by Saul Dobney
“Jambo,” people called from all around. “Jambo. Jambo.”
Yanif looked out at the faces and then back at the little girl.
She danced a little, swinging her hips, not breaking her gaze.
“Yanif,” fizzed Riaz from the wings. “Remember the story. Tell them about the merchant.”
Yanif ignored Riaz and kept his focus on the little girl.
“Your life is a blessing. Your joy is God’s gift. Your joy is everybody’s joy. The true joy of a child in the free air, in the sunshine. You bless us with your smile. That is what I am here to tell you.” He paused. “Everywhere God has scattered treasure. Each smile. Each helping hand. Each act of kindness. Each thought of love. God has given us such riches that we can share. And when we share our joy, God rejoices also.”
He stood up and took two steps to the centre of the stage and flicked away a wasp with his hand.
“But I say to you there is no joy in money or riches. Money is like mud that covers the grass after the rains, blotting out the life that is underneath. Things will not give you joy, for money has no value to God, and God gives joy to you freely. Money has no importance. I give you joy. It is yours. It is free.” Yanif turned hearing a noise from his right.
In the wings, Riaz gesticulated, his finger in front of his lips, shushing, trying to make Yanif stop.
Yanif locked eyes with Riaz and shook his head.
He turned back at the audience. “What you seek is with you all ready. Celebrate the joy you have. Living is the reward for life. Be blessed.”
The audience clapped and cheered anticipating more, but Yanif made a small bow and left the stage for the wings.
Riaz shot a fierce glare at Yanif. “You can’t come off now. You haven’t finished. What about what we said?” he jabbed his finger at Yanif’s chest. “We need their donations, Yanif. You’ve got twenty minutes more at least. Go back on.”
Yanif shook his head, tired and irritated. “No. Enough has been done.”
“Go back on,” said Riaz. He pushed at Yanif trying to force him back up the steps.
From the arena the crowd started a slow hand clap, imploring Yanif to return.
Kwasi and Mosi looked at each other and headed towards the stage to sing again, but Yanif blocked them with his arms and ushered them back to the wings.
Riaz grabbed Yanif by the shoulders. “This is our chance Yanif. You have to go on.” He started to shake Yanif. “You can’t leave it with what you just said. You are ruining everything.”
Tremus intervened. He freed Yanif from Riaz’s grasp, moving Riaz away.
“Riaz is right,” said Tremus. He put his arm around Yanif like a father speaking to a son. “You have to go back on. There are people who want to listen to you. We need them to carry on. You have to explain.”
“It is done,” said Yanif, half-closing his eyes. “No more is needed.”
He made his way down the steps and into the backstage area to where Eshe was waiting.
“Yanif,” said Riaz catching up with them, the sound of clapping still in the background. “Yanif.” Riaz cursed and grabbed Yanif by the arm.
Yanif turned around.
“And what do you mean by ‘money is of no importance’?” He slapped Yanif on the shoulder. “What about the Chama? They are going to take away our home, our living, our dreams and you are telling people money is not important. What about us Yanif?”
He was about to push Yanif again, but Tremus caught his arm.
“Tremus. Tell him. Make him go on.”
“What Riaz says is true,” said Tremus to Yanif. “You cannot say money is unimportant. You cannot tell people they need nothing. With nothing, how would we live?”
Yanif did not reply and carried on to the back of the stage with Eshe.
“Here Yanif,” said Eshe, propping him up. “Maybe it’s too much for you. Let’s go and find a place to rest a little.”
She put her arm around him and they walked over to an upturned stage box and sat down, leaving Riaz and Tremus in discussion, gesticulating and talking in harsh whispers.
“Is that it?” said the technician, breaking off from a conversation with a man and a woman as he saw Yanif sitting down. “We give you a forty minute slot and you do five minutes? What are we going to do now?”
“It’s OK, I’ll go on,” said the woman emerging from the backstage area. “With all the children and it would be a shame to disappoint them. Get my guitar and mike me up.”
“But Heather, you’re not due until this evening,” said the man next to her.
“It’s not a problem Steve. I’ll do a few acoustic songs to keep them in good cheer. This young man seems to have run out of things to say or do.” She glared disparagingly at Yanif.
Steve bounced onto stage, grabbed a mike and made an announcement that boomed across the park. “And since we have some unexpected time on our hands, for the next thirty minutes we now have a surprise guest. As a special treat direct from chart-topping singles in the US and UK here is tonight’s headline act, Heather Cross.”
Heather walked onto the stage carrying her guitar. “Well hello Nairobi,” she called to cheers coming back from the audience.
She batted away an insect and sat down and began to play.
“Do you know who that is?” said Mosi, coming to sit with Eshe and Yanif.
Eshe shook her head.
“That is Heather Cross. You must have heard of her. They play her music on the radio everyday.”
Heather finished her first song to a ripple of warm applause from the audience. Something was bothering her though and she flapped her hand as wasps danced around her head. One landed on the neck of her guitar and she tried to hit with her hand.
“Steve. Steve,” she called to the wings. “Can you get rid of these things?”
Steve ran on, but before he could reach her Heather slammed her hand against her collar bone. “Agghh,” echoed through the microphone and out of the speakers. “Steve, get rid of them.”
She jerked and ducked shaking a wasp out of her hair. Steve batted the insects with a newspaper and stamped on those on the ground.
Heather shook herself down and picked up her guitar. “Just a little insect problem. Let's take it from the top.”
She started to strum the strings and began to sing, but after a handful of bars, she broke off and turned to the back of the stage, putting her hand over her mouth, spluttering and coughing. Pink blotches were appearing on her neck and cheeks but she carried on. She took a sip from a glass of water and picked out the notes on the guitar again. But when she tried to sing her voice had disappeared into a husky whisper.
“Steve,” she hissed. “Steve.”
She pointed at her throat, tugging at her windpipe as she struggled to breath. She dropped the guitar and fell to her knees on the stage floor, choking for air holding her hands to her neck, her face purple with the effort of breathing,
“Quick,” shouted Steve towards the technician. “I need a doctor now.”
He ran onto the stage, but somehow Yanif was there first.
Yanif knelt and ran his hand across her throat and around the back of her neck. Her breathing was little more than a dry empty rasp, the muscles on her neck bulging as she tried to get air to her lungs.
Yanif pinched Heather’s mouth open with his fingers and, caressing her windpipe with his other hand, he pressed his mouth to hers. Heather's eyes opened and she watched Yanif as he breathed life into her. One breath. Two breaths. Three. At last she inhaled, gulping as Yanif's air hit her lungs.
The first breaths almost made her retch and she rolled to the side and curled into a ball, drawing in the Nairobi air with all her force, spluttering with the effort.
“Are you OK Heth?” asked Steve, squatting down beside her, holding the water.
Heather sat up, breathing through her nose feeling the rise and fall of her chest, conscious of the eyes of the crowd. She took a sip from the glass and lifted her hand and waved.
/>
A small ripple of applause ran around the arena and Heather gave Yanif her hand and he pulled her to her feet.
“Yanif,” she said lifting up Yanif's hand, the words echoing through the speakers to the field.
“Yanif,” echoed the shouts of the crowd across the park.
Heather embraced Yanif, squeezing him to her, then looked into his eyes. “Thank you. I could have died.” She flung her hands around Yanif's neck and kissed him.
Cheers came from the crowd and the claps pulsated into a chant of, “Yanif. Yanif. Yanif.”
Heather took Yanif’s hand and raised it into the air. “He saved my life,” she shouted to the crowd. “He saved my life.”
51. Media reaction
“Your prophet Yanif is on TV,” Jill shouted to her husband in the kitchen. “He’s on the news. He saved some British pop star. It’s on TV.”
Dr Hill scurried into the living room sat down next to his wife and watched.
“British singer Heather Cross's life was saved today by Yanif, a Kenyan faith healer, in front of a crowd of thousands at the Nairobi Music Festival. Cross, who has had a number of top 10 hits in the United States and Europe, collapsed at the beginning of her set from what doctors are saying was an allergic reaction to a bee sting. Healer Yanif who had opened up the Sunday afternoon performances was immediately on hand as this video shows and helped Cross make an immediate recovery.”
A grainy video from a mobile phone replayed showing Yanif healing Heather Cross.
“Speaking after her performance, Cross said that she would be eternally grateful to Yanif for saving her life.”
The TV picture cut to Heather. “If it wasn't for Yanif, I wouldn't be here. He's my saviour and I want to bring him to London so the whole world will know him.”
The TV camera panned across the audience shouting out Yanif’s name.
“We talked to Yanif’s spokesman—”
“Looks like your prediction is coming true James. Maybe this is the one.”
Dr Hill waved for his wife to be quiet.
“Yanif was sent to Kenya by God,” said Riaz on the television. “He is Kenya’s great healer. And this is God's work.”
Dr Hill grimaced at his wife. “Should I be happy that I predicted this, or unhappy that this new religious gumph is about to start.”
“I told you he had a sweet face,” said Jill. “You'll have to get Nicholas to introduce us.”
“Hmmm… ,” said Dr Hill. “Are you packed?”
Jill picked up her bag from the hall.
“You know, maybe I should ask this Yanif to help you?” Dr Hill took the car keys out of the drawer. “Set him a real test, that will do some real good.”
“James. I can’t believe you sometimes.”
52. Mobbed in Nairobi
A hum of people filled Jeevanjee Gardens from the neighbouring Nairobi shops and office blocks, strolling, walking, eating home-made sandwiches, some sleeping in the shade of trees, oblivious to the fence and signs that were supposed to prevent them going on the grass.
“Did I tell you we had a message from India?” Angelie asked Eshe as they searched for a space to sit down.
Eshe raised her eyebrows. “How did they find us?”
“We've had so many hits on our web page,” said Angelie. “We’ve had contacts from Europe and America asking about Yanif or asking for his help. People want to connect with him, and send him all these questions.”
“Do you even know where India is Yanif?” asked Eshe.
Yanif shook his head. He watched as Salina took photos of Kwasi and Mosi playing tag around the fountain in the centre of the park. Near the fountain, a man in a faded brown jacket, sitting on a bench next to two women, was staring at Yanif. The man pointed, then waved. Yanif tipped his head in acknowledgement.
“It’s all over Heather Cross’s web site and there are videos there too,” said Angelie. “You should see how many messages we have got. You know I prayed it would happen. Perhaps now the world will take notice.”
The man in the brown jacket ambled to the bench and dipped his head. “You are Yanif, aren’t you?” he said.
Yanif nodded.
The man grinned and gave a thumbs up to the women he had been talking to. “I saw you yesterday, and the miracle you did. You give me your autograph?” said the man. He fiddled in his pockets for a scrap of paper and thrust it towards Yanif taking a pen out of his top pocket.
Eshe put her hand out to stop him giving the pen to Yanif. “Yanif doesn’t write,” she said. “But he could give you a blessing.”
“A blessing. Much better.” The man beamed and waved towards the women for them to come over to join him.
Yanif stood up and smiled. The man knelt and raised his eyes and Yanif pressed his hand against the man’s forehead. The man bowed, crossed himself, then clambered to his feet grinning. He ushered the two women forwards and as they knelt as he had done. Yanif touched each of them with his fingertips, mumbling some words as he did so. As he finished, he saw that other people in the park had been watching; their faces directed at him, gossiping and pointing.
An older woman with a cane prodded a young girl forwards to line up behind the two women. A man stood behind her and soon a queue had formed that linked around the park. One-by-one individuals came and knelt in front of Yanif, each taking Yanif’s hand and pressing it against his or her forehead or back or shoulder.
Mosi ran over from the fountain. “I can see Mr Ibrahim,” he said. “He’s at the back. You have to see him Yanif, after all that he did bringing people to the festival. Come on Kwasi.”
Mosi and Kwasi pulled Mr Ibrahim out of the line and he followed the twins to the front, leading a small boy of three or four by the hand. As he reached Yanif a man in a suit at the front nudged the woman next to him, muttering and grumbling as Mr Ibrahim took his place.
Yanif held out his hand in greeting, but Mr Ibrahim dropped to the floor, prostrating himself and pulling his son down to the ground.
“I told them you would come. I told them you would come,” Mr Ibrahim repeated in jubilant excitement as he kissed Yanif’s foot.
“Do not bow so,” said Yanif, his cheeks reddening. “What will these people think?” He helped Mr Ibrahim to his feet. “You helped when we needed help. I should bow to you.” Yanif bowed deeply.
Mr Ibrahim clasped Yanif’s hand with his own two hands and gave thanks to the heavens, “I was not wrong Lord. I was not wrong.” He lifted his son up and held him out to Yanif. “My son, Levi. This is my son. I am just a poor sinner, but please bless my blameless son.”
Yanif took the boy and held him on his hip, brushing a smudge of dirt off the boy’s pallid cheek. Yanif took out some bread from the bag that Eshe had been carrying and broke it off and gave it to the boy.
Levi pressed the bread into his mouth with his hands.
“Say thank you Levi,” interrupted Mr Ibrahim. “Yanif has saved you child. He has come to save us all. Yanif is the man I have told you about.”
Levi hugged Yanif and kissed him on the cheek. Yanif smiled and handed the boy back to Mr Ibrahim.
“He has come to save us all,” shouted Mr Ibrahim to the crowd behind. “He is the One.”
With those words the queue disintegrated into a multitude of hands and pleading faces, pressing towards Yanif. Eshe fell backwards, knocked over by the crush, almost tumbling over the fence that guarded the gardens.
“Get back. Get back,” shouted Kwasi panicking at the crowd bunched around Eshe. “We need some space.”
Mr Ibrahim, Kwasi and Mosi and the people at the front turned and pushed at the people behind them. In the momentary lull, Angelie extracted Yanif and Eshe from the melee.
“Wait,” shouted Kwasi, pressing the people closest with his hands. “Wait. Please.”
But at the back more individuals were craning to see what was happening, jumping for a glimpse over the heads of the people in front of them, nudging forwards.
“Friends,
friends,” called Mr Ibrahim to the crowd, trying to hold them back. “Make a line, make a line.”
“There are too many people,” said Angelie. “We should go.”
Angelie and Eshe turned and pulled Salina and Yanif out of the park. From behind them, they could hear Kwasi and Mosi shouting trying to get the multitude in order.
But the crowd flowed past Mosi, Kwasi and Mr Ibrahim, pursuing Yanif and the women.
Eshe and Angelie jumped into the road, stopping cars with their hands, pulling Yanif and Salina across in their wake, to the noise, horns and shouts from the drivers. Behind them chasers from the crowd were running, trying to reach Yanif. Kwasi and Mosi sprinting at their head.
“In here,” shouted Eshe. She compelled Yanif and the girls in through the doorway of the tall cream-and beige coloured backpackers hotel that stood on the corner opposite the park. Mosi and Kwasi crashed inside and turned to block the door.
“What are you doing?” called the hotel manager from behind the reception desk. “Get away from there.” He strode to the twins and grabbed at the door handle trying to keep it open.
Mosi shook his head, and leaned against the door, absorbing the weight of the people trying to push it open from the other side.
“Help us,” he implored. “They’re trying to get Yanif.”
“Please,” said Eshe. “We need some help.”
The hotel manager saw the crowd outside and let go of the door. “Quickly,” he said. “This way.”
He took a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. The door rattled as the people outside tried to shake their way in. Around the windows, faces appeared, pressing against the glass and peering in trying to get a glimpse of Yanif. Some banged on the windows to try and get his attention.
“Come with me,” said the manager. “I will find somewhere safe and call the police. We have a staff room at the back.”
Eshe thanked the manager and took a note out of her purse and pressed it into his hand.
He smiled, dipped his head and pocketed the money, and led them to a small windowless room. “Wait here until I tell you.”
“Looks like you’re really famous now,” said Kwasi to Yanif. “You have become a pop star.”