Nairobi Heat

by Mukoma Wa Ngugi

‘Do you know that he’s dead?’ I asked.

  I felt her startle. She took a few deep breaths.

  ‘Suicide,’ I said. ‘With you in his hand.’ It felt good being mean to her.

  ‘You asshole, you let me sit there all night having fun without telling me?’ she said bitterly.

  I didn’t say anything. I had nothing to say.

  Reaching into her kitchen drawer, Muddy pulled out two joints and lit both of them. I started to say that I didn’t smoke, but she reached for her cell, dialled and a few seconds later the watchman appeared on the other side of the barred kitchen window. She stood up and passed him one of the joints, taking a long drag on the other as she did so.

  ‘I came here with nowhere to go, so I worked in some shitty joints,’ she began. ‘Then I met Sammy. It was him who introduced me to the spoken word, to The Last Poets, to the world of Saul Williams … You know them?’

  But before I could answer she started reciting something from The Last Poets; she spoke softly, yet each line felt like a muted gunshot: ‘ “You will not be able to stay home, brother. You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out. You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip, skip out for beer during commercials, because the revolution will not be televised …” Beautiful people with beautiful words, who found a way to express their anger and hurt.’

  She paused as a tremor ran across her face, but I couldn’t tell whether it was the thought of Samuel’s death or the words that had moved her close to tears. ‘Jesus, I loved the movie Slam,’ she finally continued. ‘I must have watched it a thousand times, and at first I tried to be like them, sound like them, until one day my voice broke, and I found the first words that were ever mine, created by me: When they cut down my roots they will find the blood of many, of friends, of lovers, of family and of enemies. Here children learn to grow into the earth and breastfeed themselves, and like death or life, my enemies feed on many cutting them down like sugar cane or weeds …’

  She stopped and laughed in embarrassment. ‘Quite sloppy, but they were my first words. I had learned to speak, and I said them over and over again. It was Sammy who helped me find my voice.’ She paused again. ‘And I left because as soon as my voice broke I no longer liked what I saw.’

  Standing up, she went to the sitting room – where I could hear her shuffling through drawers – and came back with a photo album. The photos in the album were arranged chronologically: Photographs of her as child – in primary school uniform with her parents standing stiffly behind her. Little Muddy with a slightly older brother. A sister is born. Muddy in secondary school with her friends. Then abruptly, three unmarked graves and she is in the Rwandan Patriotic Army. After that there were others of her in a makeshift hospital – her face unrecognisable, her arms in plaster. This after she was captured by the genocidaires. ‘They said my looks saved me,’ she said, her face hard. ‘They brutalised and raped me, but they didn’t kill me. Instead, they left me out in the forest to die.’

  As soon as she was a little bit better she had made for Kenya. She didn’t go back to the RPA – she was tired of it all, she just wanted a little bit of peace.

  ‘Muddy, did you kill people?’ I asked in spite of myself. It was a stupid question, what else could she have been doing in the RPA? It was just that I couldn’t reconcile the sad woman in front of me with the hardened soldier in the photos.

  ‘I want to show you something.’

  I followed her out through the kitchen door to her backyard. She sat down on the grass and I followed her example, only to find it was wet with dew.

  ‘Look,’ she said and pointed up at the sky.

  I looked up. The moon was gone and the dawn was on its way – the sky was a simmering red. It was beautiful, romantic even, except for the rather odd circumstances.

  ‘Many nights when I was in Rwanda I would see the sky like this and see hell,’ she said. ‘I wanted to see stars again and breathe air that was not filled with the smell of burning human flesh. I wanted that for me, my neighbours and my country.’ She paused. ‘Never ask me if I have killed. You have no right. I only forgive you because you are a foreigner here,’ she added, barely able to contain her anger.

  ‘I am sorry, Muddy,’ I said. ‘It won’t happen again.’

  She accepted my apology.

  ‘The white girl, do you know her?’ I asked, knowing I was being unfair but hoping for an answer that would finally make it all make sense.

  ‘No. Never seen her.’

  ‘Is Joshua a killer? I mean, do you think he is capable of killing?’

  She laughed sadly. ‘You still don’t understand, do you? The worst killers are the survivors. They know life is cheap, no matter what the rest of the world says. So, yes, Joshua can kill, but so can I or anyone else who has been through such a hell as we have.’

  Silence, for the first time in my life I heard true silence. Nothing. No cars, air conditioners or heaters, no sirens or noisy drunks trying to make their way home, not even the hum of street lights, just silence.

  ‘Look, man, I gotta teach you some Kiswahili,’ Muddy said, suddenly switching the topic. ‘You can’t be running around here like a fool. You have to speak the people’s language. I mean, you are supposed to be undercover, right?’

  I welcomed her playfulness.

  ‘Habari? Sema. Mambo.’

  I repeated the words as best I could, but Muddy was soon beside herself with laugher. ‘You sound like a princess looking for water,’ she said. ‘Try again. Habari?: hello, what’s the news? Sema: I want to know but I also don’t care. Mambo: I am really just announcing myself, but if you have relevant news, share.’

  I tried to sound like her, but it wasn’t long until she was on the grass thrashing around, trying to recover her breath. I suppose the weed might have had something to do with it.

  ‘Tell me, man, when I speak English, do I sound to you like you sound to me?’ she asked, propping herself up on her elbows.

  It was at that moment that I knew for certain that there would never come a time when we would meet under different circumstances. This was it. And so, instead of answering her, I pulled myself closer and kissed her. Then, as I felt her tongue reach for mine, I broke away and began to kiss her neck. She tasted salty but I kept kissing every little bit of her I could find until she pushed me away. I watched as she stood up and pulled her dashiki over her head. Tall, naked, her long thin dreadlocks covering her breasts, she beckoned and I followed, almost tripping over my jeans as I struggled to get out of my clothes.

  By the time I got to the room I was naked and had but a single thought in my head: Muddy. I did not know what to expect – I had not been with a woman in a long time – and my palms were clammy as I ran my hands over her body. We kissed again but only managed to clink our teeth together and she laughed again. Then I moved so that she came on top of me, her breasts running against my thighs and chest before she finally took charge.

  Later, just as I was about to drift off to sleep, Muddy started having a nightmare, muttering over and over again: ‘A word is flesh. A word is flesh, do not kill it.’

  I thought of waking her, but after a few minutes her body relaxed and she went back into a peaceful sleep. I stayed up for a while after that, drifting in a space between sleep and consciousness, letting thoughts wash over me without letting them take hold – my ex-wife, blues music, Muddy, the case. Then, finally, I too drifted off.

  HOW MUCH IS A GUILTY CONSCIENCE WORTH?

  I woke up very early the following morning, slid quietly out of bed and made my way to Muddy’s kitchen. Once there I tried to imitate O’s omelette, but it came out a jumbled mess – although with some toast and coffee we would still have a full breakfast of sorts. Finally, with everything as ready as it was ever going to be, I went to wake Muddy, but she was sleeping so peacefully that I decided to let our breakfast go cold. With nothing else to do, I unlocked her many security doors, made sure the dogs were chained up and then stepped outside for a walk
.

  I found the watchman milking one of Muddy’s cows and, much to his delight, tried to help him, though I only succeeded in getting cow shit on my shoes. Walking it off through the small orchard behind the house I realised that I had never had an avocado straight from the tree. They tasted amazing and I ate so many of them that I thought I would get sick. Then, having finished with my makeshift breakfast, I walked around some more, fed the chickens and played with the goats. I hadn’t felt so good in years.

  After an hour or so, Muddy came rushing out of the house with my phone. Some nun wanted to speak to me, she said. It was about Janet. She had beaten up one of her classmates and the nun wanted me to speak to her. I had no idea what I would say to her but I wanted to help, and once I had explained the situation to Muddy she instantly agreed to come with me.

  About an hour later, we arrived to find the girls at their mid-morning break. There was a lot of chatter and laughter; some girls skipping rope, others playing hand games in their bright uniforms. So Janet, who upon seeing us enter the nun’s office ran to me and held on to me sobbing, was quite a contrast to the life outside. She must have been angry that for her schoolmates life was continuing, while for her it had come to a standstill.

  The nun left us in her office without saying a word, and it was only then that Janet finally let go of me and I was able to introduce Muddy to her. By then I was on the brink of tears, so I was relieved when Muddy started talking to Janet. And in the course of her talking to Janet I was able to understand Muddy a little better. Muddy had survived to wake up one day alone, where the day before she had had parents, brothers and sisters. They spoke about Rwanda, people they might both have known, Rwandan music and food, before Muddy got to it: ‘Sister, this is a cruel country on a cruel continent, there are no second chances. You decide here and now whether you want to live or you want to die. If you want to die a slow death, then come with us and I will find you a job working as a barmaid,’ she said. ‘These are your two choices. There are no others; not for you or for me. You are still alive, and that is a blessing, you should not waste it.’

  Muddy sounded harsh, but she was telling Janet how it was. She had to choose to fight for her life or surrender now and accept failure.

  Janet started sobbing again. She looked at me, and I looked back at her without saying anything. I wondered if she thought I might decide to take her back to the United States with me, but she must have known that it wasn’t an option.

  ‘Janet, you have to decide what you want to do right now,’ Muddy said urgently. ‘You have to decide before we walk out of that door.’

  Janet looked at Muddy through her tears and then at me. ‘I will stay. I will stay and finish,’ she said, trying to sound brave.

  Muddy hugged her, laughing wildly and congratulating her as if she had just graduated. I suppose for all of us there comes a time when we have to take responsibility for our lives, but Janet had had to take responsibility for hers even before she knew there was more to life than trauma after trauma.

  The nun came back. Break was over and it was time for the next class, she told us. But Janet wouldn’t let go of Muddy, and eventually, with no other choice, Muddy had to gently make her. The nun didn’t ask what had transpired, she just wiped Janet’s tears roughly from her face before opening the office door so that the girl could walk back to her class, to her life.

  ‘The first Saturday of each month is visitors’ day,’ she said to Muddy as she watched Janet walk away. ‘Keep coming back, okay? It is not easy for her.’

  Muddy nodded in agreement and we left.

  It was midday by the time I dropped Muddy back at her place and the sun was beating down on me. By the time I had driven back into Nairobi again I was bathed in sweat. Nothing like a Fanta to quench your thirst, so I decided to stop at a store close to O’s. There are things that Americans have long been denied – like drinking a cold Fanta straight from a glass bottle. The only problem is that to leave with the bottle you have to put down a deposit, so I just chugged it, slamming the bottle on the counter like I was in a bar. But as I opened the door to hop back into the Land Rover a massive figure materialised from nowhere. I didn’t even have time to cry out before I felt the heavy blow to the back of my head.

  When I regained my senses – to a pounding headache – I found myself in a dark room tied tightly to a chair. The first thing I noticed was the smell of rotting meat, then, slowly, the loud din of voices, drunken and sober, coming from somewhere nearby. I wasn’t gagged but there was little point in screaming – I was in a room behind a bar somewhere, I figured, and there was no chance anyone would hear me.

  After what seemed an eternity I heard the fumble of keys and padlock and the door finally opened. For a few brief moments I saw daylight, and then the room went dark as the door closed again. Seconds later a bright light came on directly above me and someone pulled up a chair and sat down heavily. He was so close that I could see his expensive leather shoes, white socks and grey trousers, but his face was outside the circle of light, hidden in the darkness.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked angrily.

  ‘Pardon my manners, Detective Ishmael,’ a man said in an accent very much like Joshua’s. ‘You have been so much in my mind recently that it feels like we are old friends. My name is Abu. Abu Jamal.’ There was a smile in his voice.

  ‘What are we doing here?’

  ‘That is not the question. The question is why are you still alive? No, don’t answer. It is simple: you are alive because you still have a purpose. God kept you alive for a reason …’

  I started laughing.

  ‘Did I say something funny?’ he asked.

  ‘You a priest?’

  ‘No, Detective Ishmael, but I do believe that God kept you alive to return balance to our world,’ he said cryptically.

  Only one person had addressed me this way and that was the person whose call had brought me to Africa. He had my attention.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered my unspoken question. ‘I made the call as per Mr Alexander’s instructions. It seems that you were becoming a thorn in our side, as you Americans say, and you were to be invited here so that we could kill you.’

  ‘You were supposed to get me out of the way?’

  ‘Yes, but that is beside the point now. Things have shifted …’

  He paused to light a cigarette. I stared at him, trying to catch his face, but his hands were cupped around the light and I could only make out a receding hairline that was flecked with grey.

  ‘Detective, allow me to come to the point … Do you know how much guilt is worth nowadays?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Say there is a genocide in which a million or so people die while the world watches. And say that the country in which this genocide happens ends up owning the guilt of that world, because it stood by and did nothing. How much do you think that guilt is worth?’

  ‘Do you always speak in riddles? Just get to the point!’ I said in frustration.

  ‘Yes, it would have been a shame to kill a man who knows so little,’ he said. ‘All right, say you are a savvy businessman who realises that there is money to be made out of this guilt … a lot of money. Say you have a white face, but you find a black man, a hero who helps you tap into the community of refugees from this country that owns the guilt of the world, and you start a Refugee Centre. Say you then start a foundation called Never Again to tap into this guilt all over the world.’ He paused. ‘Am I making any sense yet?’

  Some things had begun to fall into place, although a lot more was still out of focus. This man was some sort of middleman in a corrupt corporation fronted by the Refugee Centre and the Never Again Foundation, with Samuel as the acceptable white face and noble Joshua the stirrer of that guilt. Together they had preyed on the world’s conscience ever since the genocide.

  ‘Did Joshua do the things they say he did?’ I asked.

  ‘Having met a few people who owe their lives to him, including that beautiful young woman
you left Club 680 with last night, I believe so. When he was offered money and fame for his good deeds, he felt entitled to them. It was Samuel who found Joshua. But who really knows? Truth can be stranger than fiction, no?’

  ‘Did Joshua kill the white girl?’

  ‘You could say Mr Alexander and I were partners, Detective Ishmael. But naturally, being black, I was the junior partner, so I do not know these things. What I do know is that there are three forces here at work: the Refugee Centre, the Never Again Foundation and Joshua. Perhaps if you shake these apple trees, as you Americans say, something will fall off.’ He laughed. ‘And before you ask, no, I had never seen her before.’

  ‘How big is this thing?’

  ‘If I told you, Detective Ishmael, you would not believe me.’ His cellphone glowed in the dark as he dialled a number. A few seconds later a gorilla of a man – the same one who had hit me over the head earlier, no doubt – walked in with a briefcase which he handed to Jamal. ‘Untie him,’ Jamal ordered.

  The giant approached wordlessly, producing a long shiny knife from a sheath along his forearm as soon as he stepped into the light. For a moment I felt panic as he walked around to stand behind me. Then I felt a tug and my hands and legs were suddenly free, the pain intense as the blood flowed back into my limbs.

  As the giant left, he turned on the lights. Not in a million years would I have expected that Abu Jamal and I had already met – and only a few hours earlier too. I felt foolish and alarmed at the same time, and I broke into a short weird laugh, making a sound I had never made before me in my life – a sound of complete and utter surprise, mixed in with genuine mirth, fear, indignation and embarrassment. The man sitting before me was Samuel Alexander’s manservant. The elderly man whom O had insulted on the night of Samuel’s suicide.

  ‘Nothing is what it seems, that is the truth,’ he said as if he and I were sitting together, watching a secret being unveiled. ‘It is okay to take a moment … you smoke?’

  Without waiting for my reply he lit a cigarette for me. I noticed my hands were unsteady as I reached for it. It was not that I was afraid for my life, I was scared of what I did not know – everything had become a surprise.