Hour of the Red God

by Richard Crompton

  —I’ve got to charge him first, says Mollel. Robbery and resisting arrest.

  Mwangi and Kiunga exchange a glance.

  Otieno’s grin disappears. He takes the gold handbag from Mollel and rifles through it.

  —Mobile phone, purse, tampons, cigarettes … He holds up an ID card. —Amazing how careless some people can be with their valuables. Thank goodness there are good, honest citizens like Mr. Oloo here, prepared to hand in lost property.

  Now it is Oloo’s turn to grin. —My pleasure, he says smugly. Now, if you don’t mind, officers, I think I’ll be on my way.

  —But, boss! protests Mollel.

  —But nothing! Right now I’m running the best figures in Central Division since the nineties. Robbery is down eight percent. You think I’m going to let a little mavwi like this mess up my statistics? Ask your buddies here.

  Mwangi and Kiunga look at Mollel with resignation.

  —Yeah, butts in Oloo. That’s right. So, about this lost property, then. Where do I get my reward?

  Otieno laughs a hearty, jovial laugh. Then, still smiling, he raises his fist like a shovel and slams it into the thief’s face.

  —There’s your reward.

  Oloo is on the floor, blood gushing from his broken nose. Otieno turns to Mwangi and Kiunga.

  —That was just to prove to you Kikuyus that there’s no tribal favoritism going on. Mwangi, get him out of here. Kiunga, get the pool car. We’re taking the Maasai on a little drive.

  * * *

  The police Land Rover weaves through the Nairobi traffic. Kiunga manages the jam with a young man’s confidence, squeezing the vehicle into gaps with inches to spare, overtaking other cars on both sides, mounting the sidewalk when necessary.

  —You never learned to drive, then, Mollel? Kiunga calls back as he pushes the car into a narrowing canyon formed by two Citi buses.

  —No, replies Mollel. Did you?

  Otieno, in the front passenger seat, gives a booming laugh. —That’s why you ended up in traffic division. It was someone’s idea of a joke.

  Yes, and Mollel knows whose. Still, if Otieno wants him along for the ride today, he must have something interesting in store.

  They pull off the Uhuru Highway and onto Kenyatta Avenue, past the Serena Hotel, where Otieno barks some directions and Kiunga pulls an illegal U-turn. They push through the opposing traffic, Kiunga pointing a warning at an irate matatu driver, Otieno retaining his bulky composure. Then, up a curb and off the road, between two concrete posts that Mollel thinks they couldn’t possibly fit through—but they do—and into Uhuru Park.

  * * *

  Uhuru Park: Nairobi’s playground. Named after freedom, but also granting it, a little freedom from the sprawl and the spread and the spleen of the city. Being Saturday, it is busy. People lying on the grass dotted in groups—families picnicking, lovers discreetly loving—or singly, people with nowhere else to go or a few hours to kill, sleeping on the ground. A larger group is standing in a circle, holding hands. They all wear the same red T-shirts: a prayer meeting. Vendors of sodas, nuts, and ice cream push their wagons lazily down the paths, only to dive out of the way as the Land Rover bears down on them.

  They drive past the area known as Little Mombasa. In his forty-two years, Mollel has been to some extraordinary places, but he has never been to the Kenyan coast. He surmises, though, that the real Mombasa has a bit more going for it than a shallow boating lake and a paddling pool. The place is popular enough, but today it seems to be losing customers to a new attraction over toward the rear of the park where the ground slopes steeply away from the city and eventually becomes Upper Hill.

  * * *

  The car draws to a halt by the mass of people, and the instant Kiunga cuts the engine, Mollel knows what they’re going to find. The only time a group of Kenyans en masse is quiet like this is when there’s a body.

  * * *

  They descend from the car and push their way through the strangely reverent mob toward the mess of chain-link fence and barbed wire that marks the boundary of the park. It seems far removed from the peaceful green interior. As they draw to the front of the crowd, Mollel sees a drainage culvert, some four feet deep, and a couple of uniformed city cops keeping a desultory eye on the crowd, who are all looking into the ditch.

  Beyond them, standing in the concrete culvert but barely clearing the top, is Dr. Achieng.

  —Ah, Otieno. And you’ve brought your pet Maasai with you, I see. Good thinking. Been a long time, Mollel.

  —You not retired yet? Mollel asks the old man.

  —Can’t afford to. I thought you’d disappeared.

  Otieno butts in: —From your description of the body, I thought it would be useful to re-appear him. What have we got, a termite?

  Termite: Nairobi police vernacular for a body washed out of the storm drains after a heavy bout of rain, the way white ants are flushed from a flooded nest.

  —Could be. Rain was probably heavy enough last night to bring her some distance. That could account for a lot of the impact wounds. Unless she was dead before she entered the drain.

  Achieng beckons to Mollel. —Come, take a look. Tell me if our hunch was right.

  Mollel takes the pathologist’s small hand and steps down into the ditch. The steep concrete banks slope to a flat bottom about a meter wide, along which runs a farther rill just a few inches deep, to keep water flowing in dry times. There is barely a trickle now, despite the rains of some few hours earlier: such is Nairobi weather. Mollel places his feet on either side of the body, which lies on its side, partially in the central rill, its spine curved in an impossible contortion: a non-recovery position.

  She is wearing a flimsy dress, torn and blackened with mud, but expensive-looking nonetheless. It has ridden up above her waist. There is no underwear. Smears of blood and mud snake back across her thighs.

  —You’ll see that she has many wounds on her body, most of them consistent with a beating, says Achieng. But there appears to be considerable bleeding from between the legs. Have to turn her over in a moment to see more.

  Mollel follows the line of the body’s curvature, one arm unseen below the corpse, the other tossed upward and above the head.

  —Let me move this, says Achieng, lifting the arm. Are you ready to see the face?

  Mollel nods. Achieng uses the arm to pull and pivot the corpse onto its back.

  Mollel finds himself looking down at a young, oval face; the ashen grayness would have been a brilliant bluey black in life. High cheekbones, high forehead. Noble. On either cheek, a small, low O had been engraved a long time ago.

  It is a familiar face. He does not recognize the person, but he knows the people: his own.

  —Yes, she’s Maasai, he says.

  —Thought so. I’m not familiar with all tribal scars, but those looked typically Maasai to me. Can you tell which clan?

  —Not really. It’s a commonplace enough marking. Could be from the west, Sikirari, Matapato. But I’m confused about the ears.

  —The ears? I didn’t see anything remarkable.

  —Exactly. They should be looped, like mine. Probably pierced at the top, too. But look at her lobes. There’s only a small hole, for fashion jewelry. She’s got the cheek scars that are given at childhood, but not the ear loops, which Maasai girls are given at puberty. So it could be that she left her village before that time.

  —Could be.

  —No ID, I suppose?

  —What you see, says Achieng, is what you get. Now, I want to turn her, see if my suspicions are correct.

  He beckons to a policeman nearby, who joins them in the culvert. Achieng takes the girl’s shoulders and the policeman both ankles. Together, they roll the body over.

  A dismayed gasp goes up from the watching crowd.

  —Oh God, says Mollel.

  He’s seen plenty over the years. More dead bodies than he cares to think about. Blood, guts. But this is something else.

  Achieng comes around to join h
im at the feet of the body.

  —Vicious, he says. Looks like someone’s taken a knife to her genitals. Brutally, too.

  There is some commotion among the onlookers. Someone has fainted.

  —Get those people out of here! shouts Otieno. Even he, under his dark complexion, looks shocked. —What do you think this is, a circus?

  The uniformed policemen step forward and begin to disperse the crowd.

  —Do you know anything about female circumcision, Mollel? asks Achieng quietly.

  —I know it’s not like this, Mollel replies.

  —Maybe not as brutal. But among Maasai, it means removal of the clitoris, doesn’t it?

  Mollel nods. —E-muruata. I’ve never seen it done, myself. Men are strictly forbidden from the ceremony. But yes, teenage girls have their clitoris removed, by a female elder. It’s illegal now. But it still happens, of course.

  —You say it’s usually done at puberty? Like the ear loops?

  —Yes.

  —Maybe she never had it done as a girl and someone was trying to put that right, mutters Otieno.

  —I’ll have to look more closely during the postmortem examination, says the doctor. But it looks like that’s what happened here. Certainly, no care was taken for the health of the patient. I’m pretty sure this is what killed her.

  —Right, says Otieno. If you’re done, Doctor, let’s get this body taken to the city mortuary. File it under “Unknown Maasai Prostitute.”

  —What makes you think she was a prostitute? asks Mollel angrily.

  —Be realistic, Mollel, replies Otieno. They always are.

  3

  —I’ll get you a temporary transfer back here to Central, Otieno says as the body is put into the back of the unmarked mortuary ambulance. A week or so should do it. Let’s say ten days. I want this wrapped up quickly, Maasai. You can ask around. Talk to the hookers who work this patch. But also, follow this lead about it being a Maasai circumcision ceremony gone wrong.

  —Gone wrong! I don’t think we can put this down to accidental death. It’s deliberate murder.

  —Maybe. In the meantime, you can have Kiunga here to drive you around. Unless you want to borrow a bike.

  A bike … the word nags at Mollel’s memory. Something important to do with a bike.

  Adam!

  His chest constricts. He’d slipped so easily back into the role of policeman that he’d forgotten about being a father. He grabs Kiunga’s arm.

  —I need you right now, he says. We have to go to Biashara Street.

  —That’s why I love you, Maasai, calls Otieno as Mollel pulls Kiunga toward the Land Rover. The case has just begun, and you’ve got a lead already. See you back at the station.

  * * *

  As they pull onto Biashara Street, Mollel feels his pulse quickening and panic rising. It is past one o’clock: on a Saturday, that means most stores are shutting up for lunch—many for the weekend. With the street emptied and the storefronts couched behind their blank steel shutters, Mollel has difficulty even locating the shop. When he does, he sees that the shutter is left open a few inches, darkness within. He orders Kiunga to stop the car, and he leaps out, rushes to the shutter, and bangs on it furiously.

  —Go away! We’re closed! says a voice from within.

  —My boy. I left my boy here. About an hour ago. I was only going to be a few minutes …

  —There’s no boy here.

  —Are you sure he’s not behind a display or something? Even asleep? I told him not to leave until I came back.

  —Look. The shutter comes up a few more inches, and the Indian storekeeper sticks his head out. —There is no boy here. There was a small lad here who said he was waiting for his father, but I kicked him out. What do you think I am, a child-minding service?

  —Which way did he go? But the shutter thunders down and Mollel hears the clanking of a lock within. He slams his fist against the steel.

  —Dad!

  It is Adam, and Mollel’s breath catches with relief. Despite the heat, he shivers. He suddenly realizes that he is drenched in sweat.

  —I waited and waited, but you didn’t come back!

  —Good job he knows his grandmother’s phone number, says Faith.

  Adam has his hand firmly in Faith’s. In the other hand he holds a rapidly melting ice cream.

  Faith gives Mollel a look he’s become familiar with over the years: a mixture of pity and contempt. Contempt seems to be winning out this time.

  —The man in the shop wouldn’t let me use his phone, continues Adam. But a lady in the shop next door did. Grandma came to collect me.

  —Thanks, Faith, says Mollel sheepishly. It was police business.

  —It’s always police business, says Faith.

  —Grandma says I can go home with her.

  —I think that’s for the best, says Faith. To Adam she says, —Give your father a hug.

  The two of them look at each other awkwardly. It’s not a natural gesture for either of them. Then Mollel bends to receive the hug, which makes him glow despite the cold ice cream on his neck.

  —Thanks for the bike, Dad, whispers Adam in his ear. I know I wasn’t supposed to find out about it until Christmas. But Grandma let slip.

  Mollel stands. Faith casts him a challenging glance; he returns it, but softens. She is right. Better for the boy to have something to look forward to rather than dwell on being abandoned by his only parent. Mollel would never be able to say truthfully that he liked his mother-in-law. But she loves Adam, and for that reason alone he is silent when she says,

  —You have got to remember where your priorities lie, Mollel.

  Kiunga is shaking hands with Adam now. The boy has taken an instant liking to Mollel’s colleague and is chatting freely about school.

  —You’ve always had a powerful sense of justice, Faith continues. That’s why Chiku loved you. I admired you for it myself. But there’s a difference, Mollel, between justice and what’s right.

  She nods at Kiunga, who is showing Adam his police ID. —Does he know about what you did to your colleagues?

  —Everyone in the department knows, says Mollel.

  —And he still wants to work with you?

  —I don’t think he has much choice, Mollel answers.

  —Loyalty works both ways, Mollel. He seems like a good man. You may need him to be on your side.

  —And I should be more loyal to Adam, too, isn’t that what you’re saying?

  —He is your son, Mollel, replies Faith, her voice tinged with sadness. I don’t see how your loyalty to him could ever be put in second place.

  * * *

  —Sweet kid, says Kiunga after they’ve parted. And he’s a red.

  —A what?

  —Supports Manchester United. Didn’t you know?

  —I don’t really follow football. Have you got kids?

  Kiunga laughs. —No way! The last thing I need is a dependent!

  Dependent. Seems a curiously formal word to describe his son. But then, they have a curiously formal relationship.

  When he was a child, back in the Kajiado foothills, his mother used to call him ol-muraa. Her little warrior. At fourteen, he became a moran. But she still called him ol-muraa.

  You’re not to call me little warrior anymore, Mother. I’m a real warrior now. And you’ll address me with respect.

  How she had laughed! And then chased him out of the boma with a ladle. The injustice of it burned him, as did the eyes of his younger brother, Lendeva.

  Lendeva had never known their father. Mollel, who had lived in fear of his beatings, felt that the younger boy was lucky.

  He’d attempted, in his way, to become the father his brother never had, but Lendeva did not let him. Assertions of authority were met with amused contempt, and before long, Mollel gave up. And now—he paused to work it out—it was nearly twenty years since he had seen his brother. Just like his father, Mollel had no idea whether Lendeva was living or dead.

  His father. Lendeva
. His mother. His wife. All gone.

  No wonder, thinks Mollel, that he resists calling his son a dependent. If life had taught him one thing, it was that you could not be dependent upon anyone.

  * * *

  They’re walking down Koinange Street—K Street—Nairobi’s notorious red-light zone. Not that there are any red lights here—apart from the ones studiously ignored by motorists. It’s discreet at this time of day. Respectable, even. City folk walk the sidewalks unmolested, and the few girls who choose to ply their trade by day have retreated to the shadows rather than prowling the curb.

  Mollel walks directly up to three of them who are sheltering from the sun under the canopy of a Chinese restaurant.

  —Excuse me, he begins. The girls cast him and Kiunga a scornful, contemptuous look—Mollel compares the look, mischievously, to that which Faith gave him a few minutes before—and they melt away, all three in different directions, not bothering to even reply.

  —You’re not in any trouble! calls Mollel, but they are gone.

  Kiunga is laughing. —We might as well be in uniform, he says. Look, I know how to deal with these girls. Watch, and learn.

  They set off but have gone only a couple of meters before Kiunga grabs his colleague’s arm.

  —Steady up. They’re always going to know we’re police, there’s no way around that. They smell it or something. But there’s no need to frighten them. Don’t go storming up. Loosen. Relax your shoulders, walk with your palms out, like this. Yeah, I know it feels strange. But you’re giving off a message: you have nothing to hide. Come on.

  Sure enough, as they approach the next group of girls—Mollel hanging back, self-consciously aping Kiunga’s ambling posture—they do not scatter, but regard the approaching policemen with a wry, skeptical attitude.

  —Hello, ladies. Kiunga smiles. —Pleasant afternoon.

  —What do you want? one of them shoots to him, warily but without apparent hostility.

  —Just to make conversation. Why, are you afraid we’ll drive away trade?