by Frank Coates
‘Have you seen my son? Have you seen Joshua?’ he asked.
‘One of my women saw him getting into a Land Rover on Thursday.’
‘Thursday? Polling day? Was it the police?’
‘No. It was a mzungu. A man and a lady. They went down Ngong Road.’
Simon sighed with relief, but he was puzzled. ‘A mzungu?’
‘You have heard nothing of him?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head slowly. ‘Nothing.’
‘Then he is gone from Nairobi. And safe.’
‘But…where?’ he asked.
‘No matter. You should be pleased he’s out of Kibera. If what I’ve heard is true, it is better for all of us to run away from here. But since we can’t, we must stay close to home.’
Simon studied her face. ‘Will it be as bad as 2002?’
‘Look at this,’ she said, indicating the youths waving flags and dancing. Their singing was loud and discordant. ‘Do you think these boys will be happy to roll up their flags if their victory is stolen from them?’
Although disappointed at missing his chance to visit the Serengeti, Joshua had the consolation of Odinga’s election win and the more immediate and exciting prospect of being with Mayasa. She had been in his thoughts since he’d left her at the side of Ngong Road. At night he couldn’t get her out of his mind and the days since they’d made love felt like weeks.
What was it about time? When waiting for bad things to happen the time flew by, whereas while waiting for good things to happen it simply dragged. He remembered as a child his mother informing him early one day that his father had managed to hold a job for the whole week and there would be special food on the table that night. They would have chapattis, rice, curried goat, sweet potato and his favourite—lima beans. His mother had even hinted at a treat beyond belief—a bottle of Fanta for him and each of the girls. The day had been interminable.
Still, the time away from Nairobi had worked in his favour by easing his initial alarm about Mayasa’s father’s condition. Joshua’s logical side could accept the illness was not necessarily a risk to Mayasa or himself, but it was hard to forget the horror stories learnt from his street education. He realised he had not handled her news about her father very well, and he was anxious to have her back in his arms where he could reassure her of his love and support. With his newly won skills as a guide, he would make mzungu money, white people’s money, and they could leave Kibera together.
He therefore started the journey to Nairobi feeling very positive about the day ahead, but they hadn’t travelled far before he became aware of something strange. Even for a Sunday morning, the road was eerily quiet.
He sensed that Mark and Charlotte had also noticed it. Their conversation dwindled until all three drove on in silence.
They passed no vehicles, and on the outer fringe of Nakuru, where the market stalls had been a throng of shoppers and traders the day they’d arrived, there was no one. A few mangy dogs sniffed among the empty stalls, and one old woman scuttled down an alley and out of sight as they approached.
Nobody in the Land Rover appeared willing to give voice to their thoughts.
They passed through town and joined the highway where the railway passed overhead, then continued towards Naivasha.
The roads on the outskirts of Naivasha were as quiet as those of Nakuru, and continued to be so until nearer the centre of the town where they saw a tight knot of people gathered at one of the taverns. There was music and dancing. Joshua recognised some traditional Luo songs.
‘They’re Luos,’ he told Mark. ‘A party for Raila.’
‘A very big and boozy all-night party by the look of them,’ Mark said as he swung the car left into a side street.
‘Do you know where this takes us, Mark?’ There was apprehension in Charlotte’s tone.
Mark glanced at her. ‘I’m guessing I can take a right somewhere along here and rejoin the highway further across town.’
Her silence suggested she remained unconvinced.
‘We’ll be fine,’ he added.
Now Joshua picked up on her nervousness. Away from the Luo party on the main street, Naivasha remained deathly still.
Mark took a turn to the right after a few minutes only to find the whole street blocked by a mob of young men.
Charlotte gasped.
It was too late to turn in the narrow street and retreat. Mark stopped the Land Rover at the head of the mob.
‘Charlotte, it’s okay. Let’s try to stay cool,’ he said. ‘What’s going on, Joshua?’
Joshua’s heart thumped in his chest. The mob was obviously agitated and probably headed towards the Luos’ party. They carried clubs and garden tools. Some had pieces of timber with nails hammered right through to produce a very vicious weapon.
‘They are Kikuyus,’ Joshua whispered. ‘And looking for trouble.’
The scene reminded him of the worst of his nightmares from 2002, when the thugs had run amuck in Kibera.
‘Well, they’ll get none from us,’ Mark said. ‘Be calm, everybody. Let me talk to them.’
He wound down his window. ‘Good morning,’ he said to the angry faces closest to him.
‘Where you go, mzungu?’ one asked.
‘We’re going home. To Nairobi. Do you mind if we pass through?’
But the leader was not looking at Mark; he and his allies stared with angry eyes at Joshua in the back seat. Others crowded around Charlotte’s side of the car. One tried the door. It was locked, but Charlotte let out an involuntary gasp. Others rattled the door handles in anger.
‘We want to speak to him,’ the leader said, pointing to Joshua.
‘Why? He’s just our guide.’
‘Shut up, mzungu. We want him out here, or you go nowhere.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Mark said. ‘But let me out so we can talk in private. Just you and I.’
‘Mark, no!’ Charlotte said in a harsh whisper.
Mark gestured for her to remain calm. ‘It’s okay, Charlie. I’m just going to talk to this young man. I know what I’m doing.’
Joshua was quite sure he didn’t. The mob was in no mood to talk. The leader smirked and took half a step away to let the foolish mzungu out from the relative safety of his car.
Mark opened the door halfway and, grabbing the leader’s shirt, pulled his head into the door before slamming it on him.
In the same instant as the man let out an angry howl of pain, Mark gave a blast on the horn and the Land Rover roared forward.
Those nearest the car reeled away, except for one, who was scooped up onto the hood and bounced off the windscreen before falling back onto the road.
They sped off amid a shower of rocks.
‘Papa, no. I won’t leave you here alone,’ Mayasa said.
Her father placed both hands on her shoulders and gave them a gentle pat. ‘Mayasa. You know very well what happened in ’02. You will go to your sister’s house in Langata.’
‘Then you must come too.’
He shook his head. ‘Enough that one of us will be crowding into that kadogo sana house.’
‘Maybe it will not happen like 2002. Maybe things will become quiet. The elections are over.’
‘Yes, the elections are over, and this is when the real trouble began last time. Do you not remember? These Kenyan people are always fighting, Mayasa. Not like us in Tanzania. We don’t care about this tribe or that tribe. If a man wins the votes he is president. It is simple. But here, mungu angu, that is when the mother of all trouble begins.’
Mayasa stepped away from her father’s hands, angry at his stubbornness and unwilling to accept the truth in his argument. But she knew he was right. The vast majority of Kenyans were irreparably tribal. Even when confronted by imminent disaster as they were now, they refused to see the danger in it. They had identified with tribe long before the concept of nation appeared. It had been their way for decades.
She wrung her hands. She had always cared for her father, and now he would be alon
e in Kibera—the worst place to be when a tribal war was in the air.
About fifteen minutes after leaving Naivasha, Mark pulled off the road at a quiet section of the highway. He climbed out of the car and began to inspect the damage. Charlotte and Joshua joined him.
‘That was close,’ Mark said, putting words to Charlotte’s own thoughts.
‘We were very lucky,’ she agreed, wondering what she would have done had she ignored Dr Gilanga’s warning and ventured up country alone. ‘How’s the damage?’
‘A few small dings,’ he said. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘Then there’s nothing stopping us from going on.’
‘What?’ Mark stared at her, then broke into a smile. ‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Not at all. I’ve found another route—I’ll show you.’
She dived into the cabin and pulled a road map from the glove box. ‘See? We can take this road west to Narok, then on to Kisii, then—’
‘Charlotte, we’re not going into the Rift Valley again.’
‘Why not?’ she demanded indignantly. He was being a typical male, taking control. ‘Naivasha is just a hot spot. We’ll be safe if we keep away from the big towns.’
‘Excuse me, but when did you become an expert on Kenya?’ he said.
‘Don’t be so stubborn. Just because you’ve found a more important project than your book—’
‘This isn’t Oxford. We’re not going anywhere but back to Nairobi until this blows over.’
‘And how long will that take? We don’t have time to sit around. If I don’t get some work done in Kisumu, I might as well forget my thesis.’
Mark glared at her, but she didn’t care. He was being totally unreasonable. He had completed most of his book’s research in the National Archives, and now he was so consumed by his story of the lost children, he didn’t care what happened to her work.
Joshua, who had been silent throughout, asked, ‘Why do you want to go to Kisumu?’
Charlotte stared at him, realising she’d never informed him of her reasons for needing a guide. His only expressed interest had been in their side-trip to the Serengeti.
‘Well, it’s to interview some Luo people for my thesis—the paper I’m writing to gain my professional qualifications.’ She explained briefly that she’d interviewed a number of academics, but she wanted to speak to what she called ordinary Luo people too.
‘Then come to Kisumu Ndogo,’ Joshua said. ‘There are many Luo people there. Just like Kisumu, but in the slums.’
Charlotte was stunned. How could she have missed it? Surely she should include in her research a study of how Luo culture could survive in urban communities? Taking the idea further, why not examine translocated Luo communities in the ultimate urban climate—Kibera, the largest slum in Africa? It was brilliant!
‘How can I get to see Kisumu Ndogo?’ she asked, barely able to contain her enthusiasm.
‘Easy,’ Joshua said with a shrug. ‘Come with me.’
CHAPTER 31
‘Charlotte,’ Mark said, before she climbed from the Land Rover, ‘is this a good idea? You’re still a little shaken from what happened in Naivasha. Why not leave this until tomorrow?’
Charlotte’s annoyance with Mark had diminished during the journey back to Nairobi, but she was in no mood to concede his point.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said coolly. ‘It’s just a quick tour today. Joshua will take care of me.’
‘Well, I guess you know what you’re doing.’
Charlotte climbed out of the Land Rover and joined Joshua at the side of the road.
‘Take care of Charlotte, okay?’ Mark told Joshua.
‘Everything is okay, Mr Mark. She is safe with me.’
‘See that she is.’ Turning back to Charlotte, he said, ‘What time do you want me back here?’
She looked at her watch. ‘It’s one now, so let’s make it around five.’
‘Five it is. I’ll be here on the dot.’
He said goodbye, and she watched as he spun the wheel, taking the Land Rover into a U-turn, over the far kerb and bumping down again into Kibera Road.
‘Now, Joshua,’ she said. ‘Let me see this Luo village you call Kisumu Ndogo.’
As Riley drove down Kibera Road, his mind roamed around ideas for his article, which was seldom far from his mind. The various themes were now in place and he was increasingly drawn to the personal aspects. He knew his search for Jafari would be prominent among them.
The Circularian organisation was central. It seemed to Riley to symbolise the dichotomy between the compassion of the legitimate charitable institutions and the greed of those such as Gideon Koske, who he suspected was using his political position to scam funds for a non-existent charity.
He was approaching Kibera Gardens Road and decided to refresh his memory of the dilapidated orphanage, which he would feature as an example of how foreign funds, sent from private donors, were not being used as intended. He drove down to where the slab-built huts sat in mute witness to his arrival and studied the building, etching the details of its structure in his memory. The oblong window openings in the bleak façade gave the place the appearance of a mournful clown.
He thought back to Melissa’s suggestion of visiting the orphanage and the child they helped to support. His memory was a little hazy, but he seemed to recall they were standing on the beach at sundown, as they often did in Bali.
‘Why don’t we just up and go somewhere?’ Melissa had said, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his chest.
‘Good idea. Where?’ he’d replied.
‘Somewhere we haven’t been.’
‘That leaves quite a wide field, my darling.’
‘How about Africa? We could go and see little Jafari.’
‘Who?’
‘Oh, Mark! Our little waif, of course.’
‘In Kenya? Oh, yeah. We could do that.’
They were silent then, and he’d remarked that he thought the sunset was beautiful.
‘Beautiful? I’m not sure I’d describe it as beautiful,’ she’d said. ‘Perhaps more like magnificent.’
But they weren’t Melissa’s words. They were Charlie’s, spoken only a few days ago in reference to the Great Rift Valley, not Kuta Beach.
As he turned to leave, his eye was drawn to a corner of the garden where a metal sculpture of a child stood with hands and feet within the rim of a wheel or large circle. It was quite tall, about the actual height of a five-year-old, and he wondered why he couldn’t remember it from his first visit. Then he noticed the grass had been cut—not mown, but hacked into shape, probably with a machete as was the practice in many gardens around the city.
The windows had also been cleaned. He could see a figure moving about inside.
He was stunned, and quickly went to the door and knocked.
A woman wearing a plain white pinafore over a pink blouse answered. She had a rounded, matronly shape and her shining black face was illuminated by a surprised smile. Another woman was standing over a cot in which a child lay among a clutter of plastic toys. There were four children in the room, all little more than toddlers.
Riley stood in the doorway, speechless. He didn’t know what he had expected to find, but this scene of domestic accord was not it. His surprise must have been obvious.
‘Can I help you, brother?’ the woman in the white pinafore asked. ‘You seem to be looking for something.’
‘Yes. No. I mean, I am. Is this the orphanage?’
It was a stupid question.
‘I mean, is this the Circularian orphanage?’
‘It is. And I am Sister Veronica and this is Sister Margaret. Can we be of assistance, Mr…?’
‘Riley,’ he said, and took a deep breath. ‘I, um…’
‘Please,’ the woman said, ‘won’t you take a seat, Mr Riley?’
‘I think I should,’ he said, pulling a chair out from the table.
He looked around the room he’d previousl
y seen as derelict. It was now spotless, with lightweight cotton draw-curtains on the windows, a half-dozen neat cots, chairs and the table, which was long and looked like it might have once been a conference table. One corner of the room was set up as a kitchen with a bench-top stove, microwave oven and a set of shelves holding a range of white crockery with animal cartoon motifs. The floor was covered with cheap but clean vinyl tiles.
Sister Veronica placed a cup of steaming tea before him and he thanked her.
They began to chat and he asked her about the Circularian religion. And why, for instance, they were in the orphanage business. Very soon he realised his mistake. The Circularians had at least one thing in common: boundless enthusiasm for extolling the principles of their belief. Sister Veronica began with two-pi-r and went on to explain the many incidents in history that demonstrated its power.
‘Do you know, Mr Riley, that as soon as mankind discovered the world was round, we entered the most fruitful period in human history? All the great mathematical theories, scientific discoveries, magnificent inventions, followed.’
When he managed to drag the conversation around to the orphanage, Sister Veronica insisted it was all part of the same philosophy.
‘The circle is the symbol of family life,’ she said. ‘When we see an orphan, we know we must complete the circle for the helpless child, so we find a home for the little ones, like these,’ she said, indicating the babies. ‘But the older children, well…sadly, no one seems to want them, except for the older boys. Mr Koske is particularly successful in placing the difficult ages after about seven. The other organisations are quite envious of our successes.’
‘So, how does he manage it?’
‘Mr Koske has an arrangement with people in Somalia who find homes for them.’
‘And you don’t mind that he sends the children to an unknown future?’
She shook her head. ‘The children are known to God. We are happy that they are able to begin their journey to happiness.’
‘Happiness? How do you know? They may become child labourers, or worse. Don’t you have some follow-up?’
‘No, Mr Riley. Completing the circle is all that’s required. To…follow up, as you call it, would mean we are distrustful. We trust in God and the circle. All who do are favoured in the eyes of the Almighty.’