After a short while, a GSU officer comes over. Like the others, he’s tall, over six feet, and wears the paramilitary dark green. Instead of a helmet, though, he wears a crimson beret. At the sight of Kiunga, he grimaces. He does not even bother to look at Mollel. The guard looms threateningly at his shoulder.
—So you’re lieutenant now, Shitkicker? says Kiunga.
—And you’re still a constable? No surprise there.
—Detective constable.
—Great. So you get the same pay, but have to work in your own clothes. Well done.
—I wondered if this might be your regiment, says Kiunga. I notice your boys have all removed their unit insignia. Makes it kind of difficult working out who’s who.
—What do you want, Kiunga?
—Well, much as I’d love to stand around and reminisce, says Kiunga, we’ve got a murder investigation to conduct. The body was found just inside the park, here. We think the victim was killed, or dumped here, around the time your colleagues were conducting their little hush-hush nighttime recce of the site. We’d like to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.
—I do mind. And what’s this you’ve been saying about the other night?
—Just that we know you were here. We have witnesses. And it would be helpful to know whether you or any of your men saw anything that might help us with our investigation.
—We were not here. This is the first time that any GSU have been near this park. Isn’t that right, Mwathi?
—That’s right, Lieut, says the sergeant. Besides, they can’t have a witness, ’cause no one saw us.
Kodhek rolls his eyes, and Kiunga and Mollel try to hide their smiles.
—Look, says Mollel. A girl was killed on Friday night. Her body was found there, in the drainage ditch. We’re not accusing you lot of anything. We just want to verify a few things.
—Come back when the trouble’s over.
—Oh yeah? When’s that going to be? Do you know something we don’t? Like the fact that there was always going to be trouble in the first place?
Kodhek stares at him mutely. Kiunga decides on a change of tack, and adopts a friendly tone.
—Come on, Shitkicker, pleads Kiunga. How’s that sweet little sister of yours? She must be about twenty, right?
—You leave my sister out of this, warns Kodhek. The guard at his side bristles, ready for the order to attack.
—I’m just saying, says Kiunga. I’m just saying, this girl. The one we found in the ditch. She was about twenty. Just like your sister.
—That girl, spits Kodhek, was nothing like my sister.
Then, realizing he’s said too much, he barks, —Mwathi! Get rid of these two. If they’re not off this site in two minutes, chuck them in the happy wagon.
He turns on his heel and storms back into the truck, slamming the door behind him.
—You heard him. Get moving.
Mwathi has a pickax handle in his hand, and he swings it menacingly. He gestures to the park exit, which is guarded by a line of languid troops, many of them holding or leaning on the same standard-issue club.
—This way.
He leads them around the back of a canvas-covered truck and looks over his shoulder. Kiunga readies his stance for a fight. But Mwathi puts down his club and leans it against the wheel of the truck.
—It’s all right, I just want to talk to you. That girl was twenty years old, you say? I got a daughter that age myself.
Kiunga grins. —You don’t look old enough.
—Save the flattery. We got to make this quick. If the lieut finds out I’ve been talking to you …
—Sawa sawa, says Mollel. What have you got to tell us?
—You were right, says Mwathi. We were here that night. I don’t know if the bosses had prior warning of trouble or not. All we were told was that we had to prepare in secret, otherwise it wouldn’t look good. We got here around eleven.
Just as Sammy said, thinks Mollel.
—Anyway, just as we come in—four buses, lights off—we see a couple come out of the bushes, there.
—By the ditch? asks Mollel.
—Yes.
—Did you see them yourself? Can you describe them?
—Like I say, it was dark. But we knew what they’d been up to. The boys in the bus had a good laugh. They were pretty mismatched. She towered over him. We couldn’t make out much of her in the darkness. But him, though! That was the funny thing. White hair, white skin. Showed up, even in the darkness. A mzungu. The two of them were pretty startled, I reckon, ’cause they ran off to their car. A nice four-by-four, silver or white, I think. Drove off as fast as they could.
—Did they hit one of the posts as they left? asks Mollel.
—Not that I noticed.
They’re interrupted by the arrival of twenty or so GSU, fully rigged up in riot gear. They storm past Mwathi and the two policemen and start plunging into the back of the truck.
—Where are you off to? shouts Mwathi.
—The KICC, one shouts back. They need reinforcements at the count.
—Any chance of a lift? yells Mollel.
The truck roars into life.
—The lieut told me to get you out of here. He didn’t say how!
Mwathi gives Mollel and Kiunga a leg up to the back of the truck. They squeeze onto the bench, attracting quizzical looks from the riot troops.
The truck is already moving as Mwathi pushes up the tailgate and Kiunga locks it into place. Mwathi gives the two policemen a wave as the truck sweeps through the cordon and out of the park.
Kiunga leans over and says in Mollel’s ear, —You know, sometimes you could mistake a GSU man for a human being.
Mollel looks at the blank, visored faces all around him.
—Only sometimes, he says.
30
The truck is too loud for conversation, but even if it hadn’t been, the scene outside would have quelled any words.
Even the GSU men seem shocked by the city.
The truck bowls down Kenyatta Avenue, the traffic lights even more inconsequential than usual.
Outside the truck, there is not a single human being in sight.
* * *
The shops are shut, shuttered. As they speed past Simmers, even that legendary Nairobi sleazepot is closed. No Lingala music drifts from behind the tables, which are tipped and hastily placed across the doorway as a makeshift barrier. A yellow dog trots down the sidewalk, her triangular teats flapping, ribs bare. She glances at a couple of white-shouldered crows going through a garbage bag, decides they would put up a better fight than she could, and slinks away. In the slipstream of the truck, pieces of paper and plastic whirl and eddy, then join the downdraft from the avenue’s skyscrapers, floating upward to where gray eagles, exuberant as the new masters of the city, gyre and scream.
The eye rises: above the steel-shuttered storefronts, signage proclaims barbershops, beauty salons, gymnasiums, even a marriage bureau—the first to third floors seem the preserve of the body and heart. Higher, more hand-painted signs: business colleges, stockbrokers, import-export agents. The upper floors are home to the speculative and aspirational. Perhaps they’re the only ones who can manage the stairs.
These buildings speak of a different era, optimistic but shortsighted. The growth of this city was never anticipated. Six, seven stories were thought to be enough. Never intended for multiple tenants, the buildings bear the scar of each subsequent resident: windows boarded up like broken teeth, air-conditioning units hanging from them like cigarettes from a lip. Their roofs are ridged in slate or terra-cotta tiles, patched here and there with sheets of galvanized steel. So much for what Nairobi might have been.
But beyond, the glinting skyscrapers of the new Nairobi look down impassively. The twin towers of the Nation Centre; the blue mirror-glass of the Standard Building, reflecting its taller, stockier cousin, Lonrho House, across the street. The glass elevators of the ICEA Building hang static from the sides. There are no passengers today.<
br />
And over and above them all, the first sign of humanity Mollel has seen since leaving Uhuru Park. On the lip of the helipad atop the KICC tower, a plump military helicopter wobbles into the air and wallows a moment before pointing its head down purposefully and speeding away.
The Kenyatta International Conference Centre, its tower the most distinctive, if no longer the highest, in the whole city, crowned with its dinner plate of a helipad. It’s like the chimney of a termite mound, an expression of the energy and ambition of what lies beneath. The conference center itself is a city within a city, a statement of Nairobi’s intent to proclaim itself a world destination. A pin stuck in the map.
The truck dives off Kenyatta Avenue the wrong way up a one-way street and into the administrative district: City Hall, Parliament. Life is back on the streets, even if the majority of it is crimson helmeted. As they approach the gates of the KICC, the truck slows, and halts for a moment while the GSU officers attempt to make way for it. A woman is there with a sheaf of papers.
—I’m an electoral official, she is shouting. You cannot deny me access to the count!
In her fury, she spills the papers and they scatter in the wind. The GSU men laugh. Nearby, a TV reporter is trying to shoot a piece to camera.
—Some moments ago, he shouts into his microphone, all media outlets and observers were ejected from the KICC. Despite early exit polls predicting a landslide victory for the opposition, recent official results have shown the government edging ahead. It’s unclear …
A GSU officer, baton in hand, interposes himself between the reporter and the cameraman and thrusts his free hand into the lens. As the scene descends into a scuffle, the truck’s engine roars to life again.
—We’re going in, says Mollel.
* * *
WELCOME TO THE KENYATTA INTERNATIONAL CONFERENCE CENTRE, proclaim the red letters on the massive LED screen. Below it, a barricade of GSU men, elbows interlocked, three deep and at least thirty wide, stand at the base of the stairs to the main entrance. The truck Mollel and Kiunga arrived in has driven off, having disgorged its occupants. Somehow, because they leaped out first, their presence is not questioned, and as their traveling companions race up the steps to join the picket, Mollel and Kiunga do the same. In the shuffling to accommodate the newcomers, the two policemen manage to slip through, and they find themselves at the glass doors of the main entrance. The doors are locked.
Kiunga pounds on the glass and cups his hands to look inside. The face of one of the KICC’s private security guards appears. Little more than a teenager, he looks terrified. Kiunga slams his police ID against the window.
—Let us in, he shouts.
The youth withdraws. Then there is the sound of a chain slipping, and the door opens a crack.
—We’re only supposed to let in army and GSU, he says.
—We’re police, says Kiunga. We’re all supposed to be on the same side.
—Until a couple of hours ago, says the youth, I didn’t even know there were sides.
He opens the door wide enough for them to come in, then hurriedly closes it and replaces the chain.
Inside, twenty or more private security guards stand awkwardly. The arrival of the GSU has left them feeling usurped, redundant. Toy soldiers.
—We’re looking for David Kingori, says Mollel. Anyone seen him?
The guards avoid eye contact and resist answering. They are used to obeying authority. Now they are unsure who the authority is. Eventually one says, —I think I saw him in the Plenary Hall.
—Which way is that? asks Mollel.
Relieved to have a question they can answer, the guards point in unison to a staircase.
—Thank you, says Kiunga with a sarcastic bow. You’ve really earned your overtime today, boys.
* * *
On the staircase, Kiunga says, —How did you know Kingori was here, boss?
Mollel thinks of the little battery radio he found in the park, the news report he heard on it.
—Sammy told me, he says.
Kiunga looks confused for an instant but lets it pass.
—Our GSU witness has Lethebridge and Lucy walking away from where the body was found, he says.
—It might not have been Lucy, replies Mollel. He said it was a tall woman, remember? Lucy was not so tall. But Wanjiku Nalo is.
Kiunga puffs out his cheeks. —Seems a vague sort of identification.
It is. If only Sammy could have identified her voice, but that is no longer a possibility.
—But we have Lethebridge there, continues Mollel. He does nothing without Kingori’s say-so. If we can get Kingori to connect Lucy with Wanjiku and Nalo, we’ll have enough for an arrest.
—Yes, replies Kiunga, but who?
—Come on.
* * *
At the top of the staircase is a wide landing. The entrance to the Plenary Hall is crowded, and there are more scuffles. Incongruously, the benches along the walls of this space are full of people either sleeping or sitting with their heads in their hands, as if in a waiting room. They seem either inured to the kerfuffle or studiously ignoring it.
—Let me in, booms a familiar voice. Don’t you know who I am?
Mollel pulls Kiunga back behind a pillar. Otieno is arguing with a pair of plainclothes detectives in smart suits and sunglasses. One of them has his hand on Otieno’s chest, and possibly for the first time ever, Otieno seems dwarfed by another man.
—I’m Otieno, head of Central CID, he shouts. I’m part of this.
—Go and catch some criminals, old man, scoffs one of the plainclothes officers. Better still, go home. Plenty of crooks in Luo land. Leave the politics to the big boys.
—You’ve not heard the last of this, thunders Otieno. He turns on his heel, and Mollel and Kiunga duck back behind the pillar as he storms past them.
—That was close, says Kiunga. But if he can’t get in, we haven’t got a chance.
—But we don’t need to get in, says Mollel. We just need to find Kingori. He points up to where the double-height foyer overlooks the upper windows of the Plenary Hall. There is a walkway there.
* * *
From where they stand, the true expanse of the Plenary Hall can be appreciated. George Nalo’s church could be dropped inside and still leave room for parking. But every inch of the space is packed. And despite the chaos outside, the activity has a diligent, harmonious quality to it, emphasized by the almost complete lack of sound getting through the glass. Steel boxes of ballots are brought in and upturned beside large trestle tables. Several figures around each table descend immediately on the papers and start stacking and sorting them methodically, mechanistically. Other figures are seated, inputting data on machines.
—There are hundreds of people there, says Kiunga. How are we going to spot Kingori?
—You start that side, says Mollel. I’ll start this.
Kiunga runs to the far end of the walkway, jumping over the feet of a sleeping figure slumped against the wall halfway along. Mollel starts looking at the people below him. Foreshortening and the distance make it hard to discern individual features. He spends more than a minute scrutinizing the back of a coiffured head that resembles Kingori’s, only for the figure to turn and reveal that it is a woman. With all the movement in the hall, it is a futile task.
Besides, this is not Kingori’s scene. He’s a commander, not a foot soldier. Mollel bangs the pane in frustration.
—Have you worked it out yet? someone says.
—What?
—Have you worked out how they’re doing it?
It’s the slumped figure on the floor, who Mollel had assumed was asleep. His suit is crumpled, his tie pulled to one side. His cheeks are grizzled with stubble and his eyes are ringed with exhaustion, but also something else: defeat.
—How they’re doing what?
—Rigging the election, of course. That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it?
—And you’d know all about it? asks Kiunga, who has r
eturned to join them.
—Of course. I’m with the electoral commission. Or was. I suppose I’ve resigned. Just like all the others downstairs. We walked out. Let me show you.
He begins to heave himself to his feet. Mollel and Kiunga help him up, and the three of them cross to the glass.
—You see the results coming in, in locked boxes. They’re being brought in by truck from all over the city. They come in the service entrance under police guard, accompanied by the election officer and observers from the polling station. Then they’re brought up here in the elevator. The boxes are opened, supervised by a scrutineer. The sorters—those are the ones at the end of each table—put them into piles for each candidate. The counters tally the result for each, discarding or returning any blanks or spoiled papers. Then the clerk enters the results on the machine. A printout is made and attached to the file box you see there. Then the papers are put in, the box is sealed, and they move on to the next one.
—Who are the people walking around?
—Some are my lot, the ones who can’t, or won’t, see what’s really happening. Others are independent observers, but only a chosen few. The really independent ones have all been kicked out.
—I still don’t see it, says Kiunga. Is it the clerks? Are they putting false numbers in the machines?
The man laughs. —That would be picked up on a recount. Those boxes become evidence in any legal challenge.
—The sorters?
—You can look all day, says the man, and you won’t find anything wrong in that room. It’s all being done by the book.
—The ballot boxes, says Mollel quietly. They’re being switched before they get here.
—That’s right, says the man. Not all of them. Just a certain number from certain polling stations. Enough to tip the balance. We began to figure it out when the results made no sense. We were comparing an electoral roll from districts full of Luos and Luhyas with results of ninety, ninety-five percent government. I mean, I know it’s a secret ballot, but that’s like chickens voting for a jackal.
—But where’s the switch being done? asks Kiunga. You said the boxes arrive here under guard, and with observers.
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