—I’m a policeman, Faith. I’m not like Harry.
—You are. You just don’t know it.
—How?
—I called the station today. You’re not supposed to be on duty. You should have been here with your son.
—I’m on a case!
—There will always be an excuse! When Chiku was killed, you got a payout you could have retired on. You had a safe nine-to-five post in the traffic division. But you got yourself switched back to CID. It’s not about the money. You could raise chickens and grow beans for all I care. But you’d be there for your son.
—You don’t understand.
—No. And neither will your son.
—It’s not going to happen, Faith. I’m grateful for your looking after him, but that’s as far as it goes.
—That’s not what my lawyer says.
—Lawyer?
—I’m sorry, Mollel, she says. Adam can have everything he needs here. A stable home, school, attention. I’m not going to lose another child.
23
WEDNESDAY, 26 DECEMBER 2007
Look to the living, not the dead.
He’d woken before dawn with Otieno’s words in his head. He was supposed to be attending a preelection briefing in Kibera, but he had time to do some more digging first.
Honey had said that the orphanage had to lodge its adoptions with the government, so he had come to the city records office.
If the baby was living, whoever had taken it would want to legitimize it as soon as possible. They would not want questions asked about why the birth was not registered sooner.
A pile of documents lands with a thud on the desk before him, raising a cloud of dust.
—Birth records, last four weeks, says the clerk.
—I asked for the last three months! protests Mollel.
—Just start on those, says the clerk. Can’t you see I’m the only one here? It is a holiday, you know.
Mollel props himself against the counter and begins to browse through the folder. It’s fairly bulky, but does not contain as many entries as he thought, as most are duplicates: a white sheet, filled in by the parent, and a pink one, by the attending physician. There are probably three or four hundred births recorded here.
—Is this a usual amount for a month?
—About usual, calls the clerk from the back of the office. Of course, more will come in over the next few weeks. We won’t close December’s file until January fifteenth.
—What happens to births recorded late?
—There’s a fine for that. They go into a separate file that gets consolidated at the end of the year.
—So this year’s won’t have been consolidated yet?
—I suppose you’ll be wanting that one too, the clerk sighs.
There’s nothing in the December file that stands out. Most of the entries are from the main hospital, Kenyatta. Several from the other big ones, the Nairobi, the Aga Khan, the Coptic. The rest are from smaller clinics. All of the information between the two sheets, white and pink, seems to match.
Mollel turns to the next bundle.
—When I started here, says the clerk, climbing a stepladder, they told me that this would all be on computer within twelve months.
—When did you start here?
—Nineteen ninety-two.
The November file is fuller, but equally unrevealing. As more files arrive, the story is the same. Nothing from Wanjiku Nalo. Nothing from Orpheus House.
—Thanks, he says to the clerk after working his way back to January.
—Did you find what you were looking for?
—I found nothing, replies Mollel.
—Oh, great! moans the clerk in dismay. I suppose you want 2006 now.
But Mollel is already out the door. Nothing is as good as something for him. It means that if there ever was a baby, it was delivered illegally.
Look to the living, not the dead.
* * *
—Let’s go pick her up, says Kiunga over the phone.
—Not yet.
—Why not? We can use Honey’s testimony and the disparity in the birth records to squeeze her. Might be able to get a confession from her that way.
—We still don’t have enough.
—The word of a poko, you mean, says Kiunga. No, we can’t give Otieno any excuse to let Wanjiku off the hook.
—How’s Kosovo? Mollel asks, changing the subject.
—Exquisite. Kiunga laughs. —But I hear Kibera’s even nicer this time of year. I’m almost envious of you.
Despite his levity, Mollel can hear the exasperation in Kiunga’s voice. He’d rather be on the case than guarding a slum polling station. Mollel will be in the same boat in the morning, but he hardly dares consider how much worse Kibera will be.
As if reading his thoughts, Kiunga says, —If I were you, I’d chill out tonight. Try to get some rest. Do you get your briefing this afternoon?
—I’m going there now. Mollel hangs up.
But he’s not going there directly. He wants to see someone first.
* * *
He’s at Honey’s apartment block in Kitengela. A gaggle of children are playing around the entrance, and they stop and gawp at him as he approaches. He thinks it strange; usually he manages to be more or less anonymous. He brushes past them. A fat woman mopping the stairs glares angrily and splashes his feet with black water.
By the time he reaches Honey’s landing, Mollel knows that something is wrong. A group of women are there, falling silent as the new arrival rounds the corner from the staircase. There are too many people here. Their eyes fall upon Mollel with cold hatred.
A low, contemptuous hiss accompanies him as he makes his way to Honey’s door. It stands open. The lock hangs uselessly from the splintered jamb.
—Dirty bastard, hisses a bystander. Another: —We got children here. Do your filthy business elsewhere.
He’s accustomed to abuse as a police officer. But this is different. He pushes his way past them, and they shrink from him as though he is infectious. On her mattress, face in her hands, sits Honey. All around her, Mollel sees her little nest destroyed: bed tipped over, cupboard facedown, drawers ransacked. On the far wall, across the window, blotting out the view of the plains, red paint: POKO.
—Whore! they yell from behind him. You’re not wanted here!
—And you should be ashamed of yourself, someone else hisses in Mollel’s ear. A jab in the ribs rams the point home.
He goes forward, and Honey flies into his arms, sobbing. He slips his hand protectively around her shoulder and takes her to the doorway.
As they step out onto the landing, Honey screams. Her hair is pulled from her head and waved triumphantly by one of the women before widening, arcing over the railing, floating like a crow to the street below.
Nails flash—Honey’s hands are to her eyes—the women descend. Mollel pushes between them, parting them, pulling them apart like the thorn gates of a boma, touching Honey, pulling her—taking her, sheltering her, crouched over her—to the staircase.
—And don’t come back! rings out behind them.
* * *
The fat old woman mopping the steps is still there. Mollel now understands the dirty look she gave him as he went up. He grasps her T-shirt and pins her to the wall.
—Who did this?
—Don’t hurt me! the old woman cries.
He pulls back his arm, his hand open.
—Mollel! yells Honey.
He lowers his hand. —Who did it?
—I don’t know.
—You know! You must have been mopping the same stair for hours. Worth the wait, was it? To see the expression on her face?
—I can’t tell you.
—You’ll tell me, says Mollel, or I’ll take you in. I’ll chuck you in prison and lose the paperwork. I’ll see you inside for the rest of your life. You got a family?
—Mollel! Honey cries again. You’re going too far!
The woman is shaking, blubbe
ring. She says something he can’t make out. Snot pours from her nose.
—Muh-muh-muh, she mutters.
—For God’s sake, Mollel! Honey claws at his arm. —Leave her! Don’t be like this! Don’t be like them!
—Mungiki, sobs the woman. It was Mungiki. Mungiki did this!
24
They manage to find a cab, eventually. On the way, Honey explains what happened. She’d gone out to get some groceries. She came back to find her apartment already trashed. She hadn’t been there long when Mollel came in.
It is past seven by the time the taxi drops them at Mollel’s apartment block, and dark. Honey puts a hand on his arm to steady herself as her heels crunch over the gravel driveway.
—Thank you for this. I really don’t have anywhere else to go. I’ll call my landlord in the morning. See about getting a new lock put on. More security.
—No, says Mollel. You think your neighbors would have you back now that they’ve found out—what you do? Besides, you can’t risk the Mungiki returning and finding you home.
But he does not believe it was Mungiki. The old woman said it was a couple of men with dreadlocks. And he knows at least one who fits that description.
—Look, he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. It’s there: small and hard and cold. He takes it out and gives it to Honey.
—Lucy’s knife, she gasps. Where did you find it?
—In the sewer. Don’t worry about that. The thing is, you might as well have it, for the time being. It has no purpose as evidence, being in the water for so long. And I don’t have anything else to give you.
—Thank you, Mollel, says Honey, a catch in her voice. You don’t know how much this means to me. It takes a murder to get anyone’s interest around here, and even then, it’s only you who seems to care, Mollel.
—Just be careful, he says. It’s for self-defense. Let’s hope you don’t need to use it.
She clasps her hands in his as she takes the knife. —You can trust me, Mollel.
He hesitates.
—What is it? she asks, sensing his doubt.
—It’s just something someone said. Honey … were you telling me the truth about how you and Lucy met?
Honey drops her eyes. —Mostly, she concedes. But you’re right. It wasn’t her who helped me get into the game. It was the other way around. Oh, Mollel—she clutches his hands tightly—you’ve got to understand. If she hadn’t been on the streets, she wouldn’t be dead. I blame myself. I didn’t want you to blame me too. I needed you on my side if you were to take me seriously. It’s hard to tell someone the whole truth. And believe me, you wouldn’t like it if I was completely open. But I promise, I won’t lie to you again.
—I believe you, says Mollel. And he opens her hands and relinquishes the knife.
* * *
When they reach the top of the stairs to the first floor, Mollel sees that the door to his apartment is open.
—Stay here.
He puts out the landing light, the better to see within, and so as not to present a silhouette.
Slowly he edges to the door: no sign of forced entry.
Lights are on inside. He hears movement.
He has no weapon now that he has given away the knife, not that it would have been much good in this situation, so, entering, he picks up an umbrella from beside the door. It’s better than nothing.
The noise of drawers opening comes from Adam’s room. He edges along the hallway, umbrella raised. As he passes the entrance to the sitting room—
—Dad!
—Adam!
—Is it raining? Grandma said we had to come and get some clothes for me. I told her I didn’t mind wearing the same clothes.
—No, but I mind, says Faith, coming out of the boy’s room with a pile of folded clothing in her hands. I’ll not have the women at church thinking my grandson is a street boy. I let myself in, she says to Mollel. I didn’t know when you’d be back.
—Can’t I stay here, now you’re home, Dad? Adam has flung his arms around Mollel’s waist.
—Best not. I’ve got to leave early for election duty tomorrow, and God knows what time I’ll be back. The next few days are going to be very difficult, Adam. Best you stay with your grandmother.
There is a cough, and the three of them turn.
—Oh, says Faith. I didn’t realize you had company.
—This is— Honey, this is my son, Adam, and his grandmother, Faith. This is Honey. Her name is Honey.
—Hi! says Honey to Adam, approaching him and placing her palm on the top of his head, crowning him. It’s a curiously Maasai gesture. Instinctively, Adam smiles.
—Well, really! says Faith. We must be going. Come along, Adam. Let’s leave your father and his—friend.
—Faith!
—No, no. I can see you’ve got your priorities. Work, indeed! And as she passes: —We’ll see what the lawyer has to say about this!
—Grandma!
—Not now, Adam.
—But Grandma! The lady—she’s crying!
* * *
There is a creature—in Maa, called en-kelesure, in English, pangolin—a hard, scaly eater of ants. It has powerful arms and long, sharp claws, and, when cornered, it will rise on its hind legs and display. Jab it with your stick or spear and it rolls into a ball. Hard. Impenetrable. Boys love to taunt such a creature when they catch one. And when they do, it always ends the same way: on the fire, blackened in the embers, the scales roasting with the smell of burned hair, sweet flesh picked straight from the shell.
Irritable, defensive, but soft inside. Sometimes Faith reminds Mollel of a pangolin.
The three adults are around the kitchen table, nursing chai.
—I never would have thought it of the Nalos. They seem like such good Christians. I mean, I know they’re not Catholic, but—
—We can’t prove anything yet, says Mollel, his sense of procedure demanding the caveat.
—Oh, come on! After all this poor girl has told us?
Faith through and through. Half an hour earlier, she could barely look at Honey. Now she’s this poor girl.
—Mollel’s right. If they killed my friend and sold her baby, who knows what else they’ve done. We have to make a strong case against them. We have to find out if there are other children—and where they are.
—Lord above, says Faith. What has this country come to? Selling our children!
—The buyers are guilty too, says Mollel. He pushes away his chai.
The gesture is noticed by Faith, who says to Honey, —It’s late. My dear, you are coming home with me.
—What? says Honey. No, I couldn’t impose.
—It is no imposition. You don’t even have any clothes with you, do you? You can borrow some of mine. And tomorrow, with the election, there’s no point going out anyway. What would you do, stay here on your own all day? No, it’s much better you come with me.
—You’re very kind.
—I think you’re owed a bit of Christian charity, don’t you, dear?
Faith calls to the sitting room. —Adam, we’re leaving soon. Before we go, Honey would like to see your video game. Can you show her?
—Sure.
As Honey walks in, the little boy excitedly begins to explain his game to her and passes her one of the controllers. He clearly relishes having someone to play with: Mollel has never done so. It’s the sort of thing Chiku would have done.
Faith closes the door on them and says to Mollel:
—Did Chiku ever tell you about Koki?
—No. Don’t think so. Who’s Koki?
Faith gets up and looks out the darkened window.
—It was rainy season. Chiku noticed a tiny puppy. Pure white. There were lots of stray dogs living near our house, but none of them seemed to be its mother. She pestered and pestered me about that dog. Mama, who’s going to look after it? Mama, it will die.
—So I took in the dog. Washed it, fed it. Got it treated for rabies, everything. I have to say, it was a cu
te little thing. And it adored Chiku. She called it Koki.
—But?
—But? It was wild. Even though it was so tiny, those days on the streets had left their mark. When it grew up, it never lost its jealousy, its temper. And if you ever came between Koki and Chiku …
She rolls up her sleeve and runs her finger along a small crescent scar on her arm.
—You can bring who you like into your house, she said quietly. But if it affects the safety of those already there—
—She was only going to stay the night, Faith. I would’ve slept on the sofa.
—Well, now she can go into my spare room. Where I can keep an eye on her.
—Believe it or not, I’m grateful. I’m not really set up for guests.
—Just be warned. If necessary, I will do anything, anything, to protect my grandson.
—Even if that means taking him away from me?
The door opens. They both look up at the same time. Honey is in the doorway.
—Adam wants to know if he can bring his video game with him.
—Sure, says Mollel. Honey turns and goes back to the sitting room.
Faith scoops her car keys from the table and rises.
—Aren’t you going to ask me what happened to Koki? she says.
—I don’t want to know, answers Mollel.
25
THURSDAY, 27 DECEMBER 2007. ELECTION DAY
Kibera. Mollel has heard that a million people live here, two million. No one knows. Least of all the government. They don’t even officially acknowledge that the settlement exists.
The slum is so close to the city center that the towers of the business district are glimpsed now and then from between the tin roofs. It seems like a different world. But the shit and trash underfoot—under everything—ends up flowing into the same river as the water from the tunnels Mollel crawled through two days earlier.
He arrives at the edge of the slum half an hour before his shift is due to start. Trying to make up for missing the briefing yesterday, he’s also concerned about getting lost. He has been into Kibera only twice before, and it would take many more than two visits to learn his way around.
As it is, he need not have worried. From the Langata Road, there are only a handful of access points, and each one is steeled with lines of GSU. He even gets a salute, and stumbles over returning it—a strange feeling, being back in uniform.
Hour of the Red God Page 16