—It looks like your man James was part of it too, says Mollel. Seems he takes protecting your reputation very seriously. To the extent of arranging an abortion behind your back.
—That stupid bastard, mutters Kingori.
—They killed your child. And they killed Lucy, too.
—You think it was deliberate? asks Kingori, raising his face to Mollel. His eyes are puffy, his jaw slack. For the first time, he looks his age. —You don’t just think they botched the abortion? It was very late, after all. That sort of thing has to be risky.
—I don’t think they botched anything, says Mollel. Wanjiku Nalo is the best in her field. From the sound of it, she was doing late abortions all the time. No, maybe that’s how they got Lucy onto the operating table in the first place. Persuaded her it was the right thing to do. Wanjiku can be very persuasive. But Lucy’s knowledge was a threat to them. They knew that after the election, their hold on you would be gone. So they needed to eliminate the threat. She let Lucy die, and together, she and Lethebridge got rid of the body.
—Jesus Christ! Kingori thumps the railing. A crow, somewhere on the metal staircase below, is startled, and it flaps away, cawing into the void.
—I’ll do it, he says. I’ll testify. I’ll bring those murderers down.
34
—Here comes another helicopter.
Kiunga points to the pale horizon where a black dot is suspended, soundless. Kingori pulls out his phone. Its gold plate glints in the afternoon sun.
—I’ll call James, he says. He’ll back up everything I say.
—Where is he? asks Mollel.
—At his home.
—I knew it, mutters Kiunga.
—Have him come to Central. Kiunga can meet him there. I’ll go and deal with the Nalos.
The throb of the approaching helicopter fights for dominance for a moment or two with the sound of the city, then surpasses it. The elevator doors open, and two men in fatigues come out. Between them, they are carrying a laden ballot box. They eye Mollel and Kiunga with suspicion as they pass, bound for Kingori, who is speaking on his phone.
—Let’s go, says Mollel.
The two of them go to the elevator. Two more boxes are within, taped up with official seals.
—Help me shift these, says Mollel.
—I’m not touching them.
Mollel looks in surprise at Kiunga. —We’ve got other things to do.
—Those are real votes in there, Kiunga replies.
—They could be. Or, like Kingori says, they could be just as false as the ones they’re switching them with. The opposition votes are just as likely to have been tampered with before they ever arrived here.
—We don’t know that, mutters Kiunga. If I even touched one of those boxes, I’d feel—tainted.
—We don’t have time for this, mutters Mollel as he grabs the handle of one of the steel boxes and drags it out of the elevator. With only one box remaining, there is enough space for them both to get in. Kiunga hits the button for the ground floor.
—That makes you part of it, he says as the doors creak shut.
Mollel reaches over and presses the button for the third floor.
—We’ll be part of it, all right, if we walk straight into their operation. Let’s give ourselves a bit of breathing space.
As the elevator judders into life, Mollel says, —You’re a principled man, Kiunga. You don’t want to be involved in something that’s wrong. I understand that.
The small screen above the door illuminates the floor numbers as they descend. The two of them count the figures down in silence until they hit 3 and the doors grind open. The lobby beyond is empty.
—Sometimes, though, says Mollel, doing nothing is not enough.
He steps out of the elevator and pulls the remaining ballot box halfway through the door. Kiunga steps around and joins him just as the door begins to close. It hits the box, and the elevator alarm sounds.
—It’ll take them a while to work out why the elevator’s jammed, says Mollel. Might get a few more honest votes counted in that time.
They head for the stairs.
—Just like this case, continues Mollel. You may think I’m doing it wrong. But it’s better than doing nothing.
—You know who you sound like? says Kiunga. Otieno.
Mollel laughs.
—No, really, says Kiunga. You both think you can throw out the rules if the end result’s the right one. But where he does it out of caution, you do it out of recklessness. I used to admire you, Mollel. Until I realized that it’s all just another symptom of your craziness.
Mollel walks over to the window. He can still hear the helicopter a hundred meters above them. But here, near the ground level, the sound of the crowd drifts over the gates, over the helmets of the GSU ranks, over the eerie calm of the empty grounds of the conference center outside.
—Did you ever beat out a confession, Mollel?
—Of course not!
—Otieno does it all the time. Did you see the stains in the interview room? That’s not spilled coffee, you know. What you did up there was just the same. Sure, you didn’t grab Kingori by the arms and hold him over the edge of the building. But you might as well have done. You lied to him.
—I forced a confession.
—By tearing him apart! You broke him, Mollel. I thought you were a different sort of policeman. One I could admire. But you’re just the same as all the rest. That Red God you were talking about. He’s got hold of you, too.
—Look at that city, Mollel says quietly. You want to see the Red God? He’s out there. There will be plenty more Nairobians dead before this is over. But we’ve got the chance to get the people who killed one of them. Is that so mad?
Kiunga shakes his head. —What did you really see in Orpheus House, Mollel? An operating table, blood? Or was that all a lie, too, to persuade Otieno to keep on with the case? To persuade me? You’ve had it in for the Nalos since we met them. You wanted them to be guilty. If there was no evidence at Orpheus House, would you burn the place down to cover that up?
—I know what I saw, says Mollel.
—You might have seen it, replies Kiunga. But was it there?
* * *
Getting out of the KICC proves easier than getting in. As soon as they pass through the GSU ranks, Kiunga turns to Mollel.
—I’m in this up to my neck. The best I can hope for is that James Lethebridge backs up Kingori’s story. If he does, I’ll go bring him in. You’re going to get the Nalos?
—Yes.
—Good luck, says Kiunga coldly. I’d like to say it’s been nice working with you, Mollel. But … you know.
And he strikes off through the crowd of protesters in the direction of Central Police Post, where he left the car.
Mollel finds himself alone on the street just beyond the cordon, with no real idea of how he is going to get to Embakasi and the Nalos’ campus.
He wanders onto the Uhuru Highway. It’s almost deserted. The only movement comes from GSU trucks and one or two private cars. He flags a passing police car, but the driver ignores him. There are no matatus running. He wanders back toward the InterContinental Hotel in the hope of finding a taxi driver who might be willing or desperate enough to grab a fare on a day like this.
Outside the lobby he sees a khaki Land Rover, an elongated safari version, nine-seater, with enlarged windows for game viewing. Inside, like lobsters in a tank, are a group of elderly wazungu tourists. Their eyes are hollow with fatigue and fear. They all wear immaculate pressed khaki safari suits. Mollel guesses they’ve seen more of the wild than they anticipated on this trip. The Land Rover is idling, to keep the air-conditioning running for the passengers. The driver is having a conversation with the hotel security guard. Mollel interrupts him, flashing his ID.
—Where are you taking them? he asks.
—To the airport, the driver replies nervously. They’re being evacuated. Check-in closes in forty minutes. Do you reckon we’ll get thr
ough?
—The highway’s clear, says Mollel. But it takes you directly past South B, and there are reports of trouble there. If I were you, I’d take the South C route via Embakasi. Could you do with an escort?
—Yes, please, says the driver, relief palpable in his voice.
—Let’s go.
* * *
The tourists look up, startled, as Mollel jumps into the front passenger seat. They relax somewhat when their driver gets in.
—This is a policeman, he says. And the elderly wazungu smile and give Mollel a thumbs-up. The safari truck moves off, and Mollel starts to give directions. He feels a tap on his shoulder. One of the women in the group is pushing a small automatic camera at his face.
—Would you mind taking a photograph of us? she asks.
—Sure, says Mollel.
She explains how the camera works. The tourists pose. The fear and tension drain from their faces as they assume expressions of stoic good humor, already composing the caption in their minds: This is us being evacuated from Kenya. Quite an adventure!
Mollel takes the photograph and passes the camera back to the woman. She holds it up and looks at the screen with satisfaction. Outside the window, Mollel sees a kiosk overturned, people crawling in and running off with whatever pitiful supplies are within: sticks of laundry soap, razor blades, packets of flour. Now the other tourists are raising their cameras and snapping away.
The residential streets of South C flash by. The rows of houses run at right angles to the main road, guarded with high metal gates and barbed wire. Mollel catches the occasional glimpse of locals looking warily out from behind. There’s no other traffic on the road, so the safari truck makes good progress, but Mollel is aware of how quickly the situation could change. In Swahili he says to the driver, —Anyone steps in front of the car or tries to stop us, just keep going. Understand?
—If you say so, says the driver with barely concealed delight, and he puts his foot down on the accelerator, as though having been granted official sanction to drive the way he’s always dreamed of.
Mollel becomes aware of the drone of conversation behind him.
—Of course, one of the tourists drawls, you have to expect this sort of thing in Africa. However modern the place looks, tribal tensions are never very far from the surface.
The others murmur assent. —To think, chimes in a woman’s voice, of all the money I’ve donated over the years. Well, I’ll certainly be canceling that subscription when I get home.
—Very wise, Louise, very wise, says the first speaker, warming to his theme. If you ask me, all the aid we give them is part of the problem. If you treat people like children, you can’t be surprised when they throw their rattle out of the stroller.
—They are children, really, aren’t they? chips in another of the women brightly. I sometimes think they’d be better off if the modern world just left them alone in their mud huts. I mean, they always look so happy, don’t they? It’s only wanting what they can’t have that gets them all upset.
—Africa’s a basket case. We should just cut them loose. See how they fare.
The sentiment seems to represent a consensus among the tourists, and with nothing left to add, their gaze returns to the windows.
—Do they always talk like this? Mollel asks the driver in Swahili.
—Who?
—Tourists. Do they always talk as though you’re not here?
—I don’t know, the driver replies. I don’t listen.
The sun is low, and it flashes from between the houses. In the red dust of dusk it’s easy to imagine for a moment that the boys running away from a smashed-in car are simply playing with hoops; that the dogs pacing and jumping behind the chain-link fence are goats being herded for milking; that the woman sitting bleeding into her shawl on the curb is simply winnowing maize.
An African sunset.
The Land Rover slows. The road is no longer clear. Other vehicles have joined the traffic and are beginning to bunch up. Soon the safari truck comes to a halt.
Mollel leans forward to try to make out what’s happening. The jam extends some distance up ahead. He realizes that they’re close to the Nalos’ campus, and the sight of a George Nalo Ministries bumper sticker confirms his suspicion. The cars are all headed for the church.
—I’ll get out here, he says casually to the driver.
—Hey. What? calls one of the tourists. The others chime in with a chorus of, —What’re we gonna do? We’ll never make our flight! You can’t just leave us like this! We need protection!
—What the hell, says one of the men in the authoritative, not-to-be-disobeyed voice of the white man abroad, do you think you’re doing?
—I’m cutting you loose, says Mollel. Seeing how you fare.
And he gives them a jaunty wave as he hops out of the Land Rover and disappears into the throng of pedestrians streaming toward the dying red sun and the looming, glowering edifice of George Nalo Ministries.
35
Closer to the church, the cause of the jam becomes evident. Private cars are parked wherever they can—at the side of the road, tilted into the ditch. Some even seem to have been abandoned where they stood, leaving only the smallest gap through which to squeeze. Black-clad ushers at the gate, a panicky, frantic look on their faces, attempt to turn away the vehicles that have got that far: no room, no room. But still the people push in on foot.
Come nightfall, the Maasai men herd their cows into the boma, the area in the center of every Maasai village where livestock are guarded against predators overnight. The boys follow with their goats, which leap and trip to try to get inside, as though they know that once the il-timito—the thick thorn branches—are pulled into place, they will be safe from darkness and the lions who hide beyond.
So it is with George Nalo Ministries. The place has become a sanctuary for those who hope that divine providence—or, failing that, strength in numbers—will save them from the chaos that is engulfing their city.
Those people around Mollel now couldn’t present a greater contrast to the first time he came here. No Sunday best: they have come dressed in whatever they happened to be wearing when they decided to abandon their homes. Many of the children are in pajamas; some, carried over their parents’ shoulders, are still asleep.
Approaching the church building, Mollel feels he is being swept along by the crowd. In the gloom, it is even more impressive than in daylight. The interior, illuminated, silhouettes the bobbing heads in front of him. It feels as if the building is sucking them into the light.
The crowd streams around an elderly woman pushing a handcart. In it is a husk of a man, his hair grizzled, eyes closed, sunken.
—Can you help me, brother? the woman asks as Mollel passes. He raises his raw, peeling hands in excuse. She looks at them, her face full of pity, even in her own predicament. —God bless you, she says. Your suffering is almost at an end.
—Is it?
—Oh yes, she replies, and a smile breaks through her fatigue. The suffering of this world will soon be forgotten. These are the End Times.
He moves on and begins to become aware of a noise. It is loud and low. So low Mollel feels it in his teeth.
It is that of a swarm. When you first hear a swarm of bees, you can tell from the tone and the intensity how big it is and what mood the bees are in. But you can’t place the sound. It’s too low.
You can’t tell what direction it’s coming from, because it’s coming from everywhere. All you know is, there are a lot of them, and they’re dangerous.
Getting closer, the drone becomes more intense. The sound reverberates in his head and his chest and begins to pound and split and fracture into thousands of human voices.
The hall opens up before him as he passes through the doors, and the space is filled with the crying and the laughing and the clamor and the jabber and the babble of tongues. The aisles are packed, overflowing even into the lobby, where Mollel encounters the first ecstatic figures, hands held aloft or
clasped over their hearts, heads tipped back, eyes closed. They sway as they cry and speak; some have tears running down their cheeks.
The trance is transporting. Mollel is unnerved. His mind tries to tune in to each voice as he passes, but each one is successively drowned out by the next. He tries to grasp sounds, interpret meaning, but the sounds are elided and evade meaning, and it all collides and conflates into a primal, final cacophony.
But one voice begins to rise above the others. It is a gargle and gurgle louder than all the others. It stands out, amplified. Word-sounds resound. The rapt stand limply, heads lolling. They are oblivious, and Mollel finds he can no longer push himself forward. He has reached an impasse.
Craning, he can see the distant stage up ahead. It is bright. The lights pick it up and place it on an ethereal level. Floating in the middle of the luminous disk is Nalo. Microphone dangling from his fingers, other hand aloft, head thrown back. Slivers of white visible below his eyelids. Flecks of spit visible, even at this distance, at the corners of his mouth. His mouth opens and shuts, his tongue probes and gropes around sound. His voice fills the auditorium.
No Wanjiku. No Benjamin.
Mollel turns, but the crush is as thick behind him now as it is in front. He sees the woman with the cart. She has put it down, and she tenderly caresses the skeletal cheek of the prone man within.
The hubbub is ending.
—Praise the Lord, comes Nalo’s voice.
The voice of another, unseen speaker comes over the PA. —Healing is about to commence, it says. Those seeking healing, please make yourself known to an usher.
The rapture over, it is slightly easier for Mollel to weave his way back to the woman with the cart.
—I’ll take him, he says.
—But your hands!
He grasps the handles. Winces. But to his relief, the man barely possesses weight, and he lifts the cart on its axis.
—A miracle! the woman gasps.
Those around them look on, and as the word spreads, Mollel finds a way parting ahead of him. He pushes the cart forward, and black-clad ushers rush to meet him. They progress to the edge of the stage, where hands clamor to help him, and the old man is lifted and borne high and away. An usher takes Mollel’s hands in his own, looks at them, and says, —This one too.
Hour of the Red God Page 23