by Frank Coates
Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head so he was looking into the pock-marked face of a uniformed man he hadn’t seen before. Joshua searched the cold, bloodshot eyes and found not a trace of humanity there. The man was brutish, unshaven and had foul breath. When he smiled, Joshua noted a white-gold tooth glinting between thick, bluish lips.
‘Ah, the sleeping beauty awakes,’ the man said, before sitting back in the chair placed in line with Joshua’s vision. ‘And now we will have a little talk, you and I.’ He lifted his belly and slid a long, black truncheon from the loop on his belt. He stroked it then began to slap it gently into the palm of his hand. It was almost a caress. The smile continued and he nodded for emphasis. ‘You will tell me who your friends are. You will tell me who pays you for breaking the law.’
Joshua said nothing.
The truncheon slammed into his kidney region. He gasped in pain.
‘The names. You will tell me and there will be no charges laid.’
‘I don’t know who was there. I am marching with many others. How can I know all their names?’
The truncheon rapped Joshua’s back again.
The questions continued as the policeman repeated the slap, slap with the truncheon on his palm. ‘I will have the name of the man who pays you to make trouble,’ he said.
‘So you can go to him demanding your tea money?’ Joshua snapped, without a thought for the consequences.
The man’s face darkened. Joshua braced for the assault and shut his eyes.
The blow didn’t come. Instead, the man stood and smiled as he ran his hand up and down the truncheon.
‘Now I see it,’ he said, and nodded to his accomplice on Joshua’s blind side.
Almost immediately Joshua felt a leather belt flung over his back. Before he could fight it, his waist was clamped to the wooden bench and the belt made painfully tight. He could scarcely breathe.
‘You are what we call a convert,’ the man with the truncheon said. ‘A convert, just like in a church. Someone who stupidly follows a man who says he can solve all the problems of the world; or even just those of Kibera. Food for everyone.’ He laughed. ‘Fools, all of you.’
As he spoke, he walked slowly towards the foot of the bench. Joshua followed him with his eyes, until his position made it impossible to see further. Not knowing what was in store made the situation more frightening. He gritted his teeth, determined to resist any response that would give the thug satisfaction.
‘I could make you talk, there is no doubt,’ the man said. ‘But why waste my strength, ah? There are plenty more who will squeak as soon as I put them in the trap. So I will let you go. But you will remember this day before you take to the streets again, my little friend.’
Joshua instinctively tensed his buttocks at the first touch of the truncheon. Then pain seared through him and, in spite of his determination to remain silent, a sound escaped his lips that was so foreign it was impossible it had come from his own mouth.
Simon was hanging fragments of scavenged tinsel along the rough-cut shelf above the wash bench when his son finally arrived home.
‘What happened to you?’ he demanded.
Joshua kept his face turned away from the harsh light of the electric bulb above the kitchen table. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘You were in the riot on Ngong Road,’ Simon insisted.
‘I fell from a matatu.’
Simon moved into the light. ‘Let me look at you.’
Joshua remained outside the throw of the globe.
‘I said, come over here and let me see you.’
‘Leave me alone. I just want to sleep.’
Simon wanted to shake his son. Instead, he put a hand to his mouth and pressed it tight so he could say none of the many angry words that came to mind. He took a deep breath and let his shoulders relax. It did no good to push the boy too far.
‘The police have done this to you,’ he said.
‘I told you, I fell.’
Simon slumped onto his chair. He clasped his hands together on the table and stared at them. ‘What has happened to us?’ he asked, almost inaudibly.
Joshua said nothing. He remained in the shadows, leaning against the bench near the door.
‘If your mother were alive, we wouldn’t be like this,’ Simon added.
He looked to his son, hoping for some sign of acknowledgement if not agreement, but Joshua’s expression was sullen and closed.
‘Do you blame me for the fire?’ he asked.
His son shook his head.
‘Then why can we not support each other? We two of the six that were our family?’
‘I don’t blame you for what happened to our family,’ Joshua said. ‘But I blame you for not avenging them.’
‘But how could I? Like you, I wasn’t at home.’
‘I am talking of their memory. You refused to avenge their deaths. You have allowed those who killed them to laugh at you, and at me, because we haven’t fought back.’
‘Would finding the killers bring your mother and sisters back?’
‘No, but it would prove to the Kikuyu that taking Luo lives has its consequences.’
‘Oh, Joshua, Joshua. This hate will destroy you. You must let it go. You will have no rest unless you can let the innocents lie in peace.’
‘That is where you are wrong, my father. It is my hate that makes me strong. Although you refuse to let me live the Jo-Luo life, you cannot deny my revenge on our enemies.’
Even in the half-light Simon could see the passion in his son’s eyes. It had gone too far. Joshua must be told, regardless of the consequences.
‘Son, you don’t understand. On that night—’
‘No! It is you who don’t understand. Because of your cowardice, you can’t see why I want my family’s death to be put right. There is a tribal war coming, Luo against Kikuyu. And while you may hide from it, I will not.’ He turned to the door.
‘Wait! Joshua, I need to talk to you. Where are you going?’
His son paused at the open door. ‘Away. Any place away from you.’ He almost spat the words. ‘I can’t live in a house with a man with so little…courage.’
Simon sank to his chair, the sound of the slamming door still ringing in his ears. He realised he had lost any influence he’d had on Joshua. He had been stubborn, refusing the boy’s requests to hear about his Luo family history, and now Joshua was rebelling.
Simon recalled that he’d been a rebellious boy himself. His actions after the death of his best friend, Nicholas Odhiambo, had challenged authority in a much more serious manner.
‘But, Grandfather, if you arrange a cleansing ceremony for me, Sergeant Mutua will know about it and he will arrest me.’
‘You have nothing to fear from Mutua,’ his grandfather said. He had come to the village the instant he had heard of Odhiambo’s death. ‘It was just a terrible accident. You are a child. Nothing can be gained by charging you with the boy’s death. I have spoken to the council of elders; they will speak on your behalf.’
Simon had kept the he-goat prank a secret from his grandfather. It would shock and shame him if he knew of his grandson’s mischief. He also didn’t know how Odhiambo had gained the injuries that had cost him his front teeth. Simon had told him Odhiambo had fallen off the train in Kisumu. Now he had no option but to tough it out, denying all and hoping he could convince his grandfather not to draw Odhiambo’s death to the attention of the authorities. If he did, Mutua could legitimately bring him in for questioning. And who knew what accidents might befall a spirited young Luo boy while trying to escape custody?
‘It is a greater concern that you are not yet cleansed,’ his grandfather said. ‘Already you have put yourself, your mother, me and everyone in the village in peril. We must act quickly.’
Simon refused.
The old man warned him that if he didn’t complete the cleansing, he would be cursed with bad luck all his life. It was hard for Simon to disobey his grandfather, but again he refused.
The council of elders became involved. They asked Simon why he would not follow the tested Luo procedure to protect himself and all those close to him from the evils of an uncleansed death.
Simon couldn’t answer.
The debate raged among the Luo and Sergeant Mutua heard of it. He came to Simon’s house while he was absent. His grandfather told him of the sergeant’s visit when Simon arrived home.
‘Now, see what has happened,’ he said. ‘The government people know about it already. Now we will proceed. I will call on the medicine man tomorrow to perform the cleansing. We will have it as soon as possible.’
He could not be dissuaded. Simon went to stay with his mother, but when her new husband heard that Simon had refused the cleansing, he chased him out.
For two weeks, he hid in the forest, stealing or begging food from friends and relatives, until they too became concerned about the bad luck they would incur by continuing to aid him.
In desperation he went to his grandfather and confessed to his part in Mutua’s disgrace.
‘You cannot let Mutua come for me,’ he pleaded. ‘If he takes me away, he will beat me.’
His grandfather looked sad, but he could not ignore the customs. ‘It is what must be done.’
Simon then told him about the ferocious beating Mutua had given Odhiambo. ‘I fear he may do worse to me. Maybe he will kill me.’
Now his grandfather wrung his hands with worry. ‘I must think carefully about this,’ he said, but there was no doubt he was sorely troubled.
Within days the old man was ailing. It tortured Simon to be the cause of his grandfather’s failing health. He felt his only option was to leave.
Within three days he was on an express bus to Nairobi. He greatly regretted leaving, but now he was on his way, he became excited by the adventure. Everyone knew the big city far to the east was full of opportunities.
Blaring horns and a cacophony of traffic noises awoke Simon shortly after dawn. The Nairobi terminal was in turmoil as he stepped down from the bus. His fellow passengers were frantically calling to the turn-boy to toss their bags from the roof. When he did, they threw themselves into the human maelstrom and disappeared like sticks in a flooded stream. They were obviously more aware than Simon of what was creating the surrounding panic. As people jostled around him, he clutched his kikapu to his chest, awaiting whatever disaster may be about to befall them. All his worldly belongings were in that simple straw basket.
After several minutes, he realised there was no panic. People were merely getting on with their day, although in a very different and much noisier manner than he was accustomed to in the lake province.
A boy pulling a push-cart full of viazi tamu bustled past him. Seeing the sweet potatoes that were widely grown around Lake Victoria gave Simon a twinge of homesickness. He thrust it from his mind as he realised he had absolutely no idea what to do next. The bus and roof rack of luggage were now empty. The passengers had scattered into the throng and another bus edged towards Simon, tooting its demand for the space he was occupying. He retreated to the sidelines, where a long row of food vendors were noisily hawking their wares.
‘Bhang?’ a voice at his shoulder asked.
‘What?’
‘Bhang? You want bhang? Very fresh.’
The youth, perhaps a year or two older than Simon, waved a plastic bag filled with dried leaves under his nose while nervously turning his own head from left to right.
‘No,’ Simon said, unsure if the boy was offering to give it to him or sell it. He wasn’t even sure he’d understood the question as the boy spoke Kiswahili with a very strong accent.
The plastic bag and its contents disappeared into the front of the boy’s shirt. ‘Where you from? Where you from?’ he demanded.
‘Kisumu.’
‘Jo-Luo, uh? You need a room? You need a place to stay?’
The repeated questions gave Simon the chance to decipher his odd accent.
‘Um, yes,’ he replied.
‘Come,’ the boy said, taking a few steps away. ‘Come,’ he repeated when Simon remained rooted to the spot.
He led Simon to a matatu, which the driver raced through the congested streets like a man possessed, throwing Simon about like a cork in a flood.
About fifteen minutes into their journey, the tree-lined streets and neat houses disappeared, to be replaced by corrugated-iron shacks and cheap concrete-block, two-and three-storey buildings with louvred window glass and graffitied walls.
‘Come,’ the boy said, alighting. He waited with a bored expression until Simon realised he was expected to pay his fare too.
‘What is this place?’ Simon asked as the boy led him through muddy, narrow alleys.
‘This place? Mathare,’ the boy said. And again, ‘Mathare.’
Mathare was a place like no other Simon had seen. Although there were many cheaply built shacks in the Nyanza district surrounding his village near Lake Victoria, he’d never seen so many in one confined space. The odours of rotting vegetation and, occasionally, human and animal excrement assaulted his senses and seemed to cling to his skin and clothing. He tried to hold his breath until the stench passed, but soon his chest was about to burst and he was forced to gulp air in huge lungfuls. He would have turned back had he not already invested his thirty shillings in the matatu fare.
After ten minutes, the boy climbed two sets of stairs to an outside walkway that led to an open doorway into a room furnished sparsely with a sofa, a table and half a dozen chairs. There were two young men of about nineteen in the room. Without a word, Simon’s guide took him through into a bedroom equipped with four double bunks.
‘It’s nice, uh?’ he said.
Before Simon could answer, he added, ‘Hundred shillings.’
Simon thought he was joking. It was a ridiculous amount. He spoke to one of the boys in the other room, who was a Luo, asking in Dho-Luo if it was true that the rent was a hundred a month.
The youth assured Simon the rent was no joke; in fact, it was a good price for a bed in Nairobi. Simon was left in no doubt that Nairobi was a very different place to his home.
He nodded to his guide, who led him out onto the landing to discuss business. A few minutes later, Simon had handed over his month’s rent in advance and the boy had disappeared.
Later that day the agent arrived and Simon learnt his first lesson of his new life: trust nobody. The tout who had led him to the property held no official capacity, which meant the advance rent Simon had paid him had to be paid again. This left him with just two hundred and seventy-five shillings until he found a means of support.
Reflecting upon his past, Simon had no doubt that he had passed on his impetuous nature to his son. It was the cause of much of the trouble between them.
He wondered yet again about his decision to run away from home. How much more pain could Sergeant Mutua have inflicted upon him over what had been done since coming to Nairobi? If he had stayed in Kisumu could his suffering be worse than losing his wife and children in a fire, and his only son to misunderstanding and prejudice?
Joshua had been wandering the alleys of Kisumu Ndogo for hours, unsure of what to do. He knew he couldn’t go back to his father’s shack, but the only other person he felt he could impose upon was Kwazi. The problem was, he hadn’t seen him since Kwazi had uttered those stinging words a few days ago, causing an open wound in their friendship.
Kwazi’s place was a few sheets of iron straddling a ridge pole propped against an incomplete cement-block wall. The remains of Kwazi’s cooking fire smouldered under the piece of steel-reinforcing mesh that constituted his kitchen stove, sending foul-smelling smoke drifting into the still night. Someone had found the resources to commence building but not enough to complete it. Either way, it was to Kwazi’s benefit—at least in the short term, until one of Kibera’s strong men moved in to claim ownership. Kwazi had lived in this semi-nomadic state for as long as Joshua had known him.
Joshua lifted the corner
of the burlap that covered the door opening.
‘I have a panga,’ said a shrill voice from the darkness within. ‘I’ll kill you if you don’t get away.’
‘Kwazi, it’s me.’
‘Haki ya mungu,’ Kwazi swore. ‘I could have taken off your head!’
‘Do you really have a panga in there?’
Kwazi crawled out through the burlap and peered up at Joshua. ‘Why do I need a panga in Kibera, ah? It’s not worth the stones.’
He was referring to the squatters’ habit of stoning thieves to death if caught.
Joshua took a seat beside the fireplace. Kwazi sat opposite.
‘You’re using shit to cook your meals these days?’ Joshua asked, indicating the smouldering fire.
‘Ah-ah-ah. It stinks. I know. But what can I do? There was paint on the timber I found.’
Joshua waited, reluctant to be the first to speak. He’d realised after storming off the other day that he’d been thoughtless in using the word ‘ugly’ in reference to Kwazi’s face. But it was a common expression and Kwazi should have known he would never be so deliberately cruel.
‘I’m sorry about—’ Kwazi began.
‘No! It was me. I shouldn’t have—’
‘I didn’t think about what I was saying and—’
‘I didn’t mean it,’ Joshua said.
They paused, each a little embarrassed by their emotional rush for forgiveness.
Kwazi was next to speak. ‘Your face…What happened?’
Joshua could never reveal to anyone, not even to Kwazi, what had happened to him at the police headquarters. The shame would be far worse than the pain he had endured. He had heard others speak in hushed and horrified voices of atrocities such as had been forced upon him in that foul little room. He couldn’t stand to be ridiculed by those who were not his friends and, worse, to be pitied by those who were. It would forever remain his secret.
He shrugged. ‘The police collected some of us from Ngong Road. They took us down to Harry Thuku Road.’