by Frank Coates
She reached a hand across to him, and he stopped finger-painting the table to meet her eyes. She stared at him for some time, then smiled. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said. ‘Maybe I worry too much.’
He covered her hand with his. ‘I won’t let anybody say anything about you…about us. I will never let anyone hurt you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Patience said, dropping her head to her chest. ‘I should have…’
‘What could you do? Ah? It is my fault. I should have used something.’
She nodded. ‘Perhaps.’
Simon glanced at her, feeling bad now. ‘Can you take something?’ he asked.
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve heard there are medicines…’
‘That’s stupid talk. Witch-doctor stories. You can’t believe what those boys in your building are saying. They know nothing about having babies.’
They were silent for a few moments.
‘What will we do?’ he asked. ‘Will your father help us?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s going to take all my courage to tell him. When Fiona told him, he was so angry I thought he would hit her. He gave her nothing.’
‘He will not hit you. I will be there with you.’
‘Then he will hit you. It is better I tell him. I can be sweet with him. And Mama will help me.’
‘Have you told your mama?’
She nodded. ‘She cried.’
Simon nodded too. ‘Now that the baby is coming, I will find us a place.’
He felt her eyes upon him. He knew the question that sat on her lips. He knew that she desperately wanted to ask it, but she also knew he had no answer. There seemed to be just no way they could survive with a baby.
As life became increasingly difficult for them in Mathare, Simon looked further afield to find a house and a means to support Patience and the baby, when it arrived. He made a few visits to the Kibera slum—the sprawling metropolis on the other side of the city—where plots were cheap. Many were of the opinion that Kibera was a place of great opportunity; so large that it generated an industry all its own. There were jobs to be found in the many small dukas and stalls in the markets. People needed labourers to build the small houses and huts.
Simon saw for himself the building activity as the Kibera population expanded with immigrants from up country and as people extended their houses to match their own growing families. Here was a place to raise a family and make enough money to buy a plot. There was even an area within Kibera called Kisumu Ndogo—Little Kisumu—where the Luo people had congregated. Although he had left his Luo traditions at home with his grandfather, Simon felt Kisumu Ndogo would offer his small family the security denied them in the disorganised communities of Mathare. It was the right place to settle.
Late in Patience’s pregnancy, Simon packed their belongings into a rickety push-cart and headed out before dawn. An hour later they’d reached the other side of the city. They pushed their cart up the hill to Kibera, into a scattering of people coming down towards them. Soon there was a vast river of people flowing around them, buffeting them and their cart, mumbling apologies and stumbling on into the dawn. It seemed as if all of Kibera’s enormous population had decided to abandon it. Simon realised they were headed for the same industrial area that he had often approached in the opposite direction from Mathare. The promise of a new life in Kibera suddenly became as intangible as the pre-dawn mist.
Simon had known then that his run of bad luck was unlikely to end in Kibera.
CHAPTER 21
Kazlana kept the nose of her Cessna pointed at the two broken teeth of Mount Kenya. When Lenana’s brilliant glacier-capped peak filled her windscreen, she banked the Cessna into the rising sun and commenced her glide path to the small private airfield outside Embu.
She was unconcerned about the authorities knowing of her destination. Nobody would question her onward journey to Wajir from Embu. The region was famous for miraah—the semi-narcotic stems and leaf of the Catha edulis plant, very highly prized across the Somali border, which was just an hour or so from Wajir. Miraah was not illegal in either Kenya or Somalia, where it was called kyat, and many pilots owning planes small enough to land on rural airstrips, and patient enough to haggle with the irascible Somalis, could make good money for their efforts.
She taxied to the small hangar that served as a terminal. As soon as she cut the engine, she was surrounded by a press of growers thrusting samples of miraah leaves into her face. She waved off the first few, who were trying to offload yesterday’s leaf onto her, obviously assuming a woman would be a naïve buyer. She picked a couple of leaves from a more promising bunch and examined the stems. They were freshly cut. She tucked a sample into her cheek and almost immediately felt the gentle rush. She spat out the miraah and quickly concluded her negotiations for the remainder of the farmer’s plastic bag. Her contact in Wajir would appreciate the gift.
In the air again, she levelled off and sat back to enjoy the savage scenery of the Northern Frontier District.
Flying came naturally to her, as it had done to her father, Dieter, who had been her instructor. He had been reluctant to teach her at first, saying she was too young, but, as was the case in almost everything she really wanted from him, he couldn’t deny her once she put her mind to it. And she had loved him for it.
Since her father’s death, Kazlana had become increasingly intolerant of the male companions she had once enjoyed. Other men paled into insignificance against the memory of her father, even though she knew her recollections of him glossed over his many faults. Such as his insistence that he build the NGO side of their business alone—a decision that had led to his death.
Wajir appeared in a sea of sand, still gilded by the morning sun. The airstrip shimmered as she circled closer to gauge the condition of the surface. It wasn’t unknown for a warthog to dig a burrow in the baked earth. All was clear and she made a perfect landing in the still morning air.
Again a crowd gathered, this time to purchase her cargo of miraah, but she told them she had nothing for sale. The men melted away, disappointed.
One robed figure remained where he’d been standing, waiting for the crowd to lose interest and disperse. He wore a futa—the traditional white, wrapped skirt—but because of his height, most of the lower half of his long, nut-brown legs remained exposed. The upper body-wrap covered most of his torso while leaving his lower arms free. A chequered turban crowned his head and a trailing length encircled his face except for his eyes, which twinkled darkly at her.
Kazlana walked towards him and he loosened the headscarf to reveal his smile.
‘Ah, God is good that I see you once again,’ he said.
‘You’ve been out here too long, Antonio. You sound like an Arab. Anyway, what would an Italian Catholic know of God?’
He laughed aloud, his white teeth contrasting with his deeply tanned skin. ‘Just as irreverent as ever, cara mia.’
‘Of course I am. Now, are you going to offer a girl a drink?’
Aside from the low outer wall, made from local stone in the shape of a boat’s prow, only the bar inside the Royal Wajir Yacht Club remained intact as a reminder of the club’s glorious and improbable past. Antonio told Kazlana that, in 1932, the white fort, like something out of Beau Geste, had been established by the British as a bulwark against the continuing incursion of lawless Somali raiders. When the area was flooded in a rare rainstorm, the district commissioner, Mad Freddie Jennings, set sail from his residence in a tin bath, declaring himself the founder and first commodore of the Wajir Yacht Club. Inspired by boredom or too much gin, the expatriate soldiers had embraced the idea of a clubhouse and a tradition was born. Even more improbably, it was said that His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had intended to visit Wajir during a trip to Kenya, but was called home due to his father’s illness. He authorised his emissary to bestow the title of Royal on the yacht club by way of consolation.
Antonio had, years ago, made enquiries and f
ound that the club had been derelict since the 1960s, before an enterprising Somali had restored the thatched makuti roof and, with a prayer of forgiveness to Allah, opened a small bar in one corner. In this setting, leaning back in a canvas deckchair, with his dark good looks and a gin and tonic in hand, Antonio Diconza might have organised the whole affair in order to play the desert prince in a Hollywood movie.
Kazlana smiled and shook her head ruefully. ‘What a waste,’ she said. ‘Why you spend all your time out here in the desert I’ll never know.’
‘But I thought you did know, my darling.’
‘Hmm, yes. I suppose I do. And as I said, what a waste.’
‘But tell me all your news. What brings you out here? To see me, I hope.’
‘Of course. And to go over some of the information on Papa’s death.’
Antonio’s face saddened. ‘Kazlana, cara mia, how much longer must we chase these old ghosts? The trail is long dead. You should get on with your life.’
Kazlana bristled. ‘I will get on with my life when I have found who or what ended Papa’s life.’
He shrugged. ‘As you will.’
She took a sip of gin to calm herself. ‘When we first began to trace the events of his death, you said he had no reason to fly to Wajir.’
‘That’s correct. At the time, business was slow. Dieter only had a delivery contract from Mombasa to a customer somewhere near Nakuru. I believe they were medical supplies.’
‘But he landed near here.’
‘Si, the burnt-out Cessna was found about a hundred kilometres north-east of here.’
‘And since it was north-east of here, he wasn’t coming to Wajir either.’ She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘What haven’t you told me, Antonio?’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘Don’t give me that innocent southern European look. I know you better than that.’
He sighed and took a long pull on his gin. ‘Kazlana, remember what happened to your father. He was probably coming here to ask the same questions. It is not good for you to know those answers.’
‘You must let me decide that.’
‘It will only trouble your heart, and for what?’
‘Tell me.’ Her voice had an edge like flint.
He shrugged, forgoing the last vestige of resistance. ‘I don’t know why he flew to the Somali border, but he told me he would come later to Wajir to speak to me.’
‘Why?’
He hesitated. ‘To tell me something about the medical deliveries.’
‘The Nakuru deliveries?’
‘I believe so. Something was troubling him, but he wouldn’t tell me anything over the telephone. You know how unsafe these open lines are. He said he would leave Mombasa at nine to give the ground mist time to lift. But, of course…’
‘…he never arrived,’ she said, finishing his sentence.
Kazlana took another sip of her drink.
During the ’90s, Antonio had been an important middleman between a group of corrupt rangers in the huge Tsavo East National Park and ivory dealers in Somalia. He had arranged to transport the ivory across the border into Somalia where it was sold into Asian markets. The money was laundered through the Ramanova company’s offshore account in the Jersey Islands and paid to the poachers, less the company’s commission. Kazlana had only learnt of the poaching operation after her father’s death. She knew Dieter would have had no interest in the poaching itself, but the old-time trader in him would have loved smuggling the contraband goods across the border, to a Somali war lord, Faraj Khalid Abukar.
‘What does your friend Abukar know about it?’ she asked Antonio.
‘Nothing.’
‘I know the organisation Papa was working for in Mombasa,’ she said after a moment’s thought. ‘There’s something strange about them. Do you know what strip he used for the Nakuru deliveries?’
‘Si. I think so.’
‘Then I think I should go there to find out where those medical supplies were going.’
The morning was exceptionally bright, swept clean by an overnight shower. Mayasa stood with Joshua on Ngong Road, awaiting the arrival of the Land Rover that would take him far from her. She was feeling downcast and sad, but Joshua was excited although he did his best to conceal it.
Last night Mayasa had again tried to tell Joshua about her father, but had failed. He was so affectionate after they made love that she just couldn’t bear to spoil it.
‘Will you call me, Josh?’ she asked in a small voice.
He took his eyes from the road to smile at her. ‘Yes. I will.’
‘You can just text if you don’t have credit.’
‘I will.’
The minutes passed. Joshua was absorbed in his study of every approaching Land Rover.
‘Joshua,’ she said.
‘Hmm?’
‘Joshua, I need to tell you something.’
‘Is that them?’ he asked.
The car sped past.
‘No.’
‘Joshua, are you listening?’
‘I am, Mayasa, but I must watch for them.’
‘I need to tell you something important before you leave.’
‘Okay.’
‘It’s about my father.’
‘You’ve told him about us?’ He glanced at her.
‘I have, but that’s not what I need to tell you.’
‘Did he ask why I haven’t come to see him? I knew I should have done it.’
‘No, it’s—’
‘Ah! There they are.’
He waved at the approaching Land Rover. The headlights flashed an acknowledgement.
‘What you need to know is that my father…’
Joshua lifted his backpack and slung it over a shoulder.
‘Joshua…look at me.’
The Land Rover stopped at the kerb. The following cars immediately began to toot.
‘I must go, Mayasa,’ he said, stooping to kiss her quickly on the lips.
‘My father has AIDS!’
Joshua froze at the open car door. He studied Mayasa’s face intently. She tried to hold her nerve, but she bit her lip and blinked back the tears.
An impatient voice from the Land Rover dragged his attention from her. He clambered into the car and shut the door.
The Land Rover roared off along Ngong Road and Mayasa watched until it disappeared from sight.
‘We’ll be right back with top of the pops music in ten short minutes. Right now it’s 8 am and time to cross to our news desk with John Muya. Good morning, John.’
‘Good morning, James, and good morning, listeners. Here is the news for this Thursday, 27 December 2007.
‘The chairman of the Electoral Commission of Kenya, Mr Samuel Kivuitu, has called for calm at polling booths throughout the country ahead of today’s civic, parliamentary and presidential elections.
‘Mr Kivuitu released the statement following reports from the Rift Valley of increasing numbers of political clashes reminiscent of the situation during the 2002 elections when hundreds of people were injured and many were killed in violent clashes.
‘In Kisumu, home of the presidential candidate Mr Raila Odinga, a group of young men chased and beat officers of the administration police whom they said were in Kisumu to rig the election results against their candidate. Two police officers were killed in the attacks and six more are in Kisumu Hospital, two in a critical condition.
‘Meanwhile, the latest polls show that Mr Odinga now appears to be in a close race with the incumbent, President Mwai Kibaki.
‘In other news…’
Charlotte turned off the radio. Joshua didn’t mind; the news was no more than a distraction from his thoughts about Mayasa and what she’d revealed to him as they said goodbye.
In Kibera AIDS was everyone’s living nightmare. He was well-informed about the disease—it had been part of his education at school—but street-corner experts said it could be contracted in more ways than the authorities would admit. The talk in K
ibera was that a person sharing a house with an AIDS victim could catch the disease; that kissing someone with AIDS was as dangerous as having sex with them.
Joshua had already lost four people he knew to AIDS. He’d heard that three in ten Kibera residents were HIV-positive. Numbers meant nothing to him. It was the faces that told of the tragedy. And now all he could think about was Mayasa, as sweet and as beautiful as anyone could be. He couldn’t reconcile that vision with what he saw on the streets and alleys of Kibera: the stick figures with sharp, angular faces and haunted eyes.
To take his mind from these disturbing thoughts, he pulled out his mobile phone. He had a text message waiting. The label told him it was from Mayasa. He stared at the name, but left the message unread.
Instead, he tapped out a text message to one of his friends in Kibera, asking that he keep him informed about Gideon Koske’s movements and if Koske was still looking for him.
Joshua’s initial apprehension about defying Koske’s demands to stay in Nairobi for the duration of the elections was now massively overshadowed by his defiant goal during the football game. Although Joshua had been fortunate to avoid Koske’s anger to date, it was well-known throughout Kibera that nobody could defy Gideon Koske with impunity. He knew that his fate, whatever it might be, was only temporarily suspended for the period he was out of Nairobi.
But it worried him that Mayasa was still there.
CHAPTER 22
The crudely painted sign, Vantage Point—Refreshments, gave Riley the opportunity to pull off the road for a break. The Land Rover came to a sliding halt in the narrow parking lane at the edge of the Great Rift Valley.
He was conscious of the fact that he’d been subdued during the drive towards the Great Rift Valley and Nakuru—their first overnight stop. He had much on his mind and now regretted agreeing to leave when they had. The novel could wait, but he’d barely commenced his article on briefcase NGOs. His time would have been better spent attending the UNICEF hearings.
Omuga’s death continued to torment him. The more he thought of his amateurish attempts to prise information from the Community Development man, the more he regretted it. He shouldn’t have tried to play detective with Omuga. What did he know about detective work? He’d made a fundamental mistake with Omuga—a professional would not have met his source in a coffee shop, of all places. Star-fucking-bucks. Why not a goldfish bowl and be done with it?