—Watch it! shouts Kiunga. You nearly landed us in it!
—Look at this.
They both peer down at their feet. There, on the ledge, is what can only be described as a bed.
One of the most disgusting and precarious beds Mollel has ever seen, one that makes Superglue Sammy’s hideout in the bushes look like the Nairobi Hilton, but a bed, nonetheless.
A strip of unfolded cardboard carton is topped with a pile of filthy blankets. A crumpled porn magazine completes the scene.
—And our friend Kingori thinks he’s the only one with a luxury pad in the center of town! says Kiunga.
A distant sound of cheering rises from beyond the grille. Mollel has no option but to walk over the bed; he shudders as he treads gingerly across it, reaching the other side near the grille. From there, bending down, he can just make out the end of the corrugated pipe, but the small circle of light is too dazzling, in contrast to the darkness, for him to see anything further. He seizes the grille and tries to raise it, but it does not shift.
He stands up and peers back.
—Look, that’s the tunnel we came in from, he says.
Above the tunnel, just discernible, are three scratched lines. Above the next inlet, a cross. The next one, another cross. The same for the next two. Then, the final inlet pipe—barely wider than the ledge they are standing on and at shoulder height—with three lines above it.
—And there’s our way out.
* * *
Nairobi’s matatus still run on Christmas Day, though there are fewer of them, and those that are running hike up the fare. That’s why there are only a handful of people waiting at the stand to witness a manhole cover pop open and Mollel emerge, coughing.
He bends down and extends his hand to Kiunga, who squelches to a low fence where some of the waiting passengers sit. He examines his clothes with dismay.
The people near him get up and move away.
—What? protests Kiunga. You’re too good to sit next to an officer of the law?
He takes off one of his shoes and drains it on the ground. He groans.
* * *
Meanwhile, Mollel crosses the road and heads for the center of the Globe Roundabout. It is a large open patch, supposedly earmarked for development for as long as anyone can remember, but mostly used as an impromptu matatu depot. Today it’s uncannily quiet, apart from the sound Mollel and Kiunga had heard echoing up through the tunnel. A group of about twenty skinny, raggedy street boys—chokora—have taken the opportunity to grab some space for themselves, and they whoop and cheer, delirious with the opportunity to play.
Although all the chokora playing here probably live and work the streets within a short radius of this spot, none of them has ever played in the public park just three blocks away. Once, street boys infested the park as they do the sewers. But they were an inconvenience, so everyone was happy when they stopped seeing them in Uhuru Park, and few people asked questions. Perhaps it’s only among the chokora that memory persists of the cleanup—the GSU, the raid, the beatings—and the faces and street names of the boys who were never seen again.
Mollel approaches them with caution, knowing that the sight of a policeman is usually enough to send them scattering. But today they hardly pay him any attention. It could be because of his unusual appearance—battered and stained, trousers soaked from the knee down—or it could be because they are too absorbed in their own game, gleefully kicking around a football.
A plastic orange football.
* * *
—What do you want, old man? The game’s full!
—I just want a word with you.
—You stink of mavwi. Get lost.
—I want to buy that ball off you.
That gets their interest.
—You know, I think you guys have talent. I really do. With a proper football and a bit of practice, you might make it on the team for Mathare United.
One of the older boys, almost the same height as Mollel but as skinny as a Samburu goat, approaches him warily.
—You’ve made a mistake, old man. We’re not the kind of boys you’re looking for. You want them, you need to go to Mombasa.
They laugh raucously.
—Panya will let you touch him for fifty bob!
—I will not!
—Make it a hundred, then!
That gets an even bigger laugh.
—No, no, says Mollel. That’s not what it’s about. Come, with the money I’ll give you, you could buy a decent leather ball. Much better than that cheap plastic one.
He notices that one of the smaller boys, the one they called Panya, has picked up the orange ball and is hugging it to his chest. He is frowning, annoyed at Mollel’s dismissal of his prize possession. How old is he? It’s hard to tell. He’s no bigger than Adam, who, at nine, is already up to Mollel’s chest. But Adam is well nourished and healthy. Even Panya’s childish features are no indication of age in a street boy. The only thing to go on is the eyes: how wary are they, how cautious? From the way he hangs back now, glancing about him, Mollel reckons that despite his baby face, Panya is about fifteen.
—Hey, he says to Panya. Tell you what, I’ll give you five hundred shillings.
Panya shakes his head.
—Six hundred. Think about it.
—Go on, Panya, urge the others. We need a real ball to play with.
The boy comes closer, eyes on Mollel, but ever grasping the ball to his chest.
—You can even keep that one, says Mollel. I’ll give you the money anyway. All I want is some information …
As soon as he utters the word information, a cry goes up: —Polisi!
The boys scatter, but Mollel lunges out and grabs Panya by the arm.
—I knew you were no good, the boy hisses, writhing and twisting in Mollel’s grip. Damn polisi and your information!
Kiunga hobbles up. —Sorry, Mollel. I tried to put my shoes back on, and I just … couldn’t. Did I miss anything important?
—I got the one that matters. His name is Panya.
—Oho. So you’re the little rat whose nest we found in the sewers?
Panya makes to bite Mollel’s arm, but Kiunga grabs his head. For a moment the three of them struggle, and Mollel is struck by the sad thought that two grown men can attempt to subdue a small boy in the middle of the day, in full view of passengers waiting for their bus, and no one—no one—does anything.
Welcome to Nairobi.
—Had enough? asks Kiunga once they’ve got Panya back under control. The boy spits at him.
—Spit all you like, says Kiunga. I’m going to wash myself in bleach when I get home anyway.
—Relax, urges Mollel. We don’t want to hurt you, and you’re not in trouble. Sawa?
He lets go, and the boy snatches his wrist back and rubs it.
—I’m serious about the money. You can have it if you tell us where you got that ball.
—I didn’t steal it!
—I know. You found it, right?
Panya nods.
—In the drain? Where you sleep?
—Yeah. It got washed down there. About half an hour ago. I reckoned some kid had lost it in the park. That’s where most of the drains come in from. I only took it so the others would let me hang out with them. They don’t, usually.
—How long have you been living there?
—Few weeks.
—Have you ever found anything else down there? Anything unusual?
The boy mutters something.
—What’s that? What are you saying?
Kiunga shakes him. He mutters again. Mollel still doesn’t catch what he says.
—The dirty magazine, explains Kiunga.
—We don’t care about that. Anything else?
He shakes his head.
—How about—don’t be alarmed—a body? A baby’s body?
The boy’s eyes widen, and instinctively he steps back. —No! Oh, no! Nothing like that!
Mollel tries to suppress his disappo
intment. He reminds himself that no body at least means that the baby might still be alive. But he can’t help wishing for the breakthrough that would help him make this case.
—Any clothing? continues Kiunga. Women’s clothes? Shoes?
Panya is starting to edge away from them. Kiunga puts his hand on his neck.
—What is it, Panya?
The boy puts his arm behind his back, as if struggling to free himself. But when he whips his hand back, something glints from his fist.
Kiunga releases him and steps away. The boy holds the knife forward. His hand is shaking. The blade is small, only two inches long. But it is cruel.
—What’s that, Panya? Is that what you found?
—Stay back! You’d better leave me alone!
With a swift, fluid movement, Kiunga swirls his arm toward Panya’s and grabs his wrist. At the same time, he clasps his other hand around the boy’s fist and prizes the knife from between his fingers.
—Not very clever, Panya, he says. He releases him, and the boy slumps to the ground.
Kiunga passes the knife to Mollel. It is leaf-shaped, razor sharp, cut from flat metal plate. The handle—no longer than the blade itself—is wrapped in a strip of greasy, worn leather.
Panya mutters, —I saw it, shining. Down at the bottom of the water. Thought it might be a ten-bob coin. I jumped in, picked it out. I thought it might be useful. You never know when you might need something like that. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.
—You’ve told us enough, says Mollel. Here. He takes a thousand-shilling note from his wallet. —It’s yours. Don’t go spending it on chang’aa, or glue, or whatever.
—I won’t.
Panya takes the money, then scurries after the orange ball, which is still on the ground. He lets out a childish laugh, as though he cannot believe his luck. As he runs away, Mollel shouts to him, —Happy Christmas!
—What’s Christmas? the boy shouts back.
22
The pilao, at lunchtime, must have been delicious—steaming, fluffy white rice, a few grains every handful dyed a festive red or green. Chicken flesh falling off the bone. Now the rice is sticky and hard, blackened where it has caught the pan. The chicken is greasy and cold.
Mollel pushes it around his plate.
—No appetite? says Faith.
He shakes his head.
—I’m glad you came home before he went to bed. He was wondering if you’d make it at all.
—It took longer than I thought. Then I had to go back to the flat to change.
He wrinkles his nose. He can still smell the sewer inside his nostrils, like the smell of carrion.
—I want to talk to you, Mollel.
—Is it about the football? He pushes his plate away. —I’m sorry about that. I know you’d just bought it. Tell me where you got it, and as soon as the shops are open again, I’ll get a replacement.
—It’s not about the football. Though how you could take away the boy’s present on Christmas Day … some Christmas he’s had!
Mollel has learned over the years to let his mother-in-law’s chastisements wash over him. But tonight he feels a pang of remorse. True, Christmas meant nothing to him. But he recalled the boy’s excitement at seeing him turn up, and the disappointment in his eyes when he left. It was like the moment when the bike got out of control. Mollel just didn’t know what to do. When it came to his son, he never seemed to know what to do.
He looks over at the frail woman sitting opposite him. She isn’t even old, but something about her manner always makes her seem so. For a moment he feels an urge to reach his hand over the table to hers; it’s a fleeting thought, rejected. In all the years he’s known her, there has never been any physical contact between them apart from a brush of his lips against her cheek on his wedding day. And he felt her shudder that time, however much she attempted to suppress it.
She is looking down, composing herself. Her lips move, as though recalling rehearsed lines. And now he feels unnerved, on guard. He senses an imminent attack, but the quarter is unfamiliar. He’d rather take on the Mungiki than this small woman.
—I want to talk about Chiku’s father.
That was certainly unexpected.
—Did she ever tell you about him? Faith continues.
—Of course. Many times. She worshipped him.
—Yes. What did she tell you?
Mollel puffs out his cheeks. —Well, that he was a Mau Mau hero. Fought the English. Turned down a cabinet post from Kenyatta. She always said there could have been a Harry Ngugi Street in town if he’d wanted it.
—All true.
—And then he saw the way the wind was blowing. Corruption, dictatorship. Tribal politics. It wasn’t what he fought for. After Tom Mboya was killed, he became disillusioned. He dropped out of politics, became a teacher. Died of a broken heart.
Faith sighs. —That is not so true.
Mollel looks at her with surprise. —She lied?
—No, she didn’t, says Faith. I did.
* * *
—Frankly, our family had done well out of the English. My father had risen to foreman at the plantation. That meant we got our own front door, some space to raise some chickens, a vegetable patch. And I got sent to school.
Then, a new teacher came. And the word was, he’d been Mau Mau. I was afraid. Convinced he’d come and slit our throats in the night.
And yet I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I remember the day I had the revelation. I was shocked. I felt like I’d left my own body and had shot up to the ceiling and bobbed there like a cork. I knew then that it wasn’t terror I felt. He was simply the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life.
You must realize, even though this was some years after Uhuru, we knew very little about how it had all come about. We had only one history book at school, and that was all English kings. What we heard about Mau Mau was mostly horror stories from the newspapers. It was in Kenyatta’s interest to keep those stories going. He’d turned against Mau Mau by that time: too much of a threat to his interests.
So when this teacher sat there telling us his tales, we were spellbound. He spoke so softly, sometimes we had to strain to hear him. But we never interrupted. It was as though he were speaking to himself as much as to us. His arrest, his escape. How he’d broken into the camp and led his whole village to freedom.
Massacres. Administration Police, mostly Luos and Luhyas, killing twenty, fifty prisoners at a time. The truck would stop in the middle of the night and the back would drop down …
Secret meetings. In the forest. In hotels. Kampala, Khartoum, Cairo. Suitcases full of dollars, trucks full of guns. It made me tingle, hearing about our nation being formed, being just inches away from someone who formed it.
He was a gentleman. He didn’t propose until I’d graduated from school. I was hoping my father would be outraged, but he took the news well. He always loved the elites, and Harry Ngugi was the new elite.
Except that he was already a long way from the elite. He knew how to handle a rifle, but not a committee. He was disgusted when he saw Kenyatta shaking hands with the English. He became an embarrassment. He drank.
He kept holding out for a better offer, even as the offers got worse and worse. Schools minister. Ambassador to Hungary. A professorship. A lecturing post. Headmaster. Schoolmaster. He took that one. Back to teaching, the job he’d qualified for ten years before. A small village school near Kiambu …
Chiku came along. She adored her father from the first day. The first minute. They put her on my chest and she just scowled. Then he held her, whispered to her, and she opened her eyes. She just knew him. She just looked at him, drinking him in. As if saying, So this is what you look like.
I’d never before seen two people fall in love with each other at the same time. I’ve never seen it since.
He lost his job. Used to go to Nairobi or Thika, looking for old friends to borrow money from. They were fond of him. Many had links with struggles elsewhere. He was
offered work in Tanzania.
—Training rebels, Mollel says. Chiku told me about it. Fighters from the south. Rhodesia. She said he taught the leaders of the continent.
—After he’d been gone a month, Faith continues, I got word from the camp. They were still waiting for him to start. He’d never turned up. He rolled home half a year later, broke. Camp not paying on time, he said. Chinese money not coming through. I never told him I knew the truth.
Chiku was ten. She organized a harambee to welcome her father home. A ten-year-old. The whole village came. Everyone put something in the hat—ten bob, a hundred bob. Money to liberate our African brothers.
He couldn’t even find the vein when he slaughtered the goat. He virtually hacked its head off. I had to step in, hold it down. He said it was emotion. But he was drunk.
We didn’t see him again for over a year. As far as Chiku knew, as far as anyone in the village knew, he was fighting in some foreign country, leading the resistance. But I heard reports. Someone told me they’d seen him in Tigoni with a woman and kids. It wasn’t even an hour away. I went. It was true.
I told him, if you want to write Chiku a letter, you’d better do it now. His hand was shaking. He dated it “Somewhere outside Windhoek,” a month before. It was a nice touch: he was an accomplished liar.
—I think I still have that letter among her things, says Mollel.
—I told her, Your daddy died fighting for what he believed in. Your daddy was a hero.
* * *
Mollel takes a drink of his water. His curiosity has not eliminated his sense of foreboding.
—And you never told her the truth?
—That her father was a polygamist, an alcoholic? That he abandoned her?
—Yes.
She shakes her head. —Her imaginary father was better than the real one.
—Why are you telling me this now, Faith?
—I want custody of Adam, she says. I want you to sign him over to me.
* * *
—It’s not like it will make much difference, she says in response to Mollel’s silence. He spends so much of his time here, anyway. You can still see him, of course. But look, he idolizes you. Let him continue. Just—at a distance.
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