Hour of the Red God

by Richard Crompton

  And it probably is happening right now, to judge by the constant arc of missiles that rain down on the GSU troops. Mollel runs, zigzag, seeing a flash of flame whoosh past his eyes just an instant before a glass bottle explodes on the ground next to him. His legs are splashed with cold liquid, and the oily stench of fuel oil fills his nostrils. He wipes his leg with his hand and rubs the viscous fluid between his fingers. The sting on his burned flesh makes him catch his breath. Then he steps on and extinguishes the already-dying flame of the rag tied around the neck of the bottle. He counts himself lucky that whoever filled it didn’t know the difference between diesel and petrol. But he might not be so lucky next time. He can already see blue flame spreading over the roof of one of the GSU trucks, the men nearby scrambling to douse it with an extinguisher.

  Mollel pushes himself toward the front but can’t get through the line: the GSU men have interlocked their arms, shields forward. They are so intent on the mob facing them that they don’t even appear to notice him trying to weave his way in.

  He gives up, exasperated. He starts to look for an alternative way around, but the troops have blocked off the only way in and out. He can even see the green corrugated iron roof of Faith’s house, just a few dozen meters away. At least it looks intact. He hopes Faith would have had the common sense to snatch up Adam and make a dash for it while she still had the chance. But knowing Faith, he feels sure she would not have left her home. Which means that she, Honey, and Adam are still in there.

  —Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Grab him!

  Mollel feels himself grasped on both sides and spun around. He is face-to-face with the pugnacious features of a GSU sergeant.

  —Take him away, boys. Give him a good going-over. I don’t want to see his ugly face again.

  Then his eyes screw up. He scrutinizes Mollel more closely. —Hang on a moment, he says. Haven’t I seen your ugly face before?

  —You’re Mwathi, says Mollel. I’m one of the police officers investigating the murder down in Uhuru Park. You said your daughter was the same age as the victim.

  Mwathi’s face breaks into a broad smile. —Let him go, boys, he says. He’s one of us.

  Mollel is roughly released. —That’s the first time I’ve been called one of us by a GSU man, he says.

  —We’re all in this together now, says Mwathi. Unless, of course, you’d rather be in there, with them.

  He nods his head toward the crowd beyond the line.

  —Actually, says Mollel, I would.

  Mwathi laughs incredulously. —Are you insane? They’d rip you apart.

  —I don’t think so. I’m not in uniform. And no one’s going to think I’m a Kikuyu, with these ears. As far as I’m aware, no one’s turned on the Maasai, yet.

  —Give it time, says Mwathi. Give it time. So why do you want to throw yourself into that lion’s den? Feeling suicidal?

  —My family’s in there.

  Mwathi’s eyes flicker with pity. —Where are they?

  —In a house near the edge. If you could just push the cordon forward a block …

  Mwathi shakes his head. —We can’t do it. We’re having enough difficulty holding the line as it is. Look, if they’re inside a house, they’ll probably be all right, if they just keep their heads down. Then, when it gets calmer …

  Mollel squeezes the sergeant’s arms tighter. Feels the agony in his hands. —I can’t wait, he implores. They’re in danger. The killer. The killer of the girl in the park. The killer’s in there too. With my family.

  He feels his knees begin to buckle. Mwathi looks down at him, skeptical at first. But his face changes as he realizes that Mollel is telling the truth.

  —The murderer’s with your family? he asks.

  —I didn’t know. Mollel is gasping. —I didn’t know. I thought they would be safe.

  —This is what we’ll do, says Mwathi, pulling Mollel to his feet. I’ll let you through. But you’ll have to take your chances. If you make it to the house, you got to stay there. You understand? Don’t try to get out. Not until all this is over.

  —Okay, says Mollel.

  —And as for that murderer, says Mwathi, you do what you’ve got to do. Kill him if you need to. No one’s going to ask any questions about another body around here, come morning. Give me your ID.

  —What? Why?

  —You won’t want it in there.

  He’s right: if Mollel gets robbed or searched, his police ID would be as good as a death sentence. But he feels denuded handing it over. First his uniform, now this. It’s as though he’s been stripped of everything that marked him as a policeman. Now he’s just a man.

  Mwathi rattles his billy stick against the helmets of two GSU men on the front line. —When I give the order, let this one through, he bellows. Close ranks immediately afterward. Now!

  The two men unlock their arms, and Mwathi pushes Mollel through the gap. He immediately stumbles on a brick. Mwathi shouts, —Good luck. And sorry!

  —For what?

  —For this, cries Mwathi as he brings his billy stick down on Mollel’s shoulder. The pain courses through him. But he understands: Mwathi is giving him a chance with the mob. He takes his cue and runs, head down, toward the opposing line.

  41

  The blow from the stick did the trick: welcoming arms greet him and pull him in. His disheveled state is the perfect alibi. No one questions that he is anything other than a fellow rioter unlucky enough to have tasted summary GSU justice.

  —Come, brother, says a voice with a thick Luo accent. You can’t stay here.

  He is helped, hobbling, through the throng of angry voices to rest on a concrete curb. His rescuer kneels beside him and glares into Mollel’s face with angry eyes.

  —What did they do to you, those bastards? he hisses.

  —I was just trying to get home, mumbles Mollel weakly.

  The young man in front of him shakes his head. —They’ve been waiting a long time for this, he says. Those Kikuyu thieves shared out the country when the English left. They were happy to share with the Kalenjins when Moi was in power. But now it’s time for the Luos! The Luos and the Luhyas, together we outnumber them. It’s our turn! And yet, what do we get? This! Here, let me see your hands. You’re injured, my brother.

  Mollel is struck by the simple concern the stranger shows him—in stark counterpoint to the visceral hatred in his words. Mwathi, too, on the other side, had shown him humanity. Was this always to be the way, that Kenyans would be capable of individual kindness and group animosity?

  He thinks about David Kingori on the roof of the KICC, supervising the ballot rigging. For all his vainglorious words about the Kikuyu homeland, Mollel never had the feeling that he was motivated by tribalism. Rather, that he was part of a deeply entrenched elite and was desperate to dig himself in deeper.

  But Mollel feels the point would be lost on his newfound savior. Instead, he asks, —What’s happening farther inside?

  The young man shrugs. —Some of the shops have been looted. The Kikuyu-owned ones, mainly. Your family should be all right, if they’re Maasai. You lot aren’t part of this.

  —I seem to recall an old Kikuyu woman who lives near here, says Mollel. Do you know what’s happened to her?

  —Her time will come, says the young man bitterly. Her house is well protected. We’ve not had a chance to clear out all the cockroaches yet. But if the GSU keep us shut up here all night, there’ll be plenty of opportunity.

  —Thanks for your assistance, says Mollel, rising. As he does so, there is a flash of light, and a cheer goes up. A petrol bomb has obviously hit an enemy target. The young man bends to lift the stone Mollel had been sitting on. He prizes it up, and the last Mollel sees of him, he is carrying it toward the chaos.

  Mollel looks around him. The streetlights are out, but in the glare of the fires he can see the familiar junction of the side street running to Faith’s house. He walks past the point where Kiunga caught Adam on his bike. As he approaches
, he sees, with relief, that the house seems to be unscathed, apart from some graffiti scrawled on the high metal gate.

  He stretches and looks over, between the spiked barbs that run along the top. The power is out in the whole neighborhood, but the diffuse glow of a candle or kerosene lamp flickers somewhere from behind the kitchen window. He bangs on the gate—nervously at first, afraid of attracting unwanted attention—then louder. A shadow falls across the window, but there is no other sign of movement from within. Why should there be? They’re probably terrified.

  He contemplates his options. Shouting would not be heard above the general racket outside. Throw a stone—but that would only send them scurrying for refuge deeper inside the house. Scale the gate—but the spikes on top are cruel, expressly designed to keep people out. Crueler still is the sparkling razor wire Faith had recently installed, but her prescience had at least kept the family safe so far. The place was impenetrable.

  —So you decided to join us after all?

  It is his friend with the stone. It’s gone now, and in its place he carries a length of metal pipe. He’s not alone. There’s a mob of them, a breakaway group from the front line. Mollel thinks he recognizes some of the lads Kiunga had warned off the place a few days previously. They’re drunk: some of them are carrying what looks like chang’aa in plastic bottles. But they also carry pangas and other makeshift weapons. He does not doubt their ability to use them. He steps back slightly, casting his face into the shadows.

  —There’s no getting out of Kawangware tonight, the young man says. We might as well settle some scores while we’re stuck here.

  They’re not drinking from their bottles, Mollel realizes. That’s not chang’aa. It’s petrol.

  —I’ve just been checking this place out, he blusters. It’s not worth it. The security’s pretty tight. Even if we did get in, one GSU push forward would see us trapped in there like rats.

  This brings a laugh from the men. —They’re not going to push forward, says one. Not if they know what’s good for them.

  —I heard that one of the old woman’s relatives is a policeman, chimes in another.

  —Exactly! says Mollel. That’s the sort of trouble we don’t need.

  —All the more reason to torch the place, says one lad, pushing forward. He is in Mollel’s face, and Mollel’s suspicions are confirmed: he was one of those hanging around on Christmas Day.

  —I know the policeman, too. I think he’s the father of the little boy who lives here.

  Mollel tries to quell the anger that is consuming him. A fight with these men now would leave him dead, and useless to those inside. Measuredly, quietly, he says, —Oh, yeah?

  —Yeah, slurs the lad. I seen him teaching the kid how to ride his bike. Even spoke to him once. Cocky Kikuyu bastard. Thinks he knows how to speak Jaluo.

  He means Kiunga, Mollel realizes. Still, the lad looks him up and down, as though trying to place the face. But he’s too drunk to make the connection.

  —I’ll have that bike when we’re done with the people inside, shouts another one of the men. I bet she’s got lots of other nice things in there, too.

  Mollel wants to fight them. He wants to grab a panga out of one of their hands and kill them all, slash them to pieces. This is what it takes, he thinks, even as his heart is pounding. This is what it takes to make the Red God rise up inside of you. To give you the rage you need to make you a killer. To cut people up. When someone threatens your family, your child. Threatens to take away everything you have and destroy everything you love. And there’s no recourse to law, no appeal to order. No one will protect you and no one will stand up for you and fight on your behalf. All you can do is kill.

  This is what Honey felt.

  This is what is destroying Kenya.

  * * *

  —Wait a minute, wait a minute, he says hurriedly. You’ve got something there. The old woman, she’s pretty well-off, yeah? I bet she’s even got money stuffed under her mattress. All Kikuyus do. Right. So the last thing we want to do is burn the place down. She’s got stuff in there that we need.

  He can sense the others taking in his argument. Greed and envy beginning to overcome even hatred. —So look, he continues. Let me get in there. Help me over the wall. I’ll open up the gate, get access to the house. Then we can help ourselves. What do you say, boys?

  The proposal is met with a cheer. But Mollel’s sense of relief is short-lived. He’s bought himself some time. But even if he manages to get Adam, Faith, and Honey out of there, he’s still got to get them past the mob. And they won’t be satisfied with looting the property. They’re out for blood.

  —You, says Mollel. The way I saw you pick up that stone, you can definitely lift a skinny guy like me. Come on, give me a boost.

  Now the decision’s been made, he doesn’t want to give anyone time to think about it. Hands are cupped, and Mollel steps into them. —Now, on three, I need you all to push me over. Okay?

  He counts. On his count of three, he is impelled upward, higher than he had expected, so he fails to grasp the smooth metal at the base of the spikes, but places his hands, raw flesh down, on the top of them. His impetus has given him just enough thrust to avoid bringing his hands down with force; instead, he pitches his palms down against the rear of the spikes and pushes himself forward. His trouser leg gets caught and rips, and he is thrown onto the gravel on the other side of the gate, headfirst. But at least, he thinks as he staggers to his feet, he was not impaled.

  There is a cheer from the other side. He makes a show of examining the inside of the gate. —It’s padlocked, he calls. Wait here. I’ll try to get into the house. Don’t try to follow me. They may be armed.

  —Get a move on, one of them urges him.

  He runs to the kitchen window. Like all the windows of the house, it is barred. He can see a kerosene lamp burning on the table inside. But no one there. He bangs on the glass. —Faith? Honey? It’s me, Mollel!

  It’s no good. He dare not shout too loud for fear of the men outside the gate hearing him. And he can only imagine the fear that Adam, Faith, and Honey must be feeling now, listening to someone banging on the window and shouting.

  Strange, he thinks, how he’s still concerned about Honey. He knows that she killed Lucy, and he’s convinced that she has the capacity to be a real threat to Faith. But somehow, thinking of the old woman and the young boy huddled in fear inside the house, he’s glad that Honey is there with them.

  Then he thinks, She’s not Chiku.

  It comes as a shock to him, the realization that he’d been carving out that role for her. But it had felt good at the time, the comfort she had provided him, the protection he felt he was providing for her. He feels angry, foolish: she’s suckered him. She is a professional. It is what she does.

  All his assumptions about Honey have been wrong. He can’t assume that Faith is safe now. He hopes that Honey will be rational enough not to harm her while she still thinks he is on her side. But after what she’s done to her friend …

  He can’t even assume Adam is safe.

  He picks up a flowerpot and smashes the kitchen window. —Faith! He hisses through the gap. Damn these bars. —Honey? Adam?

  —What are you doing? comes a voice from over the gate. He looks back, sees a row of eyes watching him.

  He knows where they will be. There’s a storage cupboard off the main hallway that has no windows, no external wall. It’s the safest place in the house. If they haven’t already taken shelter there, they will now that they’ve heard the breaking glass. They’re unreachable.

  He goes around to the other windows, looking in, hoping for a glimpse of someone, a point of contact. But there is none.

  —Come on, Maasai, booms a voice once more. Get a move on, or we’ll storm the place.

  The last time he prowled around a house like this, it was Orpheus House. Getting in there had been simple once he had the key. He remembers the standing ruins, the roof caved in. It must have burned to the ground in mi
nutes. Just like this house, the roof was a flimsy corrugated metal construction, with only wooden joists and a thin layer of ceiling board below, fine for keeping the rain off, but deadly in a fire, when the whole structure would come crashing down. He desperately hopes none of the thugs outside are getting impatient to use their petrol.

  The roof—of course. He runs back to the kitchen, where a rain barrel stands by the door, and hefts himself up on it. From there it is a fairly easy scramble up the drainpipe, using the guttering as a handhold to get onto the metal roof. He edges along—luckily the pitch is relatively shallow—until he feels a row of galvanized nails under his throbbing hands.

  His theory is simple: rather than attempt to breach the seam between two sheets of metal, he’ll start at the bottom edge and pull. If he’s lucky, once the first set of nails gives way, he’ll be able to use leverage to pull out enough to peel the sheet back.

  He stands at the edge. Even this single-story height gives him a dizzy feeling, with the fires and confusion just beyond the compound fence. The mob of men waiting at the gate holler and hoot at him. He casts them a wave of acknowledgment, then crouches and grasps the edge.

  His hands flash with pain. But he defies it: feet spread, he heaves, the metal edge cutting into his raw, damaged flesh.

  Nothing happens.

  It’s going to be harder than he imagined. Looking down, he sees that the sheets lap each other, so that one side is pinned down by the next. With a crowbar it would be easy enough, but …

  —Hey! he shouts to the men outside. I need a bar or something.

  The man who had picked up the stone waves his metal pipe in the air. —How about this?

  —Perfect, yells Mollel. The man raises the pipe and pitches it, spinning, over the wall. It sails in an arc toward Mollel, who ducks, and it crashes with a clatter onto the roof and immediately begins to roll downward. Mollel dives and grasps it just as it teeters over the edge.