Elephant Dropping (9781301895199)

by Trzebinski, Bruce

  The Elephant Dropping

  By

  Bruce Trzebinski

  ‘A fast paced tale of theft and corruption in East Africa’

  The Elephant Dropping

  Bruce Trzebinski

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is available in print at most online retailers.

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2013 Bruce Trzebinski

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.

  For

  “Nyoka Meusi”

  ‘When two elephants fight, it’s the grass that suffers.’

  Swahili proverb

  Table of contents

  Title page

  Chapters

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  ONE

  Evans Njugu was sweating as he read the letter for the second time. He could feel his heart thumping in fear.

  Florence his secretary walked in with a mug of tea for him. She took one look at her boss. ‘Mr. Njugu sir, are you alright? Perhaps you should see a doctor,’ she suggested.

  He gave her a puzzled look and then seized on the notion. ‘Yes, good idea - I might have malaria.’ He folded the letter into his top pocket and stood up.

  She put the mug on his desk as he brushed past her. ‘Sir, wait, I will make an appointment.’

  ‘Call me on my mobile,’ he said and headed for the exit. With one hand fumbling in his jacket for the phone and the other fishing for keys in his trouser pocket, he hurried out to the car park and missed his step off the pavement. His portly frame trotted forward uncertainly and then accelerated into a large potted palm. The plant enveloped him in its fleshy leaves on the brink of going over. Evans freed one hand and by gripping the edge of the concrete pot, pushed himself upright, gasping in exertion.

  The askari had watched this comedy unfold and hiding his smile, he rushed to his boss’s aid. ‘Pole, pole, mzee. Sorry, sorry, let me help you,’ he seized the manager’s arm. Evans shook him off.

  ‘Let me go! You fool. I need to see a doctor.’ Reaching his car, he opened the door and dived in.

  ‘Hey, mzee, take it easy,’ said the guard.

  Evans gunned the Mercedes and reversed onto the main road just missing an oncoming three-wheeler tuk-tuk.

  The driver swerved wildly and shook his fist at him shouting. ‘Wazimu, you madman!’

  Evans stalled the car, re-started it and set off down the road. I need a drink, this is terrible news, I must calm down.

  As the car drove off, the other guard ran over and asked what had happened. ‘Oh, the fat one was in a big hurry,’ the askari told him with a grin. ‘He lay down on top of that palm and when I went to help him he shouted about a doctor like he had seen a shetani, or the devil himself and then nearly crashed his motor.

  ‘Oh, did he look sick?’

  ‘Nah, he looked terrified.’

  ‘Ha, anything that scares that greedy bugger suits me.’

  ‘Yesy, have you got a smoke on you I’ve run out?’

  ‘Ahhh, you already owe me three,’ he complained.

  *

  Evans headed straight to his regular haunt, a downtown beer garden. His mobile rang. It was Florence. ‘Sir, I have made an appointment with Dr. Swaleh for 11.30.’

  ‘Oh what, yes, yes, thank you.’ He drove into the car park of the Day and Night Club. It was deserted but for a beer lorry in the corner with men loading empty crates. He parked near the entrance to the bar, out of sight of the main road. The cleaners were sluicing down floors, plastic chairs upended on tables as he entered. His eyes chose a padded corner booth and as he headed for this haven, he called out to the barman for a double vodka on the rocks. Busy with the hosepipe the barman called back. ‘We have no ice yet.’

  Evans slid into his seat. ‘Just bring it like that.’ The man dropped the gushing pipe on the floor and walked behind the bar to the optics display. The bank manager’s mind was racing. An audit, at this time of year, can they know? No, it’s not possible. The barman put the drink down in front of Evans, glass still wet.

  ‘Thank you my good man. Bring another and a coke please.’

  The barman eyed him. ‘But you will have to pay.’

  Evans reached for his wallet and handed over a thousand shillings.

  The barman looked for the watermark. ‘Ok sawa, mzee,’ he grinned.

  Evans turned to his drink and took a big gulp. The fiery liquid stung his nostrils and seared his throat. Scrolling through numbers on his phone, he hit the dial button. ‘Hello, hello, Patel?’

  ‘Yes. Who is it?’

  ‘It's me, I need to see you. I'm at the Day and Night Club and I must see you right away,’ he insisted.

  There was a puzzled silence. ‘Evans what’s happened? You’re in the bar at this time? I’m busy, let’s meet this evening.’

  ‘No, no, it's the bank and I must see you now,’ Evans shouted, ‘they are sending an auditor from Nairobi next week!’

  ‘What? Alright, we can't discuss this on the phone. Let me think and I will call you back.’

  Evans absently fingered his phone and sipped his vodka as he waited for Patel. What a mess, how on earth did I get into this?

  *

  Evans had been an assistant manager in the bank in Nairobi until he was promoted to the Malindi branch as manager. He resented the extra responsibility and only slightly better salary. In Nairobi, with his wife out working, the two of them had earned enough to support their middle class life style with two children in school and nearby friends and family.

  Malindi was hardly the ideal posting. He had never liked the coast. His wife complained all the time about the heat and ran up outrageous phone bills calling her relatives; unable to find work, Rose
was bored. His two boys, now in Muslim run schools, were learning all sorts of things he had never heard of. It was difficult to make friends, moreover, as a non-swimmer, he viewed the nearby ocean as a treacherous place full of nasty things that could eat, bite and sting anyone foolish enough to enter it; on top of that, it was salty! Evans had viewed his promotion almost as a punishment - something to be endured - that is, until Mr. Patel came into their lives, and then everything changed.

  Jugdish Patel, a local entrepreneur and factory owner had a modest loan with the bank. Friendly and outgoing he had introduced himself to the new manager, and invited Evans and his family over to a Sunday lunch where they discovered their mutual enjoyment of booze.

  Patel proposed Evans to the Golf Club and over time they became friends, often meeting for a game of darts or even a rare round of golf on cooler evenings, and of course a drink or two. Patel cultivated this friendship and encouraged their families to mingle by taking them on outings on weekends. On one fateful day on a picnic in the Arabuko Forest, Patel had enthused. ‘Look at, all these trees,’ pointing out a particularly large one, ‘that one must be worth at least ten thousand shillings, there's a fortune here, can you imagine? If I had a saw mill, I would make a pile of money.’

  Evans being a true urbanite did not enjoy the bush, insects, snakes, places full spider-webs and dark mystery. He had declined to move far from the vehicle and they sat together comfortably on the tailgate of Patel’s land cruiser drinking cool beers; children and wives exploring, distant shrieks in the forest.

  Getting no response as he extolled his plans, Patel went on the offensive. ‘So Evans are you happy at the bank making enough money, eh?’ He teased, studying him.

  ‘Ah, it's alright,’ muttered Evans, ‘we get by, but Nairobi was better. Rose worked as well, you see.’

  ‘Ahh, yes, always better when the wife works, keep them busy I say - you see my wife does my accounts, very smart woman.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Evans, ‘Rose was a teacher in Nairobi. The kids went to the same school, so we got a discount on the school fees.’

  ‘Do you have need of a good secretary? I have a girl, very talented, in more ways than one,’ Patel winked suggestively.

  Evans laughed, embarrassed. ‘I am married you know.’

  ‘Yes, to your job also,’ Patel quipped. ‘This girl would make an excellent secretary, anticipate your needs, fend off the complainers, help you to relax.’

  ‘I already have a good secretary.’

  ‘Yes, but, this is an Arab lady, you know they are hot blooded.’

  ‘So why don't you hire her?’ Challenged Evans.

  ‘I would, but my wife would not like it.’

  ‘And you think mine would? Anyhow, the bank has very little walk-in business, mainly phone and e-mail.’

  ‘Yes but business could pick up,’ hinted Patel.

  ‘Business pick up in Malindi?’ Evans mused.

  Patel changed tack. ‘Lots of government land has recently been allocated along the Sabaki river, individual plots - at least twenty five thousand of them - people will need money to build, so they could come to your bank.’

  ‘Our interest rates are too high to attract that type of customer,’ Evans negated, hiding a burp behind his hand.

  ‘Just meet this girl, just take a look at her,’ Patel said.

  ‘Are you doing a favour for her? I already told you there’s barely enough work for my secretary.’

  The children appeared from the forest, running towards the car racing in fun, the wives Rose and Fatima loudly egging them on.

  ‘I will arrange everything,’ Patel said, not giving up.

  The kids reached the car shouting excitedly. ‘I’m the fastest, no, you’re not. I won, I won.’ Patel’s youngest Gulam came in last; he was holding something in his hand.

  ‘What’s that you have there?’ His father asked, intrigued.

  Gulam held a compressed grassy ball about the size of a baseball. ‘It’s an elephant dropping,’ he announced proudly.

  ‘An elephant dropping? What are you going to do with that?’

  ‘I want to show my teacher,’ Gulam said shyly as the other kids crowded round.

  ‘You’re not putting that smelly thing in my car.’

  ‘It doesn’t smell,’ Gulam said, holding the ball up higher.

  Patel moved away pulling a face. ‘Alright, find a plastic bag for it, your science project is it?’ Gulam nodded solemnly.

  Patel grinned. ‘Oh, you want your teacher to see that she doesn’t have the biggest bottom in Malindi heh?’ he teased.

  *

  Evans guffawed as he recalled the moment, adults and children laughing out loud. ‘Mzee, here is your drink,’ the barman put the coke and double vodka down on the table, ‘you will have to wait for change,’ he added.

  ‘Ok, thanks,’ Evans said, draining his first glass and reaching for the next one. Mixing it this time with the coke, he felt calmer now. Where is that bloody Patel? Looking at his watch, he was surprised to see he had only been there for fifteen minutes. Sighing, letting the alcohol work, he went back to his recollections. Where was he, ahh, the girl yes…

  *

  Patel had arranged that they should meet in this very bar. Her name was Azizza, of Swahili Arab descent, in her mid twenties, currently working in the Ministry of Lands office in Malindi.

  She oozed sex appeal, had a handsome interesting face, with slightly protruding front teeth giving her lips a suggestive pout, large breasts and a confident manner; all woman in a red satin dress that clung to her ample curves.

  ‘Here is your secretary,’ introduced Patel.

  ‘I told you, I don't need a secretary,’ Evans shot back, as he proffered a hand to Azizza. ‘My name is Evans my dear.’

  She leaned forward and took his hand, giving him a glimpse of a lacy bra and looked directly into his eyes, weighing him up. ‘Hello Evans,’ she said husky voiced, ‘welcome to Malindi.’ The three of them settled in and waited for the drinks to arrive. A band struck up in the corner, couples took to the dance floor, gyrating to the pounding music.

  Patel chose his moment; he leaned forward in his seat and spoke directly to Evans. ‘My friend, I have an interesting proposal for you. It is a most wonderful idea and I want you to listen carefully. Just keep an open mind and listen.

  Evans smiled, Patel always had amusing ideas. ‘Go ahead,’ he said ready to be entertained, his eyes wandering over Azizza’s body in idle pleasure.

  Patel began. ‘Remember when we were on that picnic in the Arabuko Forest,’ warming to his topic, ‘when I told you that Government land had been allocated along the Sabaki River. Well, Azizza is working in the lands office and the first two thousand plot allocations have been approved. The title deeds are awaiting distribution to the new owners and these titles are now just sitting there - originals you understand?’

  Evans scratched his head, forcing himself to look at Patel, not seeing where this conversation was going. ‘The applicants have no idea the titles have been approved. It's the duty of the land officer to inform them and collect a fee of 500 shillings for each one. In keeping with government policy, they also have to develop the land within two years, or else the titles are revoked and ownership reverts back to the government for redistribution.’

  Evans nodded, distractedly, eyes back on Azizza.

  ‘Now, most of these applicants are up country folk. The two-year law starts from the date of the application. It's already been eight months and no title deeds have been collected.’

  ‘Yes you said, so why doesn’t the land office inform them?’

  ‘You know how our government works,’ Patel smiled, ‘the land officer is not about to release these valuable titles without making something for himself.’

  Evans nodded. ‘Typical,’ he muttered, draining his glass and looking for a waiter. ‘My round?’ He asked, interrupting the flow.

  ‘Yes, alright.’ Patel agreed. The three of them sat though an a
wkward moment while Evans ordered the drinks.

  Patel glanced at Azizza looking for approval. She nodded silent encouragement. With the drinks order over, Patel resumed. ‘Now Evans, this is where your bank comes in. In theory, one of these applicants with a title deed in hand could come to you and secure a loan leaving the title as collateral. Your bank would lend money on three quarters of the value of the undeveloped plot, correct?’

  Evans looked sideways at Patel and nodded cautiously. ‘More like half the value, if it’s not developed.’

  Patel nodded. ‘Each plot is about five acres and at today’s market prices must be worth 300,000 shillings an acre. Five acres 1,500,000, so for half of the value a plot owner could secure, in theory, a loan of 750,000, at an interest rate of sixteen percent.’

  ‘Eighteen,’ interrupted Evans, ‘but no small holder can afford it.’

  ‘Ok, eighteen,’ agreed Patel, ‘this would amount to,’ reaching for a calculator in his pocket.

  ‘135,000 shillings,’ Evans filled in, showing off to Azizza, ‘and as I said, only half the value.’

  ‘Right,’ Patel said as he tapped out the numbers, and looking at the results, ‘correct.’

  ‘Not only that,’ said Evans now in his element, ‘but they would have to repay the bank almost 12,000 shillings a month, and our experience shows that the small holder soon overspends and the bank ends up owning land it doesn’t want and can't sell.’

  ‘Yes, but what if, in theory, the small holder kept up his monthly payments, then the bank would have no problem. The person who approves the loan is you, the manager?’

  ‘Yes, but I don't take risks like that. The bank has a very firm policy on small loans. It's hardly worth it for us or me, and I’m not about to put my job at risk just for the bank. No, not me,’ and laughed. This Indian is too funny - enjoying his private joke.

  ‘Eighteen percent is a nice profit for mere paperwork.’