by Frank Coates
Joshua had witnessed something that morning that made him feel uncomfortable. He’d glimpsed an ugly side to these people with whom he agreed on many matters; people whom he admired for their courage in supporting Odinga against a brutal administration that was determined to silence them. But now he realised that these people could be brutal themselves. He had seen their brutality turned on Kwazi, and only because he looked so different from them.
Joshua worried that in other circumstances he might also reveal an ugliness such as he’d witnessed that day.
CHAPTER 18
Nicholas Omuga turned off his office lights and walked among the empty desks to the dimly lit corridor. The elevator carried him to the twelfth floor and the office of Gideon Koske—the chief executive officer of one of the largest NGOs assisting the Department of Community Development. As requested by Koske in his phone call, it was exactly seven o’clock.
A solidly built man with a large silver ring in his ear sat at the receptionist’s desk. When Omuga approached, he looked up from his newspaper, took his feet off the desk and, without a word, slipped through a door into the adjoining office.
Omuga scanned the office, trying to settle his nerves. It was very well decorated, but a wheeled canvas-lined litter trolley had been left behind by the cleaners, detracting from the fine paintings and fresh flowers.
A few moments later the man returned. ‘Go in,’ he grunted.
Omuga swallowed, and tried to smile, but couldn’t. Deep in his gut he felt an emptiness caused by his misgivings. He feared the only reason Koske would summon him to his office was because he no longer required his services. The monthly contribution he accepted from Koske to keep his NGO registration from prying eyes helped to put food on his family’s table. What if Koske had heard of Omuga’s treachery? Omuga had received his five thousand shillings, but what was that if he lost Koske’s benefits? Or worse, lost his job?
‘Omuga,’ Koske said. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Omuga nodded, smiled nervously. ‘Thank you, Mr Koske. Thank you.’
‘Please, sit. No, not there. This chair is better.’
Omuga sat where he was told, his back to the door. He drummed his fingers on his knees and crossed and uncrossed his legs.
‘I suppose you are wondering why I’ve asked you to come to my office this evening, Omuga.’
‘Well…yes, Mr Koske, I—’
‘You see, I have a policy of recognising people who are doing a good job. People like you, Omuga, who might not be noticed by their bosses.’
‘Th-thank you, Mr—’
‘So you have been singled out for a little special bonus. Credit where it’s due is what I am saying.’
Omuga’s face muscles twitched as his smile made an effort to overcome their tension.
‘You have eight children, Omuga.’
It was a statement more than a question. Omuga was amazed at Koske’s awareness of the personal details of one of the menial members of the department.
‘They must be very proud of their father—a faithful employee of the Department of Community Development.’
‘Yes, Mr Koske,’ Omuga replied, feeling much better. It appeared he had nothing to be nervous about. His secret was safe.
The office door opened behind him and Omuga heard the clatter of the litter trolley. He thought that Koske would be angry that the cleaner had come at such a bad time, but Koske was still smiling.
Suddenly someone grabbed his arms, pulling them painfully around the back of his chair. In surprised panic he tried to free himself, but the man holding him was too strong.
‘Your reward for your good service is a long holiday, Omuga,’ said Koske. ‘A very long holiday. It’s a shame you won’t have time to say farewell to those eight children of yours.’
Koske pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket and untangled a short springy piece of thin wire from it. He smiled as he took hold of the little wooden handles at the ends of the wire and snapped it tight.
He moved swiftly to the side of Omuga’s chair and flipped the garotte over his head, pulling the handles until the wire cut deeply into Omuga’s neck.
Omuga kicked and struggled.
The last sound he heard was Koske’s demented laugh.
Riley left the UNICEF inquiry’s hearing room and marched through the Kenyatta Centre’s main door, heading to where he’d parked the Land Rover on the far side of River Road. He was running late, and he knew the jam through the city would be bad at that hour of the afternoon. He’d formed the opinion that River Road was something of a boundary between the controlled chaos of the city and the complete anarchy of the squalid area around the Nairobi River. It was also close to the long-distance bus terminal, which attracted swarms of darting matatus, each one driven by what appeared to be a homicidal maniac. For both these reasons, Riley seldom parked near River Road, but on this occasion, he’d ignored all his well-founded resolutions and succumbed to the convenience. Time had slipped by and now he was late for his next appointment.
At the cross-street he broke into a trot, hesitating only a moment to glance to his right as he crossed the bus terminal concourse.
A shout. He turned.
A car careened towards him from the wrong side of the road. Riley dodged to the left. The car swerved to meet him. He took a precious moment to judge his next manoeuvre, but now the car was almost upon him and he had few options. He launched himself at the nearest object—a push-cart—landing among a load of sweet potatoes.
The car, a blue Peugeot, clipped the wheel of the cart, ripping it from the axle and dumping Riley and the sweet potatoes onto the road.
Riley sat at the Norfolk’s Lord Delamere Bar, nursing his bruises and a long cold Tusker beer while reflecting on his near miss. In the moment he’d taken to determine whether the driver was taking evasive action, their eyes had met. Riley could still see the man’s dangling silver earring, his fists clamped to the steering wheel, the determined glare. There was no way it was an accident. The driver had meant to run him down. He was on a deliberate mission to kill or maim.
No longer could Riley consider the blue Peugeot’s earlier appearance as a coincidence, or Kazlana’s warning to take care an overreaction. He had to believe the incident in River Road was connected to his search for the orphaned boy, Jafari, and that someone wanted to stop him discovering what had happened to him.
He felt the stirring of his journo’s instincts. A missing child, a vanishing orphanage, corruption, politics, perhaps even a mysterious plane crash in the desert. They were the elements of a classic investigative piece.
The research for his novel had uncovered an increasingly exciting storyline and his desire to complete it was powerful, but here was a story with greater immediacy. The attempt on his life had merely made it more personal. Intensely so.
It was Christmas Eve and the Standard was pathetically light on news. As Kazlana was flicking through the pages, a photograph caught her eye and made her flip back.
The photograph appeared to be from Omuga’s security pass. It showed him in the ubiquitous dark blue suit of the public service, with a smile that was fading as the photographer snapped after dithering too long with camera adjustments.
Death and Funeral Announcement, the text below it read. It is with profound sorrow and acceptance of God’s will that we announce the death by misadventure of Nicholas Jeremiah Omuga, Section Head of Non-Government Organisations in the Department of Community Development, on 19 December 2007. Husband to Nellie, father to Elizabeth, Jacob, Elphalet, Rose, Kennedy, Abner, Malath and Milka. Son of the late…
Kazlana stopped reading. Death by misadventure. It could mean accidental death, but her suspicions were aroused.
She rang a contact at the Standard’s crime desk and learnt that Omuga had been found floating in Nairobi dam, his head almost severed and his wallet, watch and personal effects intact. It was not misadventure, but cold-blooded murder.
Riley and Charlotte had agreed not to m
ake a big deal out of Christmas Day. They decided to join the merry crowd at the hotel restaurant’s buffet and then spend the rest of the afternoon by the pool.
When the waitress appeared at Riley’s shoulder and discreetly told him he had a call, he asked Charlotte to excuse him for a moment, leaving her with her tea while he took the call in the hotel lobby.
It was Kazlana.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Merry Christmas and all that. I was going to ring you later. I forgot to fill you in on my meeting with Omuga. What a guy!’
He laughed as he told her of Omuga’s paranoia about being discovered.
‘He told me some weird stuff about the orphanage, but I’m not sure if I can put too much confidence in—’
‘Mark.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Mark, there’s been some news about Omuga,’ and she told him of the funeral announcement.
After the initial shock, Riley felt bad for being unable to immediately recall Omuga’s face, but then a vague image of him came to mind—lumpish, sweating. A crumpled blue suit.
‘How did it happen?’ he asked, dreading the answer.
There was a moment’s hesitation at the other end of the line. ‘It wasn’t an accident, Mark. People who know the details leave me in no doubt. The only reason I’m telling you this is so that you’ll take care.’
‘How do you know it wasn’t an accident?’ he asked.
‘He’d been…Well, I have it on good authority.’
He insisted she tell him everything she knew and, as she recounted the gruesome nature of the crime, he felt the cold clamminess of nausea spread from the pit of his stomach.
‘It’s very sad,’ she added. ‘Apparently he had quite a sizeable family.’
Eight children and an ailing wife.
‘Mark, people like Omuga are into all manner of dirty dealings. You can’t assume that his death had anything to do with you.’
He thanked her and hung up.
In the washroom, he splashed cold water onto his face. The image staring back at him from the mirror was ashen. Regardless of Kazlana’s reassurance, Riley felt sure his inducement to reveal confidential information had been the cause of Omuga’s death.
Mr Koske is a very dangerous man. Be very careful how you proceed. It could mean your life…and mine.
He patted his cheeks and took a deep breath. He decided to keep the matter from Charlotte; it was pointless to concern her. Anyway, they would soon be gone from the city and out of Koske’s reach.
CHAPTER 19
‘You will be at Kasarani on Friday night, Otieng,’ Koske said in his usually cryptic fashion. It was his way of putting people off-balance.
‘Do you mean Moi International?’ Joshua asked, only daring to hope Koske was referring to the football stadium and possibly the trial game he had previously mentioned.
‘Yes.’
Training had ended and the playing field was empty apart from him and Koske.
‘Why is that?’ he asked. ‘I mean, what can I do for you there, Mr Koske?’
Koske merely nodded, letting the knot in Joshua’s stomach build. Finally he said, ‘You will play in a game against a training squad. The Red Top Buffalos.’
‘Is it the trial game? The one you arranged with the Limuru Leopards?’
In spite of himself, Joshua couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. The Red Top Buffalos were the reigning premiers, owned by Kenya’s largest brewery.
‘Yes. It is something they put on for some charity or other.’
Joshua was almost dancing on the spot. ‘I see. Very well.’ He had difficulty controlling the excitement in his voice. ‘I’ll be there. Of course.’
‘But this time you must play for me,’ Koske continued. ‘I have asked that you be a striker in the Leopards’ line-up.’ Koske raised his hand, silencing Joshua before he could interject. ‘It will be a small game, nothing much. You will play well.’ His smile became malevolent. ‘But sadly, your team will not win. I want the Buffalos to win.’
‘But—’
‘It’s for some friends, you see. They like to make wagers on football games.’ Koske shrugged.
‘But what if someone else scores a goal? Or maybe the Buffalos’ goalie is too good?’
‘Do you think you are the only pebble on the beach, my friend? It is not for you to worry about anyone but yourself.’
Koske took a large handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed at his eyes before noisily blowing his nose. ‘I myself…I don’t gamble,’ he said. ‘But people…friends of mine, do. And they use big money, even on little games like this one on Friday night. So you will help me, and I will help my friends.’
Joshua was stunned, wondering how he could demonstrate his skills as a striker while not scoring a goal. Koske seemed to read his mind.
‘You are thinking how can you display your many talents if you, the striker, cannot shoot a goal, si ndiyo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you will not think like that. You will do this for me because I am your friend, and as your friend I will take care of you—as I have already promised. There will be other opportunities, but this time you will not play well.’
Joshua’s mood had fallen from high to low. He waged an internal battle to control his anger.
‘She is quite pretty,’ Koske said.
Joshua followed his eyes to where Mayasa sat waiting for him on the sidelines.
‘Yes, your girlfriend is very cute, Otieng,’ Koske said, almost wistfully. ‘You’d better look after her. There is so much violence around these days. It would be terrible if such a pretty one was hurt.’
In the late afternoon, with the long shadows of the grandstand falling like huge slabs across the pitch, the Moi International Sports Centre appeared enormous. Joshua had only seen it from the cheap seats during the season proper, but from the middle of the arena, it was huge.
‘It’s very big!’ he whispered to himself, scanning the whole circumference of the stadium. It held sixty thousand—the biggest capacity in Kenya. He had been allowed onto the pitch two hours before the game commenced to familiarise himself. According to the manager of the Limuru Leopards, this would help reduce first-game nerves.
It didn’t.
Joshua had prepared all his life for this moment, but now that it had arrived, he was consumed with doubt and immobilised by gut-wrenching, choking, panic-stricken fear.
The Leopards’ manager watched from the sidelines.
‘You’re nervous,’ he said when Joshua trotted back towards the gate to the locker rooms.
‘No, I’m not!’ Joshua responded immediately, then added, ‘Well, only a little. It’s very big.’
‘You’ll soon forget about the stadium and the people. If you don’t, you’ll not play well.’
Joshua’s stomach tightened further.
‘And you must play well. This might be just a trial game to you, but—’ The manager seemed to change the direction of his thoughts and sighed. ‘I owe Mr Koske a favour. That’s why you’re here. Do you think I don’t have a hundred boys like you? You only get one chance with the Limuru Leopards. And this is it.’ He smiled to soften the impact of his words. ‘Now go and get ready. I’ll bring you on after the start to have a look at you.’
Joshua stood rooted to the spot. He wanted to assure the manager that he had the talent and wanted the position on the squad more than life itself, but he was afraid he might say the wrong thing.
The manager frowned. ‘Go!’
Joshua turned and trotted down the player’s race on rubbery legs.
Gideon Koske sauntered into the locker rooms, condescendingly nodding to players and officials. He stopped to exchange words with a few, laughing loudly and slapping some on the back. After a while he came to where Joshua sat fidgeting with his laces. He couldn’t seem to get them at the right tension.
‘Otieng,’ Koske hissed.
Joshua lifted himself from the bench to stand beside him.
‘So�
�your big chance, ah?’
‘Yes, Mr Koske.’
‘And you remember what we discussed, ah? Don’t disappoint me, my friend.’ The smile was cold, more like a sneer.
Joshua swallowed and nodded.
‘Sowa sowa. Okay. Play well.’ Koske’s malevolent smile lingered. ‘But not too well, ah?’
Mayasa had been grateful for Kwazi’s company on the journey to Moi International, but now that they were there, seated high in the grandstand awaiting the game, with nothing to discuss that they’d not already discussed during the long matatu ride from the city, she felt decidedly uncomfortable.
Kwazi still bore the signs of his beating at the hands of the mob. His face, already distorted from his childhood injury, was blotchy with bruises. A strip of grimy plaster ran along his jaw from his chin to one ear, which remained mottled with dried blood. He had not been openly antagonistic to her as he’d appeared to be during their first meeting, but there was a polite but cool screen between them that made conversation difficult. She tried a new tactic.
‘Joshua says you have been friends for many years,’ she said.
‘We have. Since he was little.’
‘Has he always been interested in football?’
‘Of course. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do.’
‘Then you must be very happy for him tonight.’
Kwazi remained silent.
She persisted. ‘I mean, here he is, after all this time. I don’t understand football, but if this is what he’s always wanted, I imagine he will be very keen to play well.’