Raila Odinga. Leader of the opposition. True or not, if that story was doing the rounds—
—This place is going to explode, says Benjamin, finishing Mollel’s thought for him.
* * *
The sound, when it comes, makes everyone stop. For a moment they hope it is something innocuous—gravel raining down on tin roofs, perhaps, or construction work somewhere. But even those unfamiliar with it—and in Kibera there are few—quickly recognize it as gunfire.
—It’s some way off yet, Mollel says.
The two tea ladies, four policemen, four officials, and one GSU officer are gathered at the entrance to the polling station. Voting is continuing, though the queue has dissipated.
Somehow, Benjamin has been accepted into their group. Mollel is glad of his presence. He does not altogether trust the ex-Mungiki man yet, but he recognizes his usefulness.
—That pop-pop-pop, that’s automatic fire. Probably intimidating fire, says Mollel. He’s not the ranking officer here—technically, that’s the GSU man—but his calm assurance has naturally gravitated all eyes toward him.
—Who’s shooting? Us or them?
—I’m guessing, them. Our guys would be firing off single rounds.
The two armed policemen tote their AKs nervously. They have only a handful of rounds between them. If a situation arises, they’re going to have to make each bullet count.
—There’s every chance the trouble won’t reach us, says Benjamin. It’s been calm here all day.
—Equally, there’s every chance it will, says Mollel. If so, all we can do is hole up and wait for relief. This building is the closest thing to shelter we have. We’ll have to make a call on closing the poll.
—As election officer, I insist that the ballots be preserved.
Mollel suppresses a smile. The small man’s terrified face is at odds with his words. But Mollel is pleased to see someone taking his job seriously.
—We’ll do our best, he promises. Now, this building is constructed from concrete blocks. I’m afraid that’s poor defense against AK-47 rounds. Our best hope is to stay in the building, and stay low. Avoid presenting a target.
—You sound like a soldier. The young policeman laughs nervously. No one else smiles.
—You two, Mollel continues, turning to the tea ladies, who are quivering, holding hands. Are you from here? Local?
They shake their heads, yes.
—You’re going to need some kind of white flag. Can you make one?
They look around them. —We have tea towels. We can find a stick.
—Okay. That’s for when assistance comes. As soon as you see the crimson helmets, you start waving that flag and you keep waving. Understood?
They nod, but it’s clear they’ve not fully understood the implications of what Mollel is saying. Probably none of them have, except Benjamin: his fixed jaw says it all. The policemen’s uniforms, the officials’ suits, even Benjamin’s smart suit—by enabling them to be quickly recognized, their clothes should afford them some measure of protection in any GSU counterassault. But the two women, wearing common Kenyan khangas and T-shirts, will have no such status. They might be seen as a threat by some trigger-happy cop. Or, in the confusion, they might end up getting the standard GSU treatment for any woman they find in their path. And that, Mollel reminds himself, is still a possible scenario for what happened to Lucy.
On reflection, he’s not sure a white flag is going to be enough.
—You stay with these two, he says to the young policeman. The man nods.
—Now, we’ve got four hours until the polls close, he continues. Then we’re out of here. So let’s do all we can to ensure that happens.
As they all return to their posts, Benjamin sidles up to Mollel.
—What’s the betting that these ballot boxes won’t make it as far as the count?
It’s the first time the thought has occurred to Mollel. He’s been wary of vote stuffing, of irregularities at the count, but he never considered that the whole ballot box might go astray. Of course, nearly every one of those papers inside the boxes must be an opposition vote. And they rely on the security services to get them out. Surely—surely—they would not be so brazen?
And the only outside observer here is Benjamin.
They have been in close proximity to each other all day, but this is the first opportunity Mollel has to speak to him properly.
—Whose side are you on? he asks frankly.
—Weren’t you listening to the sermon on Sunday? We don’t take sides.
—Oh, sure. Nalo’s a business partner of David Kingori, who’s hand in glove with the government. Don’t tell me your church is a disinterested onlooker. And as for the Mungiki—word is, they’re taking their orders directly from State House these days.
—I wouldn’t know.
—Because your Mungiki days are far behind you, right? Then who ordered your Mungiki brothers to destroy an innocent girl’s apartment?
Benjamin sighs. —That should not have happened.
—So you admit it?
—I admit nothing. But say—just say—someone’s going around making serious allegations. You’d want to find out more about them.
—You mean, the Nalos wanted to find out what she had on them?
—Put it this way, says Benjamin. Intimidation is not my style.
—So you were looking for evidence. You thought she might have something that could prove the case against them.
—If there was any so-called evidence, it would be fabricated. The allegations are false.
—Either way. You say your guys didn’t trash Honey’s place. What did they do, leave the door open?
Benjamin remains silent.
—And the neighbors did the rest, continues Mollel. They’d probably been waiting for a chance for some time.
—I think we’re understanding each other, says Benjamin.
—It doesn’t let you off the hook. If I manage to pin it on you, I’ll get you for obstructing an official investigation.
—There is no official investigation, says Benjamin. The way I hear it, you continue like this, you’ll be off the force.
—The way you hear it?
Suddenly it becomes clear to Mollel. Benjamin’s presence here today is no coincidence.
—You knew I’d been stationed here. I thought you said intimidation is not your style.
—This is not intimidation, says Benjamin. We had to find out if you were pursuing these false allegations. The fact that you know about the break-in at the girl’s flat tells me you are. In fact, I would not be surprised if you knew, very well, where she is right now. And that’s information I’m sure your superior would be very keen to hear.
But Mollel is no longer listening. He’s tuned in to something else—a sound of cries and panic underscored by a distant, yet distinct smell.
—You smell that?
—Just burning charcoal.
—No. It’s too pungent.
They rush outside, greeted on the doorstep by the sight of the young policeman dealing with a group of wild-eyed youths.
—I’m telling you, we don’t have a fire extinguisher, the policeman is saying.
Mollel looks up. Black smoke is pounding into the air, the occasional flame leaping into the sky.
—What’s burning?
—One house, says one of the youths. But it will spread.
—Where can we get water here?
—Down at the stream. It’s nearly dry.
—Put a call in to the command post, Mollel orders the GSU man. Tell them to raise the fire brigade.
—There’s no way they’d get a fire truck in here!
—No, but with some extinguishers and a bucket chain from the stream, we should be able to get this under control.
He and Benjamin run with the youth to the scene of the fire. It’s about three rows back from the polling station. A woman stands in the alley, a few pitiful possessions around her, a baby clutched tightly to her c
hest. She is crying.
—Anyone inside?
—No.
—All the neighbors out?
Mollel can see that the inhabitants of the neighboring shacks are leaving little to chance, throwing mattresses, furniture, and foodstuff out of their doorways. This has the undesirable effect of further obstructing the alleyway, which is already crowded with onlookers.
—It was Mungiki! cries one bystander. Mollel wheels around and grabs him by the shirt.
—Did you see them?
—No, but others did! They set the fire, then ran off over the rooftops!
—She was cooking indoors, shouted a woman. She always does it! We told her it was dangerous, but would she listen?
—It was Mungiki, I tell you!
Mollel delivers the man a powerful slap with his open hand, and the man slumps to the ground. —Shut up! You think we need panic now, on top of everything else?
—I think you may be too late, says Benjamin.
They look up to see a gang of young men rounding the corner of the alley. They are carrying pangas and sticks.
—Ha! So the polisi are here! shouts the leader. Not in time to stop their friends the Mungiki from burning Kibera to the ground!
Mollel looks behind him desperately. The crowd is thick in that direction, too. They gasp as the second building begins to burn. Benjamin has started frantically punching on his mobile phone, but the leader of the gang steps forward and knocks it from his hand with a stick.
—I’m trying to get help to put this fire out, he cries.
—Get help for this! shouts the youth, and brings the stick down toward Benjamin’s head. Benjamin parries it with his forearm, and Mollel hears the cracking of bone.
—Ask her! Mollel is amazed to hear his voice reaching a scream. —Ask her! It’s her house! She can tell you how the fire started!
He points to the woman with the baby, but she is still crying, and she raises her face to him dumbly, tears and mucus running down her chin.
By now, flames are leaping from the top of three shacks in this alleyway, and Mollel is sure that those behind must also be ablaze. The fire is out of control. Benjamin, cradling his shattered arm, is slumped to his knees, Mollel supporting him. They are less than twenty meters from the polling station and his armed colleagues. He considers shouting for them, but even if they could hear his cries, they would not come for him. They would not be foolish enough to abandon their post. He wildly scans the faces around him, looking for someone who might speak up for them, might offer them some mercy. But he finds none. The faces stare back blankly at two men who are about to die.
—Enough!
The voice is familiar, but wholly unexpected. Mollel has only heard him speaking softly, meekly. But now, all eyes turn to the blind man. Superglue Sammy holds his cane aloft like a sword. His face is full of rage, and spit flies from his lips as he shouts, —These are not our enemy! They’re trying to help!
—They’re in league with the Mungiki! And the government!
—This Maasai? I’ve known him fifteen years. Do you know who he is? He’s the one who pulled a hundred people out of the American embassy the day it was bombed!
A strange hush comes over the mob. Mollel’s story—if not the man himself—is widely known, even in the depths of Kibera.
—Yes, he’s the one. He’s the one who kept going back, kept bringing out survivors even though his own wife was among the dead. And how did the government reward him?
Sammy has tapped his way around to Mollel and Benjamin. —You know what they did. They demoted him, sent him away for daring to speak the truth about what goes on in the police department! He’s no government stooge! He’s on our side!
Mollel looks up. The youths are lowering their weapons, but the fire is breathing down his neck. He can feel his skin singeing.
—If he is who you say he is, Sammy—
—He is!
—Come on, boys, the leader says grudgingly. It’s getting hot around here.
The gang members turn to leave.
—No, wait!
It is Benjamin.
—Don’t go. We need you—and your pangas.
—He’s right, says Mollel. There’s no chance of putting out this fire now. We’ve got to create a firebreak.
Energized, he reels off commands. Take down any structure within three meters of the fire. Pull out everything inside, take it away from the flames. What little water they have—stinking, brown, in pans and sufurias—should not be wasted on the flames, but instead used to douse the roofs and walls of the shacks on the other side of the firebreak. Meanwhile, anyone left without a task should be on hand with a blanket or a broom, to tamp sparks.
It’s remarkable—even in this confusion Mollel notices it—how biddable the gang has become. Their rage has evaporated, and they take their orders with relish. With a newly instilled sense of purpose, they dash off to their duties.
Benjamin groans. —We should not hang around.
Mollel agrees. The two of them stagger back to the polling station. The door is closed. They hammer on it and call, and one of the armed policemen raises his muzzle over the sill of the unglazed window.
—It’s you! he says. We thought you were dead.
—Just let us in!
They go in. —They’re not letting the fire brigade through, says the GSU man once they’re inside. To his credit, he seems embarrassed by the decision. But Mollel ignores him. He runs over to one of the officials’ desks, pulls it to a window, and jumps up. From there, he can reach to the outside, where he is able to pull himself up onto the flat concrete roof.
—Wait for me!
Mollel lowers his hand, and Benjamin offers him his good arm, wincing as Mollel pulls him up.
The roof of the school is concrete and baking in the sun, and the heat from the nearby blaze stings the skin on their cheeks and eyes. Mercifully, the thick smoke is trailing almost straight up on this windless day, affording them a clear view of nearly all of Kibera.
For a moment they turn from the fire and take in the panorama before them.
* * *
The black smoke carves a deep groove in the blue sky, serving to highlight the crystalline clearness of the view. On the horizon is the city, the skyscrapers looking close enough to touch. Then the lush green of trees abruptly cuts along a geometric boundary, stopping against red—the earth-red, rust-red, iron-red roofs of the slum, rolling like furrowed fields, a corrugated carpet, down the valley and flipping up the other side. In the fold sits a fine mist, like morning haze.
—Tear gas, says Mollel.
—That’s Old Kibera, confirms Benjamin, his words accompanied by a renewed pop-pop-popping, and they hear a whiz of bullets over their heads.
They both drop.
—So much for not presenting a target. Benjamin laughs.
They crawl to the edge and look over. Below them, they can see the gang clearing the firebreak. Five of them have taken the tin roof off one shack and are now pushing and rolling the thin wooden structure below, while an elderly woman—the occupant, no doubt—looks on, sobbing. With a crash and a cloud of dust, the walls collapse.
—Look, says Benjamin.
Children are scampering into the flattened shack, weaving through the legs of the demolition team, picking up whatever they can find, all accompanied by the screams of the owner. The young men hardly heed the kids as they begin hurling everything they can lay their hands on out of the fire’s path. They’re just in time, too; flames are already beginning to encroach across the gap. The children dance away, laughing. The peril is nothing to them.
Meanwhile, Mollel sees that several other shacks have come down. The gang is working well. A rough square is being formed around the blaze, and the roofs and walls disappear all around while water hisses from buckets onto the sunbaked roofs of the houses beyond.
—They’re doing a good job, says Benjamin.
—Let’s hope so, Mollel replies. They don’t have much time
.
Suddenly Mollel sees something that makes him lurch with desperate fear. Emerging from the smoke in one of the newly created clearings, stumbling over debris: —Sammy!
The blind man has his hand out, flapping futilely for a wall, searching in vain for a navigation point.
Mollel leaps to his feet. Benjamin stands too. Together, they shout out desperately, trying to raise the attention of some of the gang below. But their cries are lost in the tumult of destruction.
—He doesn’t know where he is!
—Oh God, oh God, cries Benjamin.
Sammy turns, trying to judge by sound a safe passage. He puts his hand up to gauge the heat—and makes a decision which way to go.
The wrong decision.
—No, Sammy! No!
A flaming shack collapses a few feet before him; debris scatters at his feet. He stumbles, drops his cane. He wheels around helplessly.
He trips, sinks to his knees. The fire is almost upon him. He puts his hands up to his sightless eyes, skin crackling and peeling in the heat.
—I’m going, yells Mollel.
—No!
But Mollel is already over the ledge. As he leaps, he hears the whizzing of bullets. He is not even aware of landing. He runs to the fire. He runs so slowly he seems to cover no ground at all. And yet within an instant he is among the choking smoke.
He hears Benjamin’s voice, though he can’t make out what he’s shouting. He looks back at the school roof. Through the smoke, he can just see him standing on the edge, indifferent to bullets. He is pointing frantically ahead of Mollel.
He takes a breath.
He plunges into blackness.
27
THE HONEYGUIDE
Once there was a girl who was sent by her mother to collect berries. Before she even started to pick the berries, she was approached by a little bird. The bird told her, “These berries are sweet, but I know of something sweeter still. It is my secret. I would like to share it with you, but because I do not wish others to know of it, you must close your eyes. Follow the sound of my voice.”
The girl closed her eyes and followed the sound of the little bird’s voice. The bird guided her well, patiently sitting on branches while the girl rounded thickets and crossed streams.
Hour of the Red God Page 18