined the cut. “Water and a cloth,” Yanif said to Eshe.
“I don’t understand,” said Tremus. “Was Chiumbo there? Start from the beginning.”<
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Eshe returned with the cloth and Yanif gently wiped the dried blood away then pressed his palm against the sharp deep cut to the side of Keneth’s nose.
Mosi took a deep breath and began, his words tumbling out in his agitation: “That pastor, Reverend Farr, he saw me on the truck with Keneth,” Mosi breathed as Tremus tried to slow him down, but continued at the same speed. “We were taking crates off the truck and Farr marched over wagging his finger. He must have remembered me from the wedding. He said I was trying to spread stories and working for Yanif. I didn’t say anything, then he started shouting and pointing and saying we shouldn’t be there.”
“And Chiumbo?” said Tremus.
Mosi took another breath and took the cloth from Yanif to wipe the blood off his hands then continued: “Chiumbo came later. We didn’t take much notice of Farr and he walked off. We carried on delivering the beer. Only when we were going back to the truck, we saw him talking to someone in a black car. Just like Chiumbo’s. So we went to the next village, parked and took the crates into the shop. Then when we’re coming out with the empties these rocks come flying at us. Keneth got hit before he could get back into the truck.”
Yanif tapped Keneth lightly on the cheeks causing him to stir momentarily. Yanif puffed into Keneth's nostrils and Keneth jolted awake, lifting his head in a daze.
“The next thing was this black car following us,” continued Mosi. “Keneth was bleeding all over the seats, and I didn’t want to stop so I headed here. The car followed us all the way to the city boundary. It was Chiumbo's men I'm sure.”
“Chiumbo needs a lesson,” said Tremus walking over to the sink and staring out to the garden, his brow furrowed in anger. “Him first. Then I will deal with Farr.”
“No. No,” said Keneth rousing himself and pushing away Yanif’s hand. “Chiumbo has bad friends. You cannot go against Chiumbo. He would squash you like a beer can.”
“We have to negotiate,” said Riaz. “Smooth things over.”
Tremus slammed his hand onto the kitchen worktop. “Negotiate. No! We have to do something. We cannot let Chiumbo do this.”