by Frank Coates
From his experience in Indonesia he understood that law and order in a developing country could be quite different from what it was in places like Australia. In Kenya he simply had his gut instinct to follow, and after Kazlana’s warning it was on high alert.
Charlotte drummed her fingers on her knee. Three lines of traffic stretched ahead of her down Kenyatta Avenue to the roundabout at Uhuru Highway. Periodically the whole mass of shimmering metal edged forward. It would be twenty minutes before her taxi reached the city; another twenty before she was at her next appointment on Dr Gilanga’s list. She wound down the window to catch whatever breeze stirred among the traffic lanes.
The taxi driver twiddled the car radio tuner.
‘…In other news, the leader of the Orange Democratic Movement, Mr Raila Odinga, said in Kisumu yesterday that his supporters would man all polling booths in the country to ensure that the vote rigging that has been a part of recent Kenyan elections would not—’
He twiddled the tuner again to a station playing music that Charlotte found indescribable. She tried to ignore it, instead focusing on the young vendors wending their way through the stationary traffic with newspapers and magazines. The young man in her lane was tall and slender and wore his peaked cap at an angle. She thought she saw a similarity to the Luos she’d interviewed so far on Dr Gilanga’s list.
The traffic shuffled forward and he gave her a most engaging smile as she passed. A moment later he was at her window.
‘Good morning to you,’ he said in a cheery voice.
Charlotte nodded. ‘Morning.’
‘Daily Nation? Standard?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘HQ magazine? Women’s Health? Professional Woman?’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘English, right?’
She raised an eyebrow. How could he know where she was from after so few words had been spoken? She didn’t want to encourage him and refrained from commenting.
‘New Statesman? Hello! magazine?’
‘I really don’t want anything to read. Thank you.’
The traffic jam moved forward thirty metres.
He was back at her elbow again. ‘That’s Bamboo. Great hip-hop group. You like hip-hop?’
She guessed he was referring to the noise on the radio. ‘No.’
‘Why you not rent a car yourself? This taxi stinks,’ he said, ignoring the driver who gave him a look. ‘I can get you a very good car through my friend. Save money. You English ladies need a good car. Something safe and reliable.’
She couldn’t help but smile. They were the exact words Dr Gilanga had used in his email before she’d left Oxford.
‘That’s right,’ the boy said. ‘English tourists need a good car. I know you an English lady. Right? Yes, I know.’
In spite of herself, she was enjoying the diversion from the boredom of the traffic jam. ‘And I know you’re a Luo. Right?’
She was pleased to see her guess stopped his prattle.
The line of cars moved forward and he trotted beside the taxi until it came to rest again.
‘You want culture tour?’ he said. ‘I can fix everything for you. Bomas of Kenya. First-class show. My friend can get a minibus for you. Not far.’
A thought came to her. She looked carefully at the young man for the first time since he’d arrived at her window. He seemed friendly. Not the usual tout with an overwhelming and threatening physical presence. Good English. Clean.
‘Yes, I think I might like a culture tour,’ she said.
‘You would?’ The smile spread across his face.
‘Today. Meet me at Lemon Tree Café. Three o’clock.’
‘Very good. I bring my friend.’
‘No. I just want to talk to you about what it means to be a Luo.’
‘Me? You want to talk to me?’
‘Yes, just a short chat. I can pay a little for your time.’
The line of traffic was moving again. It appeared likely that the taxi would make the roundabout and be gone.
The young man ran alongside the car. ‘You pay to talk to me about being a Luo?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Three o’clock. Lemon Tree.’
The taxi swept into the roundabout, dodged a jaywalker, and accelerated to beat the cars encroaching into the intersection against the red light.
Joshua found Kwazi sitting on the steps of the memorial in Uhuru Park.
‘Hey, Kwazi! Did you see that mzungu lady I was talking to?’
‘No.’
‘The one in the silver taxi.’
‘I saw no mzungu lady. Not even one in a silver taxi.’
‘Haki ya mungu! You should have seen her.’
Kwazi concentrated on his Wimpy burger with cheese.
‘She was beautiful, I tell you.’
‘So?’ Kwazi sucked the sauce from his fingers one by one.
‘She wants me to meet her at Lemon Tree Café.’
Kwazi paused in his search for a fallen piece of tomato. ‘Wewe wacha,’ he said, giving Joshua a sceptical look. ‘You think I’m stupid or what?’
‘I swear.’
‘Ha!’
‘I was talking to her. Nicely. She said she didn’t want newspaper. No magazine. And she knew I was a Luo.’
‘Everyone can see that, my friend.’
‘But she’s a mzungu. A tourist.’
‘A tourist?’
‘Ndiyo. So when she said she knew I was a Luo, I said I can find a minibus to take her to Bomas, but she said, “No, I want to talk about you. About being a Luo.”’
‘Haki ya mungu!’ It was Kwazi’s turn to swear.
Joshua grinned. ‘It’s very good, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Kwazi’s reply was tentative; he’d clearly never heard of such a thing. ‘What do you think she really wants?’
‘To know about the Luo.’
‘That is very strange. I wonder if…’ Kwazi grinned, then burst into laughter.
Joshua stared. It was rare to see his friend laugh. Ever since his accident and his disfigurement, Kwazi was reluctant to distort his face further, even in humour.
‘What are you laughing at?’ he said, annoyed.
‘Do you think…’ Kwazi spluttered. ‘Do you think she wants to jiggy-jig with you?’
The expression on Joshua’s face showed he found the idea preposterous. Still, Kwazi laughed and laughed, until his eyes ran.
‘I don’t know why you think it’s so funny,’ Joshua said.
‘You and a mzungu lady!’ And Kwazi started to laugh all over again.
Ignoring him, Joshua speculated aloud on what he should charge her for his time.
‘She wants to pay you?’ Kwazi asked incredulously.
Joshua felt vindicated. ‘Of course.’
‘Oh, oh, oh. Now we have to get serious, bwana. But what are you going to tell her? You know nothing about being Luo.’
Joshua shrugged. ‘I’ll find something. She’s a tourist. How will she know I know nothing?’
Charlotte had finished her tea and was about to call for the bill when she saw the Luo boy standing indecisively at the door of the Lemon Tree Café. The owner was about to see him off, but he pointed to Charlotte, who waved him to her table. The proprietor simply shrugged and went on with his work.
‘You’re late,’ she said. ‘Take a seat.’
He sat opposite her, casting a glance around the café.
Charlotte was expecting an explanation or an apology, but he just grinned at her as he waited for her to begin. She introduced herself, and discovered that his name was Joshua Otieng.
‘I suppose we should start by agreeing a price for your time,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think is a fair price for maybe an hour?’
‘Five hundred shillings,’ he said promptly.
He’d obviously given the matter more thought than she had. Her rough calculation estimated it was less than five pounds, but she’d learnt enough about bargaining to know how
to play the game.
‘I think fifty is closer to a fair payment,’ she countered.
‘Okay. Three hundred.’
‘A hundred. And another hundred if you have anything worthwhile for me.’
She held up her hand to show it was her last price, and pulled a hundred-shilling note from her purse and slid it under her empty teacup.
Joshua nodded solemnly.
‘Now, to begin,’ she said, opening her notebook. ‘You’re a Luo. And your parents are both Luo?’
‘Of course.’
She made a note. ‘And where were you born?’
‘Serengeti.’
‘The national park?’
‘Um, quite near.’
‘Curious,’ she said, making another note. ‘Where was your home?’
‘Oh, it is such a small village.’
‘Yes, but it must have a name.’
‘A very small village.’
She waited, her pen poised.
A persistent fly buzzed around him and he swatted at it. ‘It’s called Lwang’ni Fuyo,’ he said, spelling it for her.
‘Lwang’ni Fuyo,’ she wrote. ‘And how old were you when you and your parents came to Nairobi?’
‘I was, um…fourteen.’
‘Fourteen? So you must remember your early life in Lwang’ni Fuyo quite well. I’m interested to know how your life in Nairobi differs from your childhood in Kisumu.’
He stared at her for some time.
Charlotte wondered if he’d understood. Perhaps he was reluctant to give out personal details.
‘What I’m saying is, you must have been closer to Luo customs and traditions in Kisumu than in Nairobi, in which case, what has changed the most?’
He fumbled with the tattered cuff of his shirt and said nothing.
‘For instance, social gatherings. How was your music there?’
‘Oh, yes, music.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Yes. Plenty of music.’
‘What instruments did the Luo people have?’
‘We had the, um…the thing with the strings.’
‘Its name?’
‘We called it the kum dudu.’
‘The kum dudu.’ She made a note. ‘And any drums?’
‘Yes, we had the mbongo.’
‘Anything like a flute?’
‘Oh, yes. We had the wafluti.’
Charlotte then engaged him in a wide-ranging conversation about life in the small village of Lwang’ni Fuyo. She learnt that Joshua had been very active in his childhood. Much of his time was spent hunting with his father and uncles. Their quarry included lions, which they hunted to protect their cattle and sheep, and game—warthogs and zebra. He also recalled hunting antelope, but became confused when she asked him what species of antelope.
The village sounded idyllic. It was built on the banks of a swiftly flowing stream where fish abounded. Joshua was given the task of catching fish for the family of six. He was generally successful. On the hills behind the village was a thick forest where most of their hunting was done. Above the forest, at the very top of the hills, was a clearing and in the distance was a large lake.
‘Lake Victoria?’ she asked.
Joshua agreed.
She learnt that Joshua and his many friends in Lwang’ni Fuyo had enjoyed sport, particularly football.
‘Do you still play football here in Nairobi?’ she asked.
‘I do. I am captain of the team.’
While he had been shy, even hesitant, when describing his life in his home village, football was obviously a keen interest. He explained the finer points of playing as his team’s striker, their successes against all challengers, and his prospects for selection to join the national squad.
Charlotte had filled several pages of her notebook. She gave Joshua his hundred and another as a bonus. ‘Thank you, Joshua, that was very helpful.’ She flipped through several pages of her notes. ‘You know, I may need to speak to you again. Would you be interested?’
He beamed. ‘Of course!’
‘But how will I contact you?’
‘I have a mobile phone,’ he said, digging into his pocket. ‘It’s new,’ he said proudly.
‘Well, let me have your number, and I’ll call you if I need you again.’
‘Also, if you need a guide, I am very available.’
‘A guide?’
‘For Nairobi. I can take you any place. I know Nairobi very well. And I am also your…how you say it? Your interpreter, if you want it.’
‘You speak other languages?’
‘Of course. English, Kiswahili, Dho-Luo, Kikuyu. Anything.’
‘You can speak Kikuyu?’
He grinned. Turning to the proprietor, he rattled off a quick succession of words.
The proprietor nodded.
Charlotte asked him what Joshua had said.
‘He asked me to tell you he can speak perfect Kikuyu.’
‘Well…can he?’
‘Yes.’
‘What else did he say?’
The man looked a little embarrassed and then shrugged. ‘He said you’re a very pretty lady and also a smart lady to employ such a clever Luo boy to be her guide.’
Joshua marched down Kenyatta Avenue with a smile on his face, a double Wimpy in one hand and an ice-cold Pepsi in the other. The remainder of his two hundred shillings bulged and jingled in his pocket. He could hardly wait to tell Kwazi of his success and, more importantly, the joke he’d played on the mzungu lady.
The name he’d given to his invented musical instrument, the kum dudu, was based on his guess that she knew no Kiswahili. It could have been a costly prank had she known it meant ‘insect’. He was also quite pleased with his completely imaginary mbongo and wafluti.
But his masterstroke was the name he’d given his mythical home village, which at least was a Dho-Luo phrase. Although he knew nothing of the Serengeti, he imagined that Lwang’ni Fuyo, or ‘buzzing flies’, was perhaps a more appropriate name for Kibera than for a village on the outskirts of the national park.
CHAPTER 14
The chairman heading the inquiry into Kenya’s compliance with the Convention on the Rights of the Child, Judge Bernhard Hoffman, recently retired from the Austrian Constitutional Court, called the hearing to order with a rap of his gavel.
He ran his eye around Conference Room One in the Kenyatta International Conference Centre and waited for the whispered conversations to end.
Riley sat with the press corps, feeling slightly out of place among the raft of black journalists. Being the first of such hearings in Africa, the proceedings had attracted interest from neighbouring countries, where many thought similar scrutiny could be applied.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the judge began, ‘this is day three of our preliminary hearings in accordance with our charter to monitor the implementation of the Convention on the Rights of the Child by its state parties, in this case the Republic of Kenya. I ask the counsel assisting to call the first witness.’
When the lunch recess was called, Riley decided to call it a day. The morning had been interesting, but the afternoon session was set aside for procedural matters, during which the various government departments and agencies were expected to engage in turf wars.
As he entered the car park, he noticed a couple of men climbing into a blue Peugeot parked near the gate. The same men had arrived exactly when he had earlier that morning.
He shook his head in dismissal. Kazlana’s paranoia was getting to him.
Charlotte and Mark had developed a routine of meeting for a sundowner in the Panafric’s combined coffee shop and bar. It was a leafy space, sufficiently removed from the noise of nearby Valley Road to enjoy some peace.
Mark emitted a long sigh after taking a sip of his whisky soda. ‘Ahh…now if I could just have a cigarette…’
‘Oh, please—just have one if you’re so strung out.’ Charlotte found his simulated martyrdom irritating.
‘No, I’ll be g
ood. I can keep a lid on it most times. It just gets really tough when I’m having a drink,’ he said.
‘Perhaps there’s a message there.’
‘Huh?’
‘Maybe you’re drinking too much.’
‘Is that possible?’ he asked, grinning.
‘All I’m saying is you always seem to have a glass in your hand.’
She wondered if she’d gone too far, but he answered her mildly enough.
‘I haven’t seen you refusing the odd glass of wine.’
It was her turn to grin. ‘That’s because you’ve corrupted me, Mark Riley. I barely drank at all until I came to Africa. Now I’m clinking glasses almost daily.’
‘At least you’re not craving a cigarette.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Put it from your mind. Tell me about your research. How’s it going?’
‘It’s going very well. I spent the morning at the UNICEF hearing. It’s given me an idea to expand the scope of my article about Jafari and this possible adoption racket into an investigation of crimes against children in the whole region. This morning I heard about children being smuggled over borders to work in brothels, and I spoke to a Ugandan journo who told me about the Lord’s Army—they’ve been kidnapping kids for more than a decade and forcing them to fight. Nothing’s being done about it.’
‘That’s awful,’ she said, although she was wondering if the article was taking over from the novel. Maybe he would change his mind about accompanying her up country. ‘But I was actually referring to the research for your novel.’
‘Oh! I see…Well, I think I’m done at the National Archives. I’ve found a great link connecting the Maasai characters, the colonial administration and the settlers.’ He explained how he’d discovered that the warrior in her thesis had been involved in a situation that brought him into contact with the British system of justice. ‘He’s the character I need to carry the narrative of the great battle between the settlers and the tribes. Parsaloi Ole Gilisho will be my protagonist, just as Eddie Mabo was in my first novel.’
‘I see…So does this mean you don’t need to do your research in Maasailand?’
Mark shook his head. ‘There’s no way I’ll get any idea of Ole Gilisho’s life from what’s in the National Archives. As far as I can see, he’s a man virtually unknown outside his own people. He’s hardly mentioned in the protectorate’s history. That means it’s even more important to talk to the Maasai elders who know the tribe’s oral history—they can fill me in.’