—We never arrested him, Kiunga says.
The argument rings back and forth above him. He needs to get home. He needs to take his pills. But above all, what he needs is to solve this case.
Otieno’s voice pounds remorselessly on. The words mean nothing now. Just that sanctimonious, booming, bull-like bellow. Why can’t he just stop talking, thinks Mollel. For just one second? Why can’t he just shut the hell up and listen?
The room falls silent.
They’re both looking at him. Mollel realizes that he has spoken aloud.
* * *
He has the heady, blissful sensation of freedom. The same feeling he had when he decided to abandon his village, to turn his back on his tribe.
He does not care about the consequences. Instead, while Kiunga and Otieno listen to him in amazement, he tells them the truth.
* * *
He speaks with the bright, intense lucidity of anger. He tells them about stealing the keys, about his discovery of the operating theater at Orpheus House. He tells them about his conviction that Wanjiku Nalo delivered a baby to Lucy. That somehow the delivery was botched. Lucy either died during the procedure or bled to death shortly afterward. Wanjiku, helped by someone, dumped the body in the storm drain, having deliberately mutilated the body’s genitals to try to disguise the fact that Lucy had recently given birth. She knew about female genital mutilation, and probably hoped that if the body was discovered, Maasai circumcision rites would get the blame.
* * *
Kiunga has slumped into the room’s remaining chair. Otieno has tipped his own chair back, hands behind his head, big sweat patches under his arms. His expression has become totally neutral.
* * *
Mollel tells them about David Kingori. About the fact that he believes Kingori to be the father of the missing baby. That he was probably in league with Wanjiku Nalo, probably even ordered her to preside over the secretive birth—as the price he would exact for allowing the Nalos to build their new project on his site.
* * *
Mollel finishes his story. No one speaks. He feels the dramatic, shocked silence of the forest in the moments after a tree has fallen. And then his confidence drains. His anger evaporates. He senses, from the way Kiunga refuses to meet his eye, that he has humiliated himself.
He’s also betrayed his promise to Honey.
* * *
—Well, Maasai, Otieno says, I guess I have to thank you.
—For what?
—For giving me everything I need to have you thrown out of the police force and into prison. To Kiunga, he adds, —Did you know anything about all this?
—No.
—Haven’t you been listening to me? pleads Mollel. We’re talking murder here. Including murder, or abduction, of a child. Not to mention arson, conspiracy …
—No, says Otieno slowly, deliberately. What you’ve told me, if I’m even to believe your ridiculous hypothesis, is accidental death.
—What about the child?
Otieno sighs. —Can’t you see, Mollel, that this is not our problem? If the baby is alive, that means it’s being cared for. And no doubt, much better than any cheap hooker could have cared for it. If it’s dead, it’s dead. We’d have no way of proving murder. We don’t even have a body. All we have is unsubstantiated allegations against Nairobi’s most powerful businessman, its most successful pastor, and its most respected gynecologist.
—What about justice? croaks Mollel.
Otieno gives a sad smile. —Mollel, you’re in the wrong country. The wrong continent. Don’t you know there’s something more valuable than justice here?
—What?
—Peace.
Mollel leans forward. His eyes are fixed, glazed. He seems to be repeating a personal mantra.
—Justice is a luxury. Peace is a necessity. You want justice, move to some first-world state with sophisticated crime labs and DNA tests and judges who can’t be bought off. That’s the only way you’d get to bring a case against people like this. Better still, become a judge yourself. They’re the ones who are supposed to look after justice. We’re only supposed to keep the peace.
Kiunga is saying nothing. Mollel feels drained.
—I feel sorry for you, says Otieno. You were a hero, once. No one can forget what you did when the bomb went off. You won a lot of admirers that day, Mollel, including me.
—But this rage of yours. You don’t think about the consequences of your actions. Like when you were stationed here, before. You got so enraged about some petty little minor corruption that you went running to the newspapers … I had to get rid of some good officers because of that. And for what? Just doing what everyone else does, trying to get by.
—I ought to get rid of you. I’ve got every reason to. But I can’t lose another officer right now. Besides, the press would crucify me. They’d see it as a sign that we were persecuting a whistle-blower. Did you know, Mollel, that the commissioner himself has taken a personal interest in your career?
Mollel shakes his head.
—Oh yes. You’re to be kept well away from anywhere you can cause trouble. I wish I’d taken his advice.
Mollel is silent as he gradually deals with the realization that he is not going to lose his job.
—Just to make it perfectly clear. You forget about this case. It’s done. Closed. There’s nothing we can do about it. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. Understood?
They both reply, —Yes, sir.
—Okay. It’s late. Two days remaining until the election. Tomorrow will be the quiet before the storm. You’ve got the day off. Go spend Christmas with your families. Look to the living, not the dead.
18
—Come on, says Kiunga. Let’s go for a drink.
—I don’t drink, says Mollel.
—Then you can damn well sit next to me while I do, replies Kiunga. And I’m warning you, I intend to get completely kutindi.
They head off on foot across town. Mollel is expecting to be dragged to the Flamingo, the bar favored by Nairobi’s law enforcement community, where at any given time of day or night you’re likely to find as many on-duty officers as off.
But they go straight past it and head toward River Road. This part of the city is busy. Anyone still here has obviously decided to stay in town and make the most of the Christmas holiday. The bars are full, and many have decided to entice customers by setting up their nyama choma barbecues on the sidewalk. The smell makes Mollel’s stomach protest in a queasy mixture of hunger and agony.
—Here we are, says Kiunga. I thought I’d make you feel at home.
They are outside a bar with a large window giving straight onto the street. One can’t see inside, though: the window is a closed display, a sort of cupboard, with a whole flayed goat hanging inside and various cuts of meat beside it. Despite the flies, it is obviously appetizing enough to draw a regular flow of customers. Mollel and Kiunga have to wait at the door, where a man is giving detailed instructions to a member of the staff about which exact cut he wants taken from the goat. When they get inside, it takes a moment for Mollel’s eyes to adjust to the darkness.
—Mama Naitiku’s, says Mollel. It’s a long time since I’ve been here.
Its official name is the Hoteli Narok, but no one knows it as that. It is the first port of call for most Maasai in Nairobi, and a home away from home for many who have migrated permanently to the city. For some, it has become a byword for the city itself: going to Mama Naitiku’s is a familiar phrase in many villages, somehow more congenial, less daunting, less final than saying going to Nairobi.
Groups of red-shawled Maasai men look up at them with suspicion. Kiunga strides purposefully to the bar. Mollel follows him.
—I’ll have a Tusker. Cold. And my friend here …
—A Fanta, says Mollel.
The barman is a Maasai youth, his hair braided, shuka knotted over one shoulder. His bracelets jangle as he reaches down to a beer crate at his feet and pulls out a bottle.
/> —Cold enough for you? he asks Kiunga, challengingly.
—It’ll do.
The barman pops the cap and slides the beer over. He does the same with a bottle of fluorescent soda for Mollel.
Kiunga pays. —Is Mama here? he asks.
—Where else would she be?
—Tell her we want to talk to her.
The two of them go over to a table and sit down. —Why are we here, Kiunga? Mollel asks.
Kiunga takes a long drink from the neck of his bottle and smacks his lips.
—We’ve looked into the fact that Lucy was a poko, he says. We’ve dug into Orpheus House. The Nalos. But the one thing we haven’t dealt with yet is the biggest fact of all. She was a Maasai.
—I don’t think it’s relevant, says Mollel.
—Of course not. You’re a Maasai yourself. But I think it is. So humor me awhile, Mollel.
He looks up. An old woman is shuffling toward them, shaved head bent, long shuka brushing the floor. She wears a white beaded necklace, like a dinner plate around her neck, and it looks as though the weight—although it can’t weigh anything at all—is dragging her down.
She pulls up a chair and sits beside them.
—What can I do for you, officers?
Hardly surprising that she recognizes them as police. What’s more surprising to Mollel is how little she’s changed. She looked ancient even back when he first met her.
—Do you remember me, Mama? he asks.
She looks up at him through eyes that are watery but alert. He sees her processing the information: looped ears, Maasai face, but Nairobi suit. He fingers Honey’s tie nervously. The old woman reminds him of his own mother, and he can’t help projecting a sense of disapproval, disappointment, into her expression.
—I see a lot of people, she says.
—I came here on my first night in Nairobi, Mollel says. I was with my brother, Lendeva. We were too poor to afford any meat, so you gave us both a bowl of ugali. We’d never seen ugali before. We didn’t even know it was food. We sat out there, on the sidewalk, wondering what to do with it. When you came out to see how we were getting on, we’d made shapes out of it. Lendeva made a cow. I made a donkey.
Mama Naitiku smiles. She has fewer teeth, but the smile is the same.
—Are you a Leliani?
—That’s right. Mollel.
—You were just boys.
—It was twenty years ago. You let us sleep on the floor, out back, while we looked for work.
—And you found it. With the police.
—That was much later.
—I do remember you, she says. And your brother. He was the bold one, as I recall. Dressed so fine in all the warrior garb, with not a shilling in the world. He had great plans. I thought you would follow him everywhere. And what has become of him now? Is he a policeman, too?
Mollel shakes his head. —I don’t know where he is, he replies.
Kiunga shoots him a questioning glance. But already Mollel has been thinking more about his brother in the last few days than he has for years. He does not want to continue the conversation.
—That’s what happens when we turn our back on the village life, says the old woman sadly.
—We need your help, says Kiunga. He brings out the photograph of Lucy that he had been using on K Street. —Do you know anything about this girl?
Mama Naitiku takes the photograph and looks at it. She turns to Mollel.
—Shore lai kishoriki enapiak, she says to him in Maa.
He remembers the expression. Old friends bring evil.
—Do you know her?
—Is she dead? Mama Naitiku asks.
—Yes.
She shudders. —I knew her. She arrived, like you, penniless. A year or so ago. She was fleeing her village. I didn’t ask why. I see so many girls like that. I assumed it was an arranged marriage that she didn’t want to go through with.
—Did anyone come looking for her? asks Kiunga. Anyone try to take her back to her village?
She shakes her head. —Not that I know of.
—This is pretty unpleasant, says Kiunga. But please think about it. When we found this girl’s body, she had been mutilated. Her genitals were slashed. Is there anything you know of—any ritual, any ceremony—that might involve that sort of thing?
—There’s the circumcision ceremony, of course, she says. But that’s done on much younger girls. I’ve heard of people dying from it. But much later, because of infection. No, done properly, there’s no danger at all. It’s not how you describe this poor girl’s wounds. Not slashing. It has to be done precisely. Delicately.
She pauses a moment. Discretion and professional pride seem to battle for an instant in her breast before she says, —I should know. I do it myself.
—It’s illegal! says Mollel.
The old woman’s posture changes. She draws herself up. —You’ve chosen the new laws, she says. I choose the old ones.
Kiunga shifts uneasily. Some of the men at the tables around them have begun to watch them with hostility. He picks up his bottle and drains it. —I think we should be going, he says. Mollel?
—Just a moment, says Mama Naitiku. What about the other girl? Have you spoken to her?
—The other girl? asks Mollel.
—Yes. I haven’t seen this girl, the dead one, for over a year. But last time she was here, she left with another Maasai girl. Well dressed. Pretty obvious where her money came from. I chased her out. I don’t allow that sort in my bar. But this poor girl followed her. If you ask me, that’s the reason she ended up killed. Not because she was a Maasai.
* * *
Outside on the street, Kiunga says, —Okay, Mollel. It looks like you were right. But we had to look into the Maasai angle.
But Mollel is silent.
—What is it, boss? Is it what she said about the circumcisions? Look, we all know it still goes on. There’s nothing we can do about it.
—It’s not that, says Mollel. It’s about what Honey said. About how she met Lucy. She told us that Lucy approached her when she had just started working the streets. That Lucy was the one who showed her the ropes, taught her how to do it properly. That doesn’t fit with what Mama Naitiku says.
—If you ask me, boss, replies Kiunga, you ought to be careful about getting too close to Honey. She’s a poko, remember? And sleeping with men is only part of what they do for a living. The rest of it is lying. And to a good poko, that’s second nature.
—What’s your problem? asks Mollel, stopping on the sidewalk. Can’t you see this attitude is what stops people like Honey from coming to the police in the first place? We’re all outsiders in one way or another, Kiunga. Why can’t you see her as another human being? Besides, you’re hardly one to lecture others on morality.
Kiunga turns and squares up to him. For a moment Mollel thinks he’s going to get hit. Then Kiunga gives a grim smile.
—I love sex, he says. I’ve never disguised it. But I love love, too. And all the girls I go with, whether it leads to anything or not, I love them. At least while we’re doing it. I’m sorry, but once money comes into it, I don’t want to know.
—You’re a hypocrite, says Mollel.
—No. Like the old woman says, I choose the rules I live by. They may not be yours, Mollel, but at least I’m consistent. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find a cold beer. And I don’t think they serve Fanta where I’m headed. Good night, Mollel.
19
TUESDAY, 25 DECEMBER 2007. CHRISTMAS DAY
He took his medication before he went to sleep, and perhaps because of it, Mollel was untroubled by dreams of blood—or of anything. But he still feels an uncharacteristic jumpiness when the doorbell to his flat rings.
—Hi, says Kiunga. Happy Christmas. Can I come in?
* * *
They stand in Mollel’s bare galley kitchen, drinking instant coffee with no milk.
—I’m sorry for what I said last night, says Kiunga. Blame it on tiredness. Frustra
tion. On your Red God.
Mollel gives a short laugh. —I guess he visited us both yesterday. Don’t worry. People have said a lot worse to me.
After a while, Kiunga continues: —You know, you’re the first partner I ever had who actually believes in proper detective work. Down at the station, there’s old Mwangi, who doesn’t give a shit. And Otieno, with his politics and his pragmatism. Then you come along, and you’re standing up for justice. You remind me of why I wanted to become a policeman in the first place. And you know, don’t you, that just because I’m suspicious of pokos doesn’t mean I don’t want justice for Lucy.
—I know that.
—Okay, says Kiunga. So I dropped by James Lethebridge’s place on the way here. His askari told me he’s gone up-country. Doesn’t know where. But if you ask me, he wasn’t telling the truth.
—No, agrees Mollel. So you’ve decided to stick with the case?
Kiunga shrugs. —It’s Christmas Day. My family’s all up-country. Why the hell not? I’ve got nothing better to do.
Mollel smiles. Then he says, —You know what the consequences might be, don’t you?
—Of course.
—Even after what Otieno said? You realize you could lose your job. I’m quite happy to go it alone. It seems like I’ve got some degree of protection. You haven’t.
—You didn’t know that when you admitted breaking in to Orpheus House.
He takes a sip of his coffee. Then he says, —Listen, Mollel, if you want people to stop following your example, you need to take a page from Mwangi’s book. Don’t give a shit. For God’s sake, he’s never going to get people fired up about things like justice.
Kiunga grins. Mollel grins back.
—We’ve got a day to try to make headway in this case before we both get dragged into election duty, says Mollel. Talking of which, where has he put you for the big day?
—Kosovo.
Mollel chuckles. —Mathare?
The slum got the nickname at the height of the Kosovo war, when images of shelled-out buildings were on the TV screens and Mathare residents recognized the similarity.
—Where will you be? Kiunga asks.
—Kibera. Otieno’s really got it in for us, hasn’t he?
Hour of the Red God Page 13