The Fall of Saints

by Wanjiku wa Ngugi

  Melinda’s imminent arrival settled the order of business; we had to see Susan before she did. Wainaina would wear his colors as a journalist. I would have liked to get on with it right away, but we had talked into the night, and jet lag was catching up with me.

  Jane offered Wainaina a place to crash. I bade them good night and walked to my bedroom. Fatigued in mind and body, I slept without dreams of gunmen, car chases, or the Mafia.

  13

  I called Ohio first thing in the morning to say I had arrived safely and to check on Kobi. My son had gone to bed, Sam told me. Rosie was taking good care of him. A remarkable woman, Sam said of her, and assured me there was nothing to worry about. I detected slight stress in his voice. There was something he wasn’t telling me.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked him, a little alarmed. It was nothing much, he assured me, just a man who claimed to be a police officer. Ben was his name. I held my breath. Had it anything to do with Zack and the suited gunman? A fatal gunfight in Tallinn? It was nothing to worry about, Sam said again, Ben had called to speak to me.

  “When I told him I did not know how to reach you, he called me by name. I was surprised he knew we used to date. He said you had been on the run, and he had reason to believe that I was hiding you, and I would be held responsible should anything happen to you. Mugure, you understand, I don’t want trouble with the police. I admitted you had been here but that you had left for South Africa. I gave him Ciru’s contact in Cape Town.”

  “How the hell did Ben trace me to you?” I wondered.

  “Traffic lights, cameras, and Joe. Mugure, you ran several red lights on your way to and from Joe’s. He’s actually the one who called Ben. Joe claimed you were crazy and urged the police to commit you to psychiatric observation. I assured him that you seemed quite sane to me, and I told him about Joe trying to hit you. Joe is under their umbrella of suspicion, Ben said, though he did not elaborate. He said you should call, that I must tell you to get in touch with him. He talked of a hotline. Please call him.”

  I looked at my phone after we were done. The missed calls confirmed Sam’s story: Ben had tried to get in touch with me. I did not know what made me angrier, Ben hinting that I was on the run, or Joe covering his murderous deeds by claiming I was mentally deranged. No, I was not about to call Ben. I had a little work to do.

  • • •

  The drama from Ohio was on my mind when I set out for the Miracle Church with Wainaina at the wheel of Jane’s car. I had to fake a cheerfulness I did not feel. He had already reported for work, talked to his editor about a possible story on the Festival of Rags, and been given the go-ahead. That meant he would work with me the entire day. Jane excused herself, wishing us good luck rather skeptically. She said she would help whenever her schedule allowed.

  We had worked out an angle. Wainaina was the lead journalist and I his cameraperson, intending to do several stories on MMM leading up to the Festival of Rags. Beginning with the Three Ms agency, we would follow the story of adoptees from Kenya to their adopted homes and families abroad. We hoped she would show us written records and answer questions. The process of elimination would surely lead us to the Kasla partner agency.

  The building was surrounded by a stone wall, with broken pieces of glass firmly cemented on top to discourage anyone from climbing over. We stopped by the blue metal gates.

  The security guard peered at us through the small hole in the gate before stepping out. Wainaina took out his press card and explained our mission, an interview with Susan. The man looked at the ID, returned it, and said that Reverend Susan had already left and would not be back until evening prayers. In any case, we could not see her without an appointment. Could we see the church? No, the premises were open to the public during the hours of worship only, but we could look at the building from outside the gate without taking pictures.

  Wainaina parked the car on the side. I had expected lots of activity, with cars and people going in and out of the church compound. “For some reason, I thought the church was located in the city center,” I said to Wainaina.

  “This has been here all the time,” the man said. “After the holy tree, the Holy Spirit guided her here.”

  “How long have you worked here?” Wainaina asked.

  “Do I sound like I don’t know what I am saying?” replied the watchman, turning hostile.

  “No, no, my brother here means no harm. He just wants to ask a few questions, since we can’t see the reverend,” I said, and looked in my bag.

  “Then teach him. You seem to have more sense,” he said, eyeing the movement of my hands.

  Wainaina got the hint and brandished a thousand-shilling note. The watchman looked around, beady-eyed, and motioned toward the money. “Young man, this is not enough to buy a beer. The Americans who come here, they pay more, even if they are asking me where’s the madam!”

  I dug in my purse and took out a ten-dollar bill.

  “You American?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Been traveling,” I said vaguely, and quickly added, “We wanted to know a little bit about the history of the church.”

  “Good people. You have shown a lot of sense. I wish I could help you with the past. But I cannot tell you a lie. Even Americans who come and ask, I tell them the truth. I was not here from the beginning. I know some who were here. But they have left. I don’t know how or why.”

  At first he mentioned Magda, his neighbor at Kaloleni; as he did not have her number, he gave us directions to her house. Then he remembered Kivete Kitete, who also lived in Kaloleni but was easier to reach, because he was a regular at the bar Memories, in Dagoretti, a few minutes away.

  “Does everyone who works here live in Kaloleni?” an amused Wainaina asked.

  “If you want to know about the present,” the guard continued, igoring Wainaina, “I’m your man.”

  “Tell us, what happens here?” I asked out of curiosity.

  “Miracles. My brother and sister, I have seen the blind see, the deaf hear, the lame walk, and the possessed become whole again. Once some demons the reverend had cast out of some sinners came running, felled me with invisible blows, and by the time I got to my feet, they had opened the gate and gone. Down the road, they entered some donkeys who started hee-hawing in unison—”

  “What’s your name?” Wainaina interrupted the flow.

  “Kamau,” he said.

  “We shall come again to hear the rest,” Wainaina said, and handed him some money.

  “Whenever you come, day or night, ask for me, your friend Kamau.”

  • • •

  Memories was located in what seemed like a vast chicken yard. The chickens crisscrossed the road as often as the humans, narrowly avoiding the speeding cars. They ate from the open sewage a cocktail of paper, plastic, fruits, goat pee, and human shit; the stink hit my nostrils with a vengeance. The daily market had folded up. Only a few people remained, selling small packets of cooking oil, onions, curry powder, and love potions, potent aphrodisiacs, some told Wainaina, casting meaningful glances at me.

  Kenny Rogers’s “The Gambler” was blasting from the high-pitched speakers meant to tell those outside that Memories was bursting with life. The stench of beer and hot air hit me and made me retreat a step before gathering courage to proceed. The many unoccupied tables—each with four wooden chairs, an ashtray, and a menu on top—made the bar appear emptier than it really was. The clients were boisterous enough to give the impression of a crowded place. We chose a table on the left side of the bar. Soon a lean woman in her midthirties, wearing a short skirt and a white top with MEMORIES written in small print, was at our table.

  “How are you today? My name is Martha,” she said with a smile. “Can I get you some drinks before you order food? We have the best roasted goat meat in the world. Can I bring you a few pieces? Tasting only?”

  We ordered a kilo of
nyama choma with boiled potatoes. Wainaina ordered a Tusker beer, and I requested a soda. I asked her if she knew Kivete.

  “Kivete, your fame precedes you,” she said in the direction of a group of men sitting at one of the tables. “Visitors to see you.”

  “Visitors? I am coming,” a man shouted back, grabbing his beer and walking toward us. He was tall, dressed in a khaki shirt and pants. He took two puffs of the cigarette that dangled from his mouth and exhaled a large cloud of smoke that hid his gray hair and beard for a second or two.

  “I am Kivete Kitete,” he said as he shook my hand, then Wainaina’s, before crushing the stub of a cigarette in the ashtray.

  I offered him a beer, which he accepted readily, shouting to Martha to bring him a cold one.

  “So how can I help you?” he asked me.

  “We understand you worked for Reverend Susan?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “We just heard—”

  “I bet it was that useless security guard at the gate. Kamau talks too much. He keeps the gates shut, but his mouth . . . aii! You ask for one bean and he spills all, interspersing every remark with ‘American this, American that,’ you would think Americans come to see him daily. But I am not like that, it’s hard to get me to talk.” He stopped abruptly, sprang to his feet, and started dancing. “This is my favorite Kamaru song,” he said, and sang out loud: “Ni nyuo ni nyuo ni ya mwana, ni nyuo ni nyuo.”

  Kivete shook his lean body like someone on crystal meth. Martha joined in the dancing. Then all the other clients moved to the center and formed a circle of dancing feet. Wainaina sang along, nodding to the beat. I was wondering if I should not take the initiative and ask him to dance when Kivete rushed back and, before I could tell what he was doing, took my hand and dragged me to the dance floor, which prompted Wainaina to jump to the floor in a protective gesture. Soon we were all swaying this way and that, singing louder than the jukebox. It was over as fast as it had started. I walked back to our table, followed closely by Kivete and Wainaina.

  “I used to be the best dancer back in the day.” Kivete chattered on about how all the girls would chant his name over and over again. “Martha, give me another beer,” he shouted, though he had barely sipped the other one. “And give the bill to my new friends here.”

  “So why did you stop working for Reverend Susan?” I tried again.

  “Ah, Reverend Susan . . . She was breathing down my neck. Never let me do my job. ‘Do this, Kivete, do that, Kivete.’ ”

  “What work?” I asked.

  “I was the director of appearance.”

  “What did your job entail?” I asked, wondering if he was attempting humor.

  “Making sure the church looked good at all times.”

  “Cleaning?”

  “Yes. Not just any cleaning, the professional kind. But she didn’t respect my work, saying I was always coming late.”

  “What happened?” Wainaina asked.

  “I quit.”

  “Does she run the business entirely by herself?” Wainaina tried. “Does she work with other people? Other companies?”

  “It’s hard to say, but I never thought that was her church, you know. It was as if she were standing in for some big shot in government. There’s that minister of faith and religion, Kaguta. A regular at her church. These men are clever; they get a woman to front for them. Politics in this country, my friend, are difficult to understand. But I tell you what, the Festival of Rags is coming. Sometime this week. You can learn more from the goings-on in the festival than from any interview with me or Kamau.”

  It was impossible to get anything more specific from Kivete. The beer did not help. Was it his strategy and tactic? Talk without saying anything? As we stood up to go, I thought I would give it one more shot. “Kivete, tell me, please, what did you mean by director of appearance? Cleaning? That stuff that needed professional care?”

  I thought I saw Kivete look over his shoulder; I had seen the same gesture in Kamau. But while Kamau still worked there, Kivete had already left, so why? For a second he seemed sober. He came closer and talked to me in a low voice, as if he did not want Wainaina to hear.

  “Some people become a nuisance. They run off at the mouth. Say they have been close to her. They have seen things. Do you think she will let anybody bring down what she has built? She is the judge. There have to be cleaners. I was fired when I said no. My sister, I like you.” The focus shifted to me. “The way you danced, be careful, and I mean very careful.”

  I felt a chill. Did he mean what I thought he meant? I wasn’t sure if I could take Kivete seriously. Wainaina didn’t, when I told him what the man had told me.“Kivete is too dramatic for me,” Wainaina said. He hoped Magda would be less drama and provide more information.

  It was early afternoon. We set out for Kaloleni.

  • • •

  We parked the car by the road near a Bell Properties sign and walked down a narrow path for a couple of yards before we saw the brown stone house we had been told to look out for. The path to the door passed through a small potato garden directly in front. The door was opened by an elderly woman in a flowery dress with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a head scarf with a blue cross that meant she was part of a women’s church guild.

  “Good afternoon. My name is Mugure. This is my friend Wainaina. We are looking for Magda?”

  “What do you want from her?” the woman asked as she looked us over.

  “Oh, we are friends of her old workmates.”

  She looked at us suspiciously and, without moving her eyes, called out,“Magda, your workmates are here.”

  A woman of medium height peered around her mother’s elbows. “I don’t know who these people are, Mother,” she said, looking at us.

  The standoff was becoming embarrassing. Just then a hen came flying from behind the house, clucking loudly. Behind the hen was a dog eager to have chicken for an afternoon snack. I immediately sprang into action and managed to catch the poor hen right before the dog did. I handed it over to Magda’s mother. She took the bird and threatened the dog with violence. “I don’t know who leaves the door open. This dog will eat up all the chicken,” the woman said to us, grateful that I had saved the hen from early demise. She asked Magda to let us in and make us some tea.

  We sat on red couches; red flowers embellished the coffee tables, covered with white cloths with red patterns. Magda walked in holding a red flask and some mugs with big red hearts. She was wearing a military fatigue shirt over a pair of baggy green pants. After Magda served us tea, Wainaina took out a thousand-shilling note, folded it, and gave it to the old woman to buy a cage for her chicken. She thanked us many times. “I will leave you to talk,” she then said to no one in particular, and left holding her cup of tea.

  I slipped a fifty-dollar bill into Magda’s hands.

  “American?” Magda said, smiling and looking at the bill.

  I tried to apologize and explain that foreign exchange bureaus, legal or otherwise, were at every corner of this city. When she said “I know that,” I realized she was talking about me.

  “It’s obvious you don’t know me,” she continued without waiting for the answer to her question. “And I am certain I have never worked with you.”

  Wainaina showed her his press card, explaining that we had been led here by her former workmate.

  “Kamau is his name,” I added.

  “Oh, Kamau. You met him? Isn’t he crazy? He is full of American this and that. So he was also fired? What happened?”

  “Um, er, he didn’t really want to talk about it,” I said vaguely.

  “Oh, Reverend, she’s holy, you know,” she said, and laughed. “You should attend the Festival of Rags. It’s something.”

  “Are you going?”

  “The festival is fun, but I don’t think being poor is funny. Tel
l me, what do you want?” she said, looking at Wainaina.

  “We are doing a story on Reverend Susan.”

  “You’re going to nail her?” she said excitedly. “The fraud.”

  “We hope some good will come out of this. How long did you work for her?” he asked.

  “About time someone did something. I started working for her about three years ago. I joined her church after my friend told me about it. The first day I went back home drunk with the word of the Lord and dreamed of angels. A band of angels once carried her home from America, you know.”

  “With angels and the Holy Spirit as her adviser,” I said more to myself than to her, “she encountered no problems.”

  “Hmmm, not really. We are all human. I am not blind. I am not deaf. One sees things, hears things.”

  “What type of things?”

  “It’s difficult to put in words. Maybe I should start from the beginning. One Sunday after the service, I realized I had left my umbrella in the building. So I walked back to the hall. I found it closed. You see, I had gone some distance when I realized my loss. About twenty minutes, I would say. It’s not their fault. But I did not want to lose my umbrella. So I walked around to the back. We had been told many times not to go in the back, because Susan spent her time in prayer and meditation.”

  “And conversation with angels,” I said.

  “I saw no angels, but sure, that’s her time with the Holy Spirit.”

  “So, did you find the umbrella?” Wainaina asked.

  “Let her tell it her way,” I said to Wainaina; she looked at me as if to say I understood her better than this man.

  “So I went around the back and knocked on the small black gate. Usually, she had a guard at the door, because sitting at the pews by the window, if you leaned forward, you could see the gate and a guard, next to the sign that said only authorized persons were allowed beyond the gate. But no one was answering, and as I tried to peep through the hole, I realized the gate was partially open. I stood there wondering if I should go inside or wait until someone came around. It was then that I heard some voices. I was so happy. I walked through the gate, toward the voices. As I turned the corner, I saw a few people, her most trusted and faithful, including the guard, standing in a circle of sorts. I hurried over, wondering if someone were sick. You know she claims to heal the sick. It was only when I got a bit closer that I realized they were trying to restrain a young woman. She was kicking and screaming, ‘Please, Reverend, please . . . ’ I thought she was possessed by the demons. The reverend can take out demons. Yes, that was it. The reverend seemed to be trying to calm her down, which is the first stage in exorcising demons. Make the possessed listen to you. Then command the demons. I heard something that made me think maybe it was not all about demons. ‘Wangeci,’ she said to the young woman, ‘you signed the papers; there is nothing we can do now. You wanted him gone, and he has gone.’ I had no idea what they were talking about. It was then that the reverend looked up and saw me. Everyone fell silent. They all stared back at me. You understand, don’t you, that I didn’t know what to do? I just stood there. ‘What are you doing here? The service is over,’ said the reverend to me, her eyes piercing mine. Oh, how I revered her. Shaky and nervous, I said, ‘Oh, forgive me, Reverend, I left my umbrella in the hall and was wondering if someone found it.’ ‘You are not supposed to come back here, you know.’ Though her eyes pierced me, her voice was ever so gentle. She was not angry. ‘Can you go back and wait outside next to the black gate?’ And off I went.