by Frank Coates
‘Yes!’ the crowd roared.
‘Are you tired of the police and askaris harassing you for tea money?’
‘Yes!’
‘Is your landlord charging you too much for your tiny plot?’
‘Yes!’
‘Do you demand that the government do something about it?’
‘Yes!’
‘Then we must march, my friends! We must march to Uhuru Park and tell the government that we have had enough of all these things. We have had enough of the police taking our money. We have had enough of landlords who cheat us. We demand the government do something about it. No more of this talk, talk and nothing happens. We want action!’
A general roar of approval erupted.
‘Will you march with me to Uhuru Park, my friends?’
‘Yes!’ came the reply and, as a body, the crowd surged forward towards the road leading to Uhuru Park—a venue where many political wars had been fought.
It was Charlotte’s second day of research in the Nairobi National Archives. She was tired and had difficulty concentrating. She’d allowed herself a week for research in Nairobi before heading into the field, but that time was half gone and she had barely scratched the surface. The problem was, she kept getting sidetracked by stories that were interesting, but not essential to her thesis. If she didn’t put all those distractions aside, she would never get to the core of her topic.
It had been much easier with her Master’s thesis on the Maasai. The Maasai had been a pet anthropological topic for decades and there was a wealth of research material in Oxford’s Museum of Natural History. The Luo were another matter. Quite early in their exposure to European influence, they had recognised the benefits of that civilisation and become willing participants and early adopters of a new way of life. Consequently, their cultural heritage wasn’t as widely known or documented. She felt she had formulated a good plan for her thesis, but acquiring the raw information was difficult.
An important part of a PhD was the ability to develop efficiently a line of reasoning towards a logical conclusion. She tested the words again, picking them apart and appraising them individually before reassembling them. An important part of a PhD is the ability to develop efficiently a line of reasoning towards a logical conclusion. Good. Very good. It reassured her that her head was clear and ready to get back to work. Then she realised they were Professor Hornsby’s words, from his pep talk before she left for Kenya.
She dropped her face into her hands and let a small groan escape.
Scattered around Riley’s desk was the essence of his next novel. He had thought it would be a good story when he’d first read the historical account in Charlotte Manning’s book. Now, with a more complete understanding of the historical perspective, he knew it was a great story. As with his first novel, his research in the National Archives was illuminating the details of the saga; like opening the lens of a camera to throw more light on the subject. Now he comprehended the true drama of the Maasai’s battle to save their land.
The young woman at the end of his table groaned and Riley glanced at her in annoyance. It wasn’t the first time she’d interrupted his train of thought.
He felt his Maasai story had a lot more going for it than the 1992 Mabo native title case had. While Mabo and its legal machinations and consequences had been interesting, it had lacked blood and guts. The formidable Maasai would surely add that component. Riley had found many references to their bloodthirsty reputation. Even the Arab slave traders had avoided the fierce warriors of Maasailand for years. Somewhere, buried in the history, there would surely be accounts of fierce and bloody resistance to the British encroachment into Maasailand, perhaps even an old-fashioned massacre or two to add dramatic highlights to his story.
But he had to get a grip. History was a mine of information. A very big mine. If he were to make this story what it could be, he needed time to find the nuggets. In the meantime, he had to earn enough money to sustain him in Kenya while completing the research for his novel. He thought about the business article he was researching. It was a little dry for his taste. The political tensions in Nairobi were palpable. Perhaps there was a bigger story—an essay on politics, tribalism and corruption—that he could sell. There wasn’t a lot of interest in Africa overseas at that moment, but perhaps the election would change that.
The woman at the end of his table arose, noisily scraping her chair on the parquetry floor. She seemed vaguely familiar, but he put his head down and returned to the correspondence files from the early twentieth century.
A half-hour later he collided with her in the Dewey 300–320 aisle. ‘Oops. Sorry,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she replied.
He smiled. Then it dawned on him. She looked familiar because she was Charlotte Manning!
Here was the solution to his shortage of time and money to complete his research. Charlotte Manning, expert in all matters Maasai, could point him towards the most appropriate source documents in a trice. He could have the research component of his book in the bag and be home in a couple of weeks, ready to hit the computer. He had to find a way to pick her brains.
‘African research?’ he asked pleasantly.
Her glance wasn’t encouraging. ‘What do you mean?’ she said coolly.
He smiled, innocence personified—or so he hoped—and pointed to the sign above the bookshelves: 316—General Statistics. Africa.
She mumbled something unintelligible, gathered her armful of books and returned to her table.
Damn! Riley thought. He was losing his touch. That response wasn’t at all what he’d hoped for. Now she thought him some kind of stalker.
He took a moment to collect his thoughts. He would return to his desk and write a polite note explaining the situation, which he would place on her notepad. But by the time he returned to his desk, Charlotte Manning was heading for the door.
The mob poured onto Ngong Road. It had been swelled by Kibera residents, mostly young unemployed men who had not attended the rally but jumped at the opportunity to escape their boredom. Joshua was in the leading group, carrying a placard that had been thrust into his hands. It was around 5 pm and the traffic, already barely moving in the usual peak-hour crawl, came to a complete standstill. Joshua used his placard to club a Volvo station wagon, while others in his group did likewise to the cars nearest them.
The matatus—the ubiquitous minibuses that, so conventional wisdom suggested, were all owned by Kikuyu politicians—were given particularly harsh attention. Some had their windscreens smashed; and one, whose passengers had fled, was rocked energetically until it was overturned. The crowd responded with a roar of delight.
When the leading group reached the Nairobi Club on the hill overlooking Uhuru Park, they found the police waiting for them. The hated Special Response Unit was present in numbers—a formidable force in riot gear.
The speaker with the portable megaphone screamed almost hysterically for the marchers to push on. ‘We will not be denied our rights!’ he began to chant. The crowd joined him and, after an initial hesitancy, surged forward.
Above the roar, Joshua heard the pop of a teargas canister. Then another. Almost immediately the acrid smoke attacked his lungs. At the same time a whistle blew and a score of helmeted, shield-carrying riot police charged the leading group.
Joshua used his placard to fend off the nearest policeman—a bull of a man in a gas mask, swinging his long riot stick like a sword. He managed to avoid the first two strikes, but his vision was blurred by the gas and the next caught him a glancing blow on the side of his head.
Joshua fell like a poleaxed steer.
A kilometre away, on the other side of Uhuru Park, Riley collected his backpack at the security desk and hurried out into busy Moi Avenue. Charlotte Manning was nowhere in sight, but he took a punt and turned right, thinking she might be headed to the university. After a block he caught sight of what he thought was her pink and white blouse bobbing among the crowd about a hundred m
etres away. He dodged in and out of the heavy pedestrian traffic. Most of the shoppers had stopped, and all faces were turned in the direction of the university, their heads cocked, listening.
Riley noticed there were few cars on the normally chaotic Moi Avenue.
Then he heard it too. It rumbled like a distant storm, resembling the muted sound of a football crowd at half-time—unfocused, but able to erupt without warning. He’d heard that sound once before, in Indonesia, and it had nearly cost him his life.
The rumbling drew closer. Now he could hear the jangle of metal, and a bass drum pounding a marching beat.
Up ahead, Charlotte took the opportunity of the sudden break in traffic to cross Moi Avenue.
Riley broke into a run. He intercepted her as the mob swung out of University Way, only a block from them. He grabbed her and dragged her by the arm back to the footpath.
‘You!’ she gasped, trying to regain her breath.
‘Quick! In here,’ he said, and dragged her again, this time towards a café where the owner was hastily erecting boards over the windows.
‘What are you doing?’ she said as she shrugged him from her elbow. ‘You’re the…the person from the library.’
‘I am. Look,’ he said, pointing to the approaching mob. ‘This is going to get ugly any minute and we have to get off the street.’
‘Do we now?’ Her eyes were blazing. ‘Well, I can tell you, I’ve been in my share of demonstrations. It’s just a simple student protest.’
‘Maybe. But the riot police are most likely on their way, so it’s going to get a lot uglier before it gets better.’
As if to prove his point, sirens sounded in the distance.
The shopkeeper was at his door, about to slam it. Riley lifted Charlotte into his arms and pushed past him into the café. When they were barely inside, the owner locked the door.
‘Oh!’ Charlotte spluttered, and pushed him away from her as soon as he put her down. ‘What sort of Neanderthal are you?’
‘Listen,’ he said, pointing in the direction of the street. The shouting and accompanying cacophony of metal instruments were drowned by the screech of police whistles and wailing sirens. ‘The riot police have arrived.’
‘That’s no reason to go dragging people off the street, is it?’ she said, straightening her crumpled blouse. ‘They’re just students.’
‘You’re not at Oxford now, Ms Manning. These guys aren’t just protesting for equal rights, you know. They mean business. So do the riot police. Believe me, I’ve seen it in Indonesia. You don’t want to get caught in the middle of one of these things.’
The mob began to howl as the police and riot squad converged upon them. The sound of smashing glass came from nearby.
‘I don’t see what all the fuss—’
The pom, pom of exploding teargas grenades interrupted her. She went to the window where the hand holes in the wooden covers allowed a view of the street. Whatever she saw, it caused her to turn back to him, mollified.
‘Well…Anyway, how do you know my name?’ she said.
‘How do I know your…’ He took a deep breath and let it escape with a loud sigh. ‘God, I’d kill for a cigarette. Let’s take a seat back here, shall we? It’ll be a while until the teargas clears.’
She reluctantly followed him to a table near the rear of the café and took a seat opposite him.
‘I wanted to talk to you about something anyway,’ he said.
‘You haven’t answered my question. How do you know my name?’
‘I’m a—’ He was interrupted by a shrieking whistle from outside. Heavy boots pounded past the window.
‘I’m a researcher, just like you,’ he went on.
She looked unconvinced.
‘Come to think of it, I’m a fan. I’ve read your book on the Maasai. It got me interested in the whole field of anthropology.’ It was quite a leap, but he hoped a little flattery might ease the situation.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘It did?’
‘Absolutely. I’m a journo by profession, and it just, like, really grabbed me. You know what I mean?’
‘Well, I must say there have been researchers who have inspired me—’
‘Exactly. Look, let’s start again. I’ll buy you a coffee.’ Without waiting for her reply, he called to the owner, ‘Two coffees, please.’
‘Tea. Black,’ she said.
‘Sorry, one black tea and one black coffee, no sugar.’
Fifteen minutes later, he had explained how he had recognised her from the photo in her book, and that it was an understandable coincidence that they had crossed paths as they were both researching the Maasai.
‘It’s karma,’ he concluded.
‘Hmm…Australian?’ she said. Her tone suggested that, if confirmed, it would fulfil her worst fears.
He nodded. ‘Accent?’
She shook her head. ‘Suntan.’
‘African.’
‘You?’
‘No, the suntan, of course.’
‘Of course. But there’s certainly a little of that nasally twang. So you’re an Australian who’s come to Africa to research a novel and a series of articles. Is that any reason to stalk a person in a library?’
‘Now, hang on a moment. Sitting in a library is hardly a capital offence. I just wanted to do some research. Like you.’
‘Why are you researching the Maasai?’ she asked. ‘You’re an Australian, for goodness sake.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Can’t you do something about the Aborigines? They’re your lot.’
‘I’ve done the bloody Aborigines,’ he said, becoming frustrated with the way the conversation was going. ‘Now I’m onto something else.’
‘What do you mean, you’ve done the Aborigines?’
‘My first novel was based on the Mabo native title court case. The Maasai’s land situation seems to be something of a parallel.’
‘The Mabo—I’m fairly familiar with it. And you’re right, there is a parallel.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
His confidence and enthusiasm were reignited. Even finding out a stuffed shirt like Charlotte Manning was interested in his concept helped prove his story had the legs he’d hoped for.
‘Where will you start?’ she asked. ‘I mean, the land has been central to the Maasai psyche for centuries. Millennia.’
‘Hell, this is a novel, not a thesis. I reckon I’ll start around the beginning of the twentieth century, when the commissioner first started giving out leases in the Great Rift Valley.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Eh?’
‘Is that all you plan to research?’
He sensed a touch of haughty derision in her tone—the straight-A history buff smugly polishing her gold medal.
‘No. In fact, when I finish my research here, I plan to go up country to gather more grass-roots information.’
Grass-roots information? What the hell is that? he wondered, and prepared to defend it, but it went unchallenged.
‘Interesting,’ she said unconvincingly.
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
She raised a shaped eyebrow.
‘About research, I mean. Since we’re both studying the Maasai—although admittedly from totally different perspectives—there’s probably a lot of common ground we need to cover.’
Her expression gave nothing away, which encouraged him to continue.
‘So I was thinking, why not combine our efforts? We could, you know, help each other from our respective backgrounds. You’re an expert on the Maasai and I could maybe use the odd piece of advice you might offer on their history and customs. And I’m an author, so you could probably use some help in framing your thesis. We could share expenses in the process.’
She raised a clear-lacquered fingernail, tapping it gently against a row of straight, white teeth, before reaching for her shoulder bag. ‘Mr…?’
‘Riley. Mark.’
&nb
sp; ‘Mr Riley. Two things. Firstly, I’m not studying the Maasai. As you so eloquently put it yourself: I’ve done that. I’m now studying another tribe—the Luo. And secondly, I don’t need your help to frame my thesis. I have a double degree—the second in English literature.’
She stood to leave.
‘Oh, one other thing. What sort of person do you think I am to agree to…how did you put it? Share expenses with a total stranger? I’m afraid your pick-up line needs refinement.’
At the door she looked out briefly, then slipped through it to join the crowds once again filling Moi Avenue.
CHAPTER 9
Joshua awoke among a tangle of bodies with the sound of sirens ringing in his ears and a dull ache in his head. He gingerly touched the sensitive part of his scalp and his finger found a patch of thickening blood.
Above him was a small, reinforced-glass window. The cabin—for now he realised he was in the back of a police truck—rocked and bounced as the vehicle sped around corners, no doubt on its way to the retaining cells. His heart sank. He’d heard what happened to people who were scooped up by the riot police. Around him, his fellow detainees wore sick and sorry looks. They too had no illusions about what awaited them.
He stood naked and shivering in the cool night air, fearful of what might next happen. Taunts came from behind the strong floodlights of the police headquarters’ quadrangle. He knew enough Kikuyu to know they were joking about his uncircumcised penis—the cultural legacy of his Luo birth.
Icy water slammed into his bare body like the blow of a cold, steel sledgehammer and Joshua was knocked to the ground. He curled into the foetal position against the stone wall.
He became aware of the coarse concrete tearing at the unprotected skin of his back as he was dragged from the courtyard. The pain was mercifully subdued by the lingering fogginess of his mind.
The two men who had dragged him into the cell flung him face down over a high wooden bench and tied his wrists to the thick legs. Joshua jerked at the ropes and struggled, his throat constricting as his fear rose. He was very aware of his nakedness.