Elephant Dropping (9781301895199)

by Trzebinski, Bruce

  He settled down at the computer, glancing at his watch making a note of the time. Tapping in the password, he opened the folder containing the Golden Palm accounts, and read the current figures. NNB had now lent over 500 million shillings on the strength of the title deeds. At an average of 750,000 per title, this equated to almost seven hundred titles over the past five months.

  The land officer had already consumed two million, the interest rates so far, just under nine million.

  Patel, with Azizza’s help, had set up Golden Palm as a legitimate limited company, its mandate was land buying and real estate and all the licenses were current. They were both listed as directors of the company, the majority shares in Patel’s name. The land officer handed over the title deeds to Azizza, and issued her with a government receipt for the amount, in the name of the plot owner, pocketing his fee.

  Each plot owner was a member of the Sabaki Farmers Co-operative Society. This fictional co-operative even had an elected chairman and subcommittee. It was this so-called subcommittee that had voted for and officially appointed Golden Palm as the co-operatives agents.

  With approval from Evans, the NNB bank paid out the loans in cash in exchange for the title deeds. Golden Palm acted as agents for the small holders earning an additional fee. The bulk of this money went into a deposit account with a rival bank in Malindi where Patel and Azizza were joint signatories.

  Azizza paid the interest in cash on a daily basis to NNB, as well as submitting any new loan applications. The cash was carefully calculated and kept in a concealed floor safe in the house together with all the pending title deeds. Money accumulated in the savings account in the rival bank. Golden Palm had bought the Mercedes that Evans was driving, as a sweetener of things to come. Patel had resisted any attempt by Evans to get hold of more money. It would earn them all more on deposit, and they couldn’t risk him overspending and drawing unnecessary attention to himself.

  As a concession, Evans was paid a monthly consultants fee, which was enough to keep him happy for the time being.

  Patel scanned all the figures, noting with satisfaction, that Azizza kept a tidy set of books. Any cursory glance through these accounts would only show that Golden Palm was a legitimate agency with a good relationship with its many clients. He looked up the figure currently on deposit, 490 million shillings and rising. ‘Not enough,’ he muttered. ‘No,’ sipping his tea, ‘not nearly enough. Damn this Nicholls fellow, this is such a beautiful project we must see it through.’

  He opened Evan’s folder and typed in adjustments to the figures. Then wrote a quick note to Azizza and stuck it on the monitor, where she would read it in the morning.

  Patel looked at his watch, time to go. He shut down the computer threw the dust cover over the equipment and then slid the coffee table to one side. He pulled up the floorboard where the safe was and counted out money from a wad of notes, putting these in an envelope, he shut the safe and put the floorboard back returning the table to its position.

  He spotted a plastic shopping bag on the filing cabinet and remembered the phone for Kamau. He took out a box containing the phone, popped it open, gave it a cursory glance and weighed it in his hand, ‘Nice,’ he muttered, ‘I must get one myself.’ He put the phone back in its wrapper, took out a jiffy bag from a cabinet drawer, put the phone into the bag and filled out the address panel to Kamau at the Immigration Dept., Nairobi.

  He drew up at the golf club gates at a little after six thirty, waved his pass at the gatekeeper and parked the small Toyota next to Evan’s Mercedes. Signing himself in at the reception counter, Patel cast his eye around for the bank manager, spotting him seated at the bar chatting to another member.

  Selecting an English newspaper from the rack, Patel’s eye chose an easy chair in the corner of the veranda.

  He nodded ‘hello’s to other patrons he passed on his way to his chosen seat. He ordered a gin and tonic from the waiter and settling in, pretended to read the newspaper, waiting for Evans to join him. Idly flicking through it he saw an advertisement for a London property on Kensington High Street. Four bedrooms, pocket garden, £600,000. Outrageous, but still, maybe one day.

  At that moment, Evans pushed his way into the chair. ‘Hello my friend,’ Patel greeted him, ‘hard day at the office?’

  ‘Oh, Mondays are never much fun, how was your day?’ he replied. They kept up this hearty banter for the benefit of any on-lookers, just regulars shooting the breeze.

  Evans had arrived glass in hand and once the waiter brought Patel’s order, they chatted about no particular topic for a while, watching others coming off the golf course, the setting sun threw a golden glow across the veranda.

  Finally, Patel broached the topic of their meeting. ‘You feeling better Evans?’ he asked.

  The manager embarrassed at his earlier panic replied. ‘Yes, but I still have questions.’

  ‘Ok, we will get to those in due course.’ Patel said smoothly. ‘Just listen to what I have to say then you can ask ok?’

  Evans nodded.

  Patel leaned back in his chair. ‘As you know Golden Palm was set up as a legitimate financial agency. This Nicholls fellow will not find anything amiss in our figures. If there are any suspicions at all, it will be because of the unprecedented lack of loan defaulters, but this is ‘early days,’ so even that can be explained. Like I said, we may be able to use this visit of his to our advantage. Evans scratched his head, listening. ‘But we have to take immediate precautions to safeguard our product, until Nicholls has been and gone. You are to stay away from the Golden Palm office and have no contact with Azizza unless she instigates it.’

  Evans frowned, but remained silent. ‘During these two weeks, you cannot use the Mercedes. I have brought a small Toyota for you to use during this period. As far as anyone else is concerned - your wife for example - the Mercedes is away on a service. You will get it back once the coast is clear. We don’t want Nicholls raising questions on how you could afford an eight million shilling motor, do you get me?’

  Evans nodded, looking glum. The car was his pride and joy. Patel reached into his pocket and handed him the envelope from the office. ‘Put that in your pocket,’ he advised.

  Evans an expert in currency weights took the packet and smiled. Must be half a million shillings. ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, brightening.

  Patel smiled. ‘That should keep you happy for a while. Now I need you to find out where Nicholls is staying in Nairobi. Does NNB have company houses?’

  ‘Yes, we have a block of apartments used by senior personnel.’

  ‘Ok, find out which apartment he is staying in.’

  Evans frowned; saw the look in Patel’s eye and nodded. ‘Ok, I can find that out,’ he agreed.

  Patel went on. ‘I also need you to find out Nicholl’s flight number -if he is coming by air next Monday - where would someone like him stay here in Malindi, in a hotel?’

  Evans nodded. ‘We have an arrangement with the White Marlin Hotel, they have serviced apartments we use.’

  ‘Aha,’ said Patel, ‘that could be useful. You must keep me informed if there are any changes to his itinerary. Any enquiries you make must be discreet, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I can do that,’ repeated Evans.

  ‘Good,’ said Patel satisfied, reaching for the newspaper. He pointed out the advert for the London home, tapping on it with his index finger. ‘Can you imagine for such a small house! We still have lots of work to do,’ he giggled. ‘Now do you have any questions?’

  Evans took the paper from him, looked at the advert. ‘No, but what happens, if despite our precautions, Nicholls finds something, what do we do then?’

  Patel answered, getting testy. ‘Listen Evans, I have just explained it to you, there is nothing to find. You are doing your job as a bank manager - a very good job as far as the bank is concerned.’ He held his hands up in the air. ‘The only thing that can go wrong is if you decide to tell Nicholls or anyone else of your involvement in
this project. Then I guess you will go to jail for fraud. Stop worrying.’

  ‘Ok,’ but went on doggedly, ‘and how will we split the money?’

  ‘As we agreed, everything is on course. This is no time to start having doubts,’ said Patel with finality.

  Evans looked desperate. ‘What if the plot owners ask questions?’

  ‘What plot owners?’ Patel looked at the ceiling, ‘we own the plots. Who will they ask, you? They cannot miss something they never had,’ he laughed, ‘come on Evans enough of this crap, get a grip on your fears!’

  Patel got up to leave. ‘Here are the car keys to the Toyota, do you have any personal stuff in the Mercedes?’

  They exchanged keys in the car park. Patel drove off; Evans looked on with longing as his pride and joy disappeared down the driveway in a cloud of dust.

  TWO

  From his second story balcony that evening, Patel watched the moonrise over the ocean. Its golden light glinted off waves rolling into the crescent shaped bay of Malindi. He sighed, making a decision; today’s events had highlighted a looming difficulty he had ignored. It had become clear, that in order to pull off the Golden Palm project, there would have to be changes.

  Leaving Malindi was never part of the plan; he had inherited the plastics factory from his father. Starting out as a wood working shop, his father had made a living manufacturing furniture; the smell of wood shavings were etched in Patel’s childhood memories, along with sharper acid-like smells as the factory adapted to making plastic utilities for the domestic market. One of the first to use this new technology, his father had made a good profit securing a large market share.

  The only way for the factory to survive now, was to cut the profit levels, as cheap imports from china threatened to drive it under completely. Patel had always been looking for a way to upgrade the equipment. Golden Palm had seemed to be that lifeline, a huge injection of capital putting him back in the lead. Now he could see that was only a pipe dream. His best bet was to sell the family holdings, and leave.

  Evan’s behaviour proved he simply could not be trusted. The staggering amounts of money earned, seemingly so easily, had blinded Patel to the reality of the theft, and the bank manager’s panic today had cleared his vision.

  Fatima, joined him on the balcony. ‘You’re quiet this evening,’ she said, ‘is everything alright?’

  Patel smiled. ‘Yes my sugar, I’m just thinking it’s time we moved from Malindi.’

  ‘Move, where to? Why?’

  ‘To London, the big city.’

  ‘Oh, big shot now,’ she teased. ‘London! Perhaps we could have the queen to tea, stay at Buckingham palace heh?’

  ‘I’m serious Fatima,’ Patel said.

  ‘Oh Jugdish, please don’t tease me.’

  ‘I think it’s time we sold the factory,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Sell the factory and then what? Open a corner shop in Manchester and live in rented accommodation like my uncle? No wonder you’re quiet, what a prospect!’

  Patel laughed at the idea, chucking his wife under the chin. ‘Yes dear, you would make a great shopkeeper. Your beauty would bring us love struck customers throwing money about, hoping for one glimpse of your magic smile.’

  She blushed. ‘Silly man, Jugdish, you know I have always wanted to live in England, don’t lie to me, you can be so unkind.’

  ‘Yes sugar. By the way, I unkindly bought a present for you today.’ He dangled a set of car keys in front of her. ‘Why don’t you go and have a look?’ Fatima took the keys, staring at the logo. ‘What’s this, have you lost your mind?’

  ‘Go and look,’ he insisted.

  Fatima needed no second bidding and sped to the back door. She saw the sleek Mercedes in the moonlight and squealed in delight. ‘Oh, Jugdish! My favourite colour!

  She returned to the balcony, breathless. ‘How, but how, can we afford this car?’

  Patel told her. ‘I have been working on a lucrative project over the last few months.’

  ‘What project,’ she demanded, ‘why don’t I know about it?’

  He wagged his finger. ‘No, it’s better you don’t know. I will tell you when we move to London,’ he teased, ‘come on let’s try out your new toy, my sugar?’

  Fatima was torn. She knew better than to nag him and was dying to drive the new car. Making a decision, she ran off to the bedroom to get changed, squealing. ‘Oh, I’m so excited!’

  Patel smiled in delight. He loved her innocence; it took the edge off his cynical mind. If there was any truth and goodness in his life, it was Fatima. He loved to see the world through her young eyes.

  She called out from the bedroom. ‘We can pick up the kids from my sisters! Oh won’t they be surprised?’

  ‘Come on then,’ he shouted back. ‘Hurry up!’

  Fatima’s eyes were like spotlights flashing round the interior of the car in wonder. Stroking the leather seats in delight, playing with the electric windows, unable to sit still. ‘Where do I put the key? Oh, I see it,’ and plunged the key into the ignition. Nothing happened, taking her aback. Patel laughed at her confusion.

  ‘It’s an automatic dear,’ he said, pointing at the unfamiliar T-bar where the gear lever should be. ‘Oh,’ she looked at the lever and glanced at the floor pedals, ‘there’s no clutch!’ she exclaimed.

  Patel was now in stitches, Fatima, laughing as well, demanded. ‘How do I drive it? Come on tell me, tell me, you horrible man.’

  This was the best half a million he had ever spent! He distracted her by adjusting the electric seats. This brought more peals of laughter until they got it right for her small frame and at last, with Fatima at the wheel, tyres spinning they lurched out of the car park.

  Patel was up early the next morning, on his balcony with a coffee where he watched small fishing dhows put out to sea, the rising sun catching on their lateen rigged sails, like so many shark fins on the water, the sea an indigo blue in the sunlight.

  Fatima was still asleep after a night of passionate love making, Patel had lied to Azizza about his sex drive. The truth was that he was not attracted to African women, never had been. Besides, Fatima ten years younger than him, was an eager lover and he really loved her. He had no reason to stray from the comfortable confines of his marital bed.

  His thoughts this morning were far from these pleasantries. The risks he had taken with Golden Palm now putting him in full predator mode, he soberly contemplated the prospect of Nicholls bringing the project crashing down around his ears. He reasoned that if the auditor’s task was to examine the accounts it was inevitable that his focus would fall on the Golden Palm. He dismissed the idea of trying to delay Nicholls arrival, there were too many unknowns, it would be easier to have him in Malindi within the greatest sphere of his influence. Patel’s mind examined every angle like a chess player; he thought out his next move.

  Fatima, wearing only a large T-shirt and still sleepy motioned for him to make room for her on the seat and cuddled up to her husband. She was the first to break the silence. ‘Thank you for my present Jugdish, it’s beautiful.’

  ‘You are welcome, my sugar,’ he responded.

  ‘Are you serious about selling the factory?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘And London?’

  ‘Yes, honey.’

  ‘But how?’ She started, sitting up looking directly at him.

  ‘Don’t worry, sweets, I have a plan. Today I want you to e-mail your uncle and get all the necessary papers to apply for entry visas for us and the boys. I will arrange the tickets.’

  ‘For when?’

  ‘Next week, as soon as possible,’ he replied.

  ‘It’s so soon!’ She protested, ‘and the car makes no sense?’

  ‘There are some bad things happening in Nairobi,’ he intimated. ‘I want you and the boys out of the country as soon as possible.’ These chilling words, conjured up the Ugandan experience through Idi Amin for every Indian in East Africa - a painful reminder that the sam
e economic meltdown could happen again.

  ‘You mean politically?’ she asked.

  ‘Hmmmm, yes,’ murmured Patel.

  ‘My sister doesn’t know about this, I must warn her.’

  ‘Honey, best not to talk to anyone - even your sister. We have the factory to sell and any uncertainty about the future will drive the price down. I want you and the boys out of here, to create a safe base for us all, including your sister. I will join you as soon as I have cleared up all our business here, and I will buy you another car,’ he promised, ‘a better one.’

  ‘You want to sell everything? What about the farm?’

  Patel had inherited two hundred acres north of Malindi, near the town of Mambrui, at present a worthless piece of bush that was ambitiously called the farm. ‘No I won’t sell that, it will be held in trust for the boys, but yes, everything else will be sold. You know you can ask your uncle to find us a house to rent. It’s about time the boys got a decent education and I’m sure you don’t want to see them in boarding schools,’ He appealed to her motherly instincts.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she agreed.

  The two boys joined their parents on the balcony, Jitu eleven, the eldest, followed by Gulam, nine. ‘Oh lazy bones,’ greeted their father, ‘mum look what your sons are doing. Going to be late for school eh?’

  ‘No school, it is a holiday,’ she hugged each one in turn.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Patel, ‘I need help on the factory floor,’ he teased, ‘holidays! What’s that?’ recalling his own childhood.

  Patel addressed his children in mock severity. ‘I have an important mission for you two. You are to accompany your mother to London! You will be her bodyguards! And also to make sure she doesn’t spend all our money,’ he teased, seizing Jitu in a hug. ‘You are looking at the next I.T. genius mum.’

  ‘What’s I.T.?’ Asked Gulam.

  ‘Oh tube light has woken up,’ teased his elder brother. Gulam tried to get at Jitu, their father held them apart. ‘Now, now,’ he warned affectionately ruffling Gulam’s hair. ‘No time for fighting, go and check on the new car. Make sure it has no puncture to worry your mum,’ as they ran off excitedly.