The Atheist's Messiah: Yanif

by Saul Dobney

  “It was a warning,” said Keneth. “If Chiumbo had wanted to, he would not have let us get into the city. If you attack him he will send the Mungiki after you.”

  “Chiumbo and the pastor can’t stop us,” said Tremus hitting the wall. “There has to be a way to get even. Mr Coombe must know someone.”

  “Mr Coombe is England with Tabitha,” said Eshe rubbing Tremus’s back trying to calm him down. “Important business is what he said he won't be back for weeks.”

  “Henry has friends in the KPF,” said Keneth. “It is strong in some places. I will ask them to help. Chiumbo won’t dare to use violence against them. It would start a war. But for you, it would be good to try somewhere else, away from the villages. Until it is quiet.”

  Tremus hit the wall in anger again. “I hope I never meet Chiumbo again, I don’t know what I’d do to him.”

  “Calm,” said Yanif pressing his hands against Tremus’s shoulders. “A wise man does not chase mosquitos, but drains the swamp to clear the plague.”

  “I told you we should pay,” said Riaz. “But we can start again. Some place out of Chiumbo’s reach. It will be easy.”

  The others looked at him surprised.

  You think we can?” asked Eshe. “I don't want to go back to knocking on doors.”

  “We know how it works now and we have some money we can invest it getting it right this time,” said Riaz. “We rent a hall, put up posters and adverts. Put on a grand dinner to announce to a new town that Yanif is here to help them.”

  “A grand dinner?” said Tremus.

  “To start again we can do it properly, like professionals would do,” said Riaz. “Spend some money and make a big splash. Put the money we've earned to good use.”

  Tremus rotated the fake Rolex on his wrist. “I can see how that would work.”

  “No,” said Yanif. “No.” He turned to face the window. “This is wrong. It is always about money and spending money. Money will not solve anything. It only causes trouble.”

  “But Yanif,” said Riaz. “We need to eat.”

  “We can wait,” said Eshe. “We can wait until Mr Coombe gets back from England. He will know what to do.”

  48. The Cambridge vigil

  Dr Hill raced across the quad to the throng of fifty or sixty people in scarves and overcoats who were waiting in the evening darkness at the college gate.

  “At last James,” the chaplain shouted, striding to the middle of the courtyard to intercept him. “We need to get the march going. There are press waiting.”

  Dr Hill took deep breaths to recover his composure and put his hand on the chaplain's shoulder. “Bad news. Tim Spearman's been attacked. Jill had a message half and hour ago. She's stayed at home to find out more.”

  “What? No.” The chaplain looked at the floor, his mouth agape. “Are you sure? … He was supposed to be here.”

  Dr Hill blew out a long breath. “Jill had a call from Gemma as I was leaving. Gemma said a car drove straight at him, fractured his skull and broke his leg in two places.”

  “Oh no James,” said the chaplain. “Who was it? … the same people?”

  Dr Hill nodded. “They found Hands of God cards on the road.”

  “Should we cancel the vigil?” asked the chaplain glancing at the crowd of faces. “Everyone is waiting.”

  Dr Hill breathed sharply in the cold air and shivered. “It's not my choice, and I'd rather be at home with Jill right now. But logically, this is the time to make a stand.”

  The short march to the market square took place in silence. Dr Hill, the chaplain and the religious leaders walked in front, a banner held above them with the words “Violence and religion do not mix” and behind them the others carried candles that cast flickering shadows against the walls of the colleges as they passed.

  At the Guildhall the procession gathered at the entrance steps as a huddle of press cameras and a small audience of spectators from the emptying market square watched.

  “Tonight the night of our vigil, of our protest, we have had the news that the Hands of God have attacked Tim Spearman,” said the chaplain standing at the front. “This is a mean and cowardly act by people who use religion only for hate. Violence has no place in religion. It must be a tolerant voice that celebrates life and living and the wonders God has given us.” He lit a candle and placed it on the floor. “We, religious and non-religious peoples, show our protest and call on the Hands of God to lay aside their hatred and for all forms of religious violence to stop.”

  From behind him, other marchers took their candles and placed them in line with the chaplain's irradiating a yellow light in the faces of the spectators.

  “James,” said the chaplain placing a hand on Dr Hill's shoulder.

  Dr Hill stepped forwards. His breathing sharp. His heart pumping. He looked at the group of spectators; the journalist holding out a microphone; press cameras; shoppers with frosted breath. In the background he noticed two youths at the back fiddling with a lighter perhaps, trying to light something behind the sleeve of their long green coats. To the left a thin man with long dreadlocked hair under a bobble hat and crudely knitted jumper; a drunk pushing his way forwards trying to see what was happening.

  Flash. The camera half-blinded him, blanking out his vision. He raised his hand to shield himself from the light. Flash. Flash.

  Kerrang. A metal bar dropped to the ground in the market. The shudder of noise echoed off the Guildhall walls. Dr Hill winced, the sharp tones scratching in his ear. He tried to compose himself.

  “I…” Dr Hill started.

  One of the youths took something out from his pocket.

  The man in dreadlocks blew a puff of smoke clouding his view of the men in green coats.

  “I…” He felt the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  “Ge’ on wi’ it,” shouted the drunk.

  “I…”

  Bang. A noise sounded in the marketplace. Dr Hill ducked by instinct.

  Bang. Bang.

  He fled down the steps and around the side of the Guildhall, away from the crowd, pressing himself into a doorway, hiding from the source of the noise. Bump. His heart thumped under his coat. Bump. Bump. Bump. He closed his eyes and slumped down in the alcove covering his head with his coat.

  “It’s OK James. It’s OK.” The chaplain tiptoed towards him. “Some balloons from the market burst. That was the noise. Someone clearing away.”

  Dr Hill inched forwards out from the doorway.

  The chaplain reached out his hand and pulled Dr Hill to his feet. He turned to the journalists who had followed them. “I think that’s enough,” he said waving the cameras away.

  “It's been a rough day,” said the chaplain. “You have a bit of aftershock, that’s all. We'll get you back to college and some warmth.”

  As they arrived the evening service had started and the faint voices of the choir washed out into the darkened quad from the chapel walls.

  “I’d like to go in,” said Dr Hill. “I’d like to find some peace. That’s all.”

  The chaplain held the door ajar and led Dr Hill into the music and incandescent light of the chapel.

  49. Loss of the house

  “How was England?” asked Riaz seeing the consternation on Mr Coombe's face.

  “Complicated and miserable,” said Mr Coombe. He put his bag down on the table in the lounge. “I’d forgotten how the constant grey clouds the spirits.” He went to the window and stared out into the street, his fingers brushing against the window frame. “Tabitha's going to be staying in England now. And I have bad news I’m afraid.”

  He turned to look at them all: Angelie squashed between Kwasi and Mosi; Tremus standing at the back of the room with Riaz; Eshe seated near the window. Yanif saw Mr Coombe inhale and sigh.

  “The company is moving the African HQ and they’ve taken the decision to close the office in Nairobi, so I'm returning to England. I'm only here to tie up loose ends and to finish organising a damn concert we’re sponso
ring.”

  “But I thought you loved Kenya,” said Eshe.

  “I did. But it’s not the same as it was. The little hassles like the electricity black outs are getting to me. With Teresa it was romantic. Nothing we could do but sit out watching the stars and drinking a glass of wine when the lights went out. Now it's another irritation and annoyance and I wish I was back home with my family.”

  “But I don’t understand,” said Eshe. “Why does that affect us?”

  “The reason it affects you is that this house will need to be turned back over to the company. The company want to sell it or rent it out. You’ll have to find somewhere else I'm afraid.”

  “Out…?” said Mosi.

  Mr Coombe wiped his hand down his chin. “And now I’m permanently going back to the UK, I’m not going to be able to keep paying you your monthly retainer.”

  “But Mr Coombe—” said Riaz.

  “I’m sorry but I can’t. At the start this seemed a great adventure. Yanif, this spiritual healer, helping Tabitha and making people feel good out among the poorest villages. But when the cold wind blew through me off the North Sea last week, I realised that it’s all just a bit of a pipe dream. It was like my first weeks in the seminary where my spiritual idealism crashed against the tedium of theology. I mean I think you mean well Yanif, and I’m sure you help, but to a man in an London pub, who would buy this ‘sent by God’ stuff?”

  “Your trip must have been a nightmare,” said Eshe. “Is there anything the matter with Tabitha?”

  “Tabitha’s fine. Looking forwards to getting back to school once we finally settle into life in Essex. But my mother is not good. She’s in and out of hospital, losing her mind steadily. She can barely remember the day of the week now. I guess I had this hope that Yanif would be able to do something. I mean all these stories you keep telling me…”

  The others turned to Yanif.

  “Surely you can help,” said Angelie. “You must be able to help your friends.”

  Yanif sighed. “Every flower has it’s bloom and in a jigsaw every piece has it’s place.”

  “It gets me,” said Mr Coombe. “I look around at this house and the clothes you're wearing now and it makes me feel you’re taking me for a ride. If you believe you have something special in Yanif, you’ve got to push it. It won’t just happen, and certainly won’t happen if you sit around all day.”

  “That's what I said,” said Riaz. “But Mr Chiumbo won't let us back into the villages and we were waiting to get your advice.”

  “Why do you need my advice? You know more people than me. That's just another excuse.”

  “Please, one last chance,” said Eshe. “Let me take you to the hospice. A friend of mine Merry works there. She’ll show you. Please.”

  “Call me and I’ll think about it,” said Mr Coombe. “But be quick. I can't stop them taking back the house when I leave Kenya.”

  “This could be our last chance,” said Riaz as he walked with Yanif and Eshe through the gate and along the path to the front door of the hospice. “We have to convince Mr Coombe to change his mind.”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Eshe. “I can’t do any more.”

  Ahead of them, Merry appeared at the porch and waved. The smell of fresh cut grass was in the air and baskets teeming with flowers hung from the exterior walls.

  Merry turned to talk to someone in the hallway behind her and as they reached the steps Mr Coombe emerged from the shadows.

  Eshe cast her eyes in agitation at Riaz and squeezed Yanif's hand.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” said Mr Coombe as he greeted them. “I thought I’d get here early, talk to a few people first, get an unbiased view.”

  “Such a kind gentleman,” said Merry. She began to shepherd them inside with the folder she was carrying in her hand. “He said he could donate some furniture and a television when he leaves, so I’ve given him the tour and he’s met—”

  “—we were about to see Mr Nyumba,” said Mr Coombe, interrupting Merry. “We were just on the way to find him.”

  “Is Mr Nyumba still here?” asked Eshe. “I thought he would have passed on long ago. He was so weak and feeble when we saw him.”

  “He’s still here and no mistake,” said Merry. “Making trouble for himself too with the others. He won’t stop talking about Yanif. These flower baskets are his.”

  “Merry was telling me he was at death’s door when Yanif came,” said Mr Coombe.

  “Come on,” said Merry. “Let’s find him. He’s in the garden somewhere.”

  They walked outside, around the side of the building to a lawned area surrounded by trees where a man in a wide brimmed hat and a light cotton jacket was tending to a flower bed, a pile of weeds to his side.

  “There you are,” said Merry. “I told you Yanif was coming to see you.”

  Mr Nyumba turned and started to get up. Mr Coombe reached out a hand to help him stand but Mr Nyumba brushed him aside and stood unaided.

  “Yanif,” said Mr Nyumba. His face beamed with joy and he hugged Yanif clapping him on the back. “It is so good to see you. I have been telling the whole world about you.”

  Eshe stared wide-eyed. “You’re looking very well. Last time we saw you, you could barely move.”

  “It was God’s work,” said Mr Nyumba taking hold of Yanif’s arm. “Yanif is God’s man. He called on God and God saved me. The day after he visited I could eat and the disease, it just disappeared. Look at me, I have muscles on my bones now. Soon I will be able to play football again.” He laughed and made a show of flexing his biceps.

  Merry took out a selection of photographs from the folder she was carrying. “He only began to improve after Yanif visited. We thought he wouldn't make it.”

  Mr Coombe examined the skeletal images then at Mr Nyumba and blew out a fine whistle. He stepped onto the mown grass and gazed at the butterflies dancing round the flowers in the sunlight in a medley of oranges and reds.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said. “There must be something about you Yanif, but I find it so confusing. In England there it all was in black and white. Now here I am in Kenya and it’s a different world. Suddenly don’t know if it’s the right thing, the wrong thing or…”

  “So you will keep supporting the Chama?” said Riaz.

  Mr Coombe closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “No.” He paused biting his bottom lip. “Not now. Things have changed. You got too comfortable and lazy. Now you have to do it yourselves. Take it as a kick up the backside. You’re either the whole thing or nothing – no middle ground. You've got to step up to keep this Chama thing of yours working.”

  Eshe took Yanif’s arm and breathed sharply, trying to hold back her tears.

  “This is so much more difficult than I imagined,” said Mr Coombe inhaling deeply. “OK. OK. I will help you with one more thing. Then that’s it. You’re on your own.”

  “And that is?” asked Riaz.

  “The music festival in Nairobi before I leave. The business is leading the sponsorship and we have a tent in the VIP area. You can set up in there. Shake a few trees and get a few contacts. I’ll speak to the promoter to give Yanif a slot before the support acts start. That’s a chance. You get the people there and make sure they come. You’ll have the house and the money until I have to leave, but after then, that’s it. You have to do this yourselves.”

  50. Heather Cross

  Kwasi and Mosi took to the festival stage with Eshe and Angelie, flanked by stacks of speakers under the lighting rigs. They clicked out a slow beat with their fingers and broke into a traditional Swahili song. Across the expanse of Uhuru Park in front of the stage the children and families in the audience started to clap and join in too. Groups of children stood up to dance, swaying with the rhythm, singing the familiar words.

  “There are so many people here,” said Angelie gazing out at the sea of faces from the wings of the stage. “And so many children.”

  “Mr Nyumba and me talked to Mr Ibrah
im, and he offered to help spread the word,” said Riaz.

  “And Henry and Alaya have been helping around the villages instead of Keneth,” said Tremus. “Henry knows a lot of people through the KPF.”

  “You're going to have your work cut out,” said Riaz.

  “What do you mean?” asked Angelie, puzzled.

  “Handling all the money,” said Riaz. He rubbed his hands together and grinned.

  “Riaz,” muttered Yanif under his breath. “That is not what this is about.”

  “Are you ready Yanif?” asked Tremus, not hearing. “It's all down to you.”

  The singing stopped to a round of applause and Riaz strode onto stage.

  “Thank you. Thank you.” Riaz's voice reverberated over the heads of the audience. “Today is the most important day for our Chama. Today is the day for children. Like a child we are on a path to grow taking our first steps. You know that Yanif is the greatest healer in Kenya but he needs your help and your support if we are to heal Kenya. Spread the word. Tell people you have seen Yanif. Let him into your hearts and feel his energy. Lift up your eyes and say thanks to Yanif…” Riaz pointed to the wings and beckoned Yanif forwards.

  Yanif shuffled to the front of the stage and took the microphone.

  People in the audience went quiet. Fathers were standing with young children on their shoulders; mothers holding babies up towards him; children agog trying to comprehend who he was and what he was doing standing in front of him; each expecting him to cure them, to bless them and make them feel better. He had never stood in front of so many people before and for the first time he appeared not to remember what he was going to say.

  He walked to the edge of the stage and sat so his legs dangled over the edge.

  Among the family closest to him, a little girl started to clap and dance seemingly unaware of the hundreds of people behind her.

  She smiled at Yanif. “Jambo,” she said.

  “Jambo,” said Yanif, his voice amplified, booming across the audience.