Elephant Dropping (9781301895199)

by Trzebinski, Bruce

  The tuk-tuk driver shushed him. ‘Please,’ he pleaded, ‘don’t make them angry. Please, mzungu man, best to be quiet, please amigo.’

  Brian looked in disbelief as a cop stood over them cradling a sub-machine gun. The Land rover drove at high speed through town, and turned into the police enclosure, stopping in a squeal of brakes. A dust cloud enveloped him and the two drivers.

  A high, rusted, barbed wire fence enclosed the compound. In one corner, accident vehicles in impossibly contorted shapes lay gathering dust and weeds. A rooster perched on top flapping its wings and crowing, as though to announce their arrival.

  A cop jumped out of the cab and undid Brian’s handcuffs. ‘Ok, we go,’ a jerk of his head indicating a low grubby building off to one side. A tin roof with words stencilled along it. “Truffic Headquarters Malindi,” was its unlikely title.

  Brian climbed out, helped by the taxi driver. His ankle hurt and with only one shoe he hobbled along. He took the other shoe off and walked into the police station in his socks. He muttered. ‘I’m going to report all this, it’s outrageous.’

  The reception consisted of a long high counter. The cop with the baton was already behind the desk. He told the two drivers to follow him and instructed Brian. ‘Mzungu. You wait here, to take statement.’

  ‘What about my briefcase,’ Brian asked, ‘and my other shoe?’He held it up defiantly.

  The cop replied. ‘You write statement on accident. This is traffic, not robbery division.’

  ‘Oh, “truffic”,’ muttered Brian, as the three of them disappeared into the building.

  Brian was grateful that he still had his wallet and mobile phone, not daring to think about the loss of his briefcase. Perhaps it was under the tuk-tuk, had fallen out as the crash happened, and the taxi now lay on it.

  A voice coming from over the counter interrupted his thoughts. ‘Yes, mzungu, what do you want?’

  Brian looked up to see a tall man looking down at him. His torso at the level of the counter hiding the rest of his body, legs long enough to be out of Alice in wonderland.

  ‘I was told to wait here, to make a statement.’

  ‘About what?’ the man asked.

  ‘An accident, I have been in an accident.’

  The man leaned forward resting his elbows on the counter and scratched his ear with the end of a ballpoint pen, peering at Brian in idle interest. ‘You had an accident?’

  ‘No, I was involved in one. I was a passenger.’

  ‘Where is this accident?’ The man asked, and not waiting for a reply, he went on. ‘You were the driver, it was a car hire, you drank beers, you a German, where is your driving license?’

  Brian didn’t know what to say. ‘Listen, the man with the stick, he went in there,’ he pointed at the corner doorway, ‘he knows about the accident.’

  ‘Yes but, it is an offence to drive in Kenya without a license. You will be charged in a court of law,’ the man said with finality. ‘This is not Germany.’

  Brian felt a panic rising. I’ve lost it, this can’t be real. A semblance of reality returned with the policeman and the two drivers. The cop barked out an order to the taller one in Kiswahili. Brian overheard the word “statement” in English.

  The tall cop said. ‘Yes sah,’ as he stepped down from his hidden pedestal, and motioned Brian with an occurrence book in hand. ‘Follow me,’ he instructed as they walked out of the station into the sunlight. He looked for somewhere to rest his book, and chose an upturned oil drum in the shade of a scrawny tree. Brian stood in the sun in his socks, while the lorry driver waited by the gate; they were joined by the tuk-tuk driver.

  ‘You have to make statement, amigo, otherwise insurance people won’t pay for damage to my taxi,’ he explained.

  ‘Ah,’ Brian said the penny dropping. The cop wrote the date in the book, and then spoke to the taxi driver in kiswahili asking questions and writing the answers in the book. When he seemed satisfied, he asked Brian for a name and address and wrote this down, then handed him the book and asked him to sign it.

  ‘What am I signing?’

  ‘Your statement,’ said the policeman.

  ‘But I haven’t said anything?’

  He pointed at the book. ‘Look sign it here.’

  The tuk-tuk driver said. ‘Listen amigo, it’s good. See, read it, it is your statement.’

  Brian read the report written in schoolboy English, loosely outlining the cause and effects of the accident.

  ‘Please sign’ said the tuk-tuk driver, ‘or insurance, you see. Please amigo.’ He consented and signed, only correcting the spelling of his name from brain to Brian.

  ‘Ok,’ said the policeman, ‘you can go,’ pointing his chin at the gateway. The two drivers immediately set off. Wiser men would have followed them, but Brian, annoyed at the way he had been treated, was self-righteously determined to see the police do their job properly. He stood his ground.

  ‘Look,’ he said, addressing the policeman, ‘you people forced me to come here, against my will. I lost my other shoe in the process, my briefcase has been stolen, and I can’t walk because I have hurt my ankle.’

  The policeman was disinterested. ‘You have medical insurance?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Brian, ‘but.’

  The cop shrugged. ‘No problemo, your foot, they fix it.’

  Brian sighed. ‘Where can I report my briefcase stolen?’

  ‘It was full of money?’

  ‘No, listen, it had important papers, where do I report it?’

  ‘Come with me,’ the cop said, leading him back into the station walking behind the counter and through into an open courtyard, surrounded by offices and rooms on three sides. The cop knocked on an office door, and then opening it slowly, leaned in and spoke in Kiswahili, he then stood back opening it wider. ‘Get in, this Detective Mugo, you make your robbery here.’

  Brian stepped into the office. A man in civilian clothes sat at a desk behind a typewriter, hitting each key hard and sporadically. On his desk was an elaborate wooden carving between what looked like a hut and a tree with the name W.K. Mugo in flowing letters. Mugo glanced up at him, pointing at a chair. ‘You sit there.’

  Leaving his typing, he leaned back and took a single cigarette out of his top pocket. He lit it and blew a puff of smoke in the air. ‘So tell me mzungu, you have had a robbery?’

  Brian explained the events as they had happened. He was glad to talk to somebody. Mugo listened without interrupting, occasionally nodding for him to continue. He carefully nudged the ash off his cigarette into an already overflowing ashtray. Once Brian had finished, Mugo asked him what was in the missing briefcase.

  Brian described the contents - passport, money, dollars and travellers cheques, bank documents to do with his job. His English driving license, a couple of credit cards, car keys, Nairobi apartment keys - and the flat keys here in Malindi.

  Mugo wrote nothing down and asked. ‘So you have no ID. How about a copy of your passport or work permit?’

  ‘No,’ He shook his head.

  ‘This is very bad.’ Mugo took a long last drag on his cigarette to finish it. ‘How do we know you are you? Is there anyone in Malindi who can vouch for you?’

  Brian frowned. ‘The manager at the NNB bank here in Malindi knows who I am. Evans Njugu, I can call him.’

  ‘Yes, you better do that.’

  He used his mobile. ‘Hello Evans? Listen, I have a small problem. I’m at the Malindi Police Station. I have been involved in an accident - yes, I’m alright - yes but my briefcase was stolen. Can you ask the Nairobi office to e-mail down a copy of my passport?’

  Mugo leaned forward, interrupting. ‘And your work permit.’

  ‘Yes Evans, and a copy of my work permit. Yes, the police want to see it. Can you come with it to the police station? Ok, thanks.’

  Mugo asked. ‘This Evans, how long have you known him?’

  ‘We met for the first time this morning. I flew down from Nairobi, but we are work coll
eagues.’

  Mugo said. ‘You wait outside in the courtyard. Don’t try to leave,’ he warned, ‘when he brings your ID we continue.’

  Brian stepped out of the office and looked for somewhere to sit while he waited. He settled for a small step outside the office, taking off his dusty socks and stuffing them inside his remaining shoe. He found himself in a surreal situation. Part of him just wanted to walk out, the other half too scared to. Based on his experience so far, it was better to do what the police asked him to do. He would laugh about this one day, he told himself, comforted by this thought, he tried to relax.

  *

  Evans was in a dither, having waited in nervous anticipation for Brian’s arrival, the phone call had completely thrown him. The first mention of the police station sending shivers down his spine. He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He immediately called Azizza on his mobile, explaining quickly the latest events. ‘What shall I do?’ he asked.

  ‘Do?’ She asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When the e-mail arrives, take it down to the police station and hand it over,’ she said simply.

  ‘What about Nicholls?’

  ‘He has had bad luck, so go and be supportive. He is your boss after all, isn’t he? Just go and be helpful, don’t get involved in anything the police are up to, you know what they are like.’

  ‘Yes, yes, ok thanks Azizza.’

  ‘You’re welcome, call me any time,’ and she hung up.

  *

  Patel looked up from what he was doing, raising his eyebrows in silent question.

  ‘Nicholls is with the cops,’ she told him. ‘They want a copy of his passport, the bank is going to e-mail it through from Nairobi.’

  ‘Oh good,’ muttered Patel returning to his task.

  Azizza asked. ‘Do you want help with that?’

  ‘Yes alright, my fingers are too big.’ Azizza took the briefcase from Patel. Bending down to listen to the tumblers on the lock, she flicked the dials round with her sharp fingernails, listening for the telltale click as a tumbler fell into position. She had the combinations in no time, and pushing the buttons to one side flicked open the latches handing it ceremoniously to Patel, ready for him to lift the lid. She craned over his shoulder as the two of them looked at the contents of Brian Nicholls briefcase.

  Patel picked out the passport and the work permit in glee. ‘Ha! In luck,’ he exclaimed, ‘look a husband for you,’ he teased Azizza.

  She took the passport from him. ‘No, he’s too white,’ she said looking at the photo and reading the particulars, ‘and too short.’

  Patel read through the bank documents with interest. Fingering the key to the White Marlin apartment, he held it up. ‘Shall we keep this? They will give him a spare.’

  ‘No, if it’s missing they will change the lock. I know that manager he’s German, very efficient.’

  ‘Ok,’ he tossed it back into the brief case, looking wistfully at the dollars and credit cards, ‘and the money?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head.

  ‘So, we just take the passport and the work permit right?’

  ‘Yes, let him wonder if he mislaid it in Nairobi. Only way he can check is to go back there.’

  Patel giggled. ‘You are such a crafty one,’ he said in admiration pocketing the passport and work permit, he gave her the briefcase. ‘Is Salim still here?’

  She pointed at the back door of the Golden Palm office. ‘I asked him to wait outside.’

  ‘Tell him to take that back to Nicholls at the cop shop, and give it to a Detective Mugo.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be wiser for him to take it to the bank?’ Evans can deliver it. The less the cops see of Salim the better.’

  Patel clapped his hands in genuine delight. ‘Ha! You are on song today my dear, even better; Evans can earn some favours with his boss. We had agreed to pay Salim ten thousand, give him an extra five; I’m in a generous mood.’

  She took the briefcase to the back door and called the tuk-tuk driver over, he listened to her instructions. ‘When your taxi is fixed, bring me the bill ok - I will pay it. Good work,’ she added, as she handed over the extra five thousand.

  ‘Thank you, mama.’ He said as she closed the door on him.

  *

  At the bank, Evans fidgeted at his desk, waiting for the all-important e-mail and wondered if he had time to slip out for quick drink, to calm his nerves. Florence came into his office. ‘Sir, the security guard wants to talk to you.’

  ‘What security guard?’

  ‘The one in the car park, Sir.’

  ‘What now,’ Evans muttered, as he walked out. ‘A puncture? That’s all I need.’ He got to the car park. ‘Yes, what is it?’ he barked at the guard, looking over at the Toyota.

  ‘Sir this man here,’ pointing at Salim, ‘has a case belonging to that mzungu, who came with you this morning,

  Evan’s head spun round. Case? The briefcase! ‘Very good where did he find it?’

  ‘Sir, he was driver of the taxi the mzungu had a crash in.’

  ‘Good, good, give it to me. I will give it to the mzungu.’

  ‘Sir, he say mzungu would give a reward. The case has not been opened.’ Salim shook it - rattling the contents to make his point.

  Evans reached into his pocket, and took out a five hundred shilling note, waving it at Salim.

  Salim took the note then muttered something to the guard in a dialect Evans couldn’t follow. ‘Sir, he say he wait for mzungu.’

  Evans cursed silently. ‘Ok, how much does he want?’

  ‘He says, five thousand.’

  ‘No that’s too much.’

  ‘He says the mzungu will pay you.’

  Evans reluctantly took out his wallet and counted out the money.

  As Salim took it, Evans scowled at him. ‘You are a greedy man.’ Taking hold of the case, he rushed back into the bank with his prize. What luck!

  Salim handed over the five hundred to the security guard. Now he only had to pay off the lorry driver and get his tuk-tuk fixed.

  *

  Brian needed to pee, but couldn’t see an obvious place to go, out in the middle of the open courtyard were some grubby looking crotons in an old paint drum competing with weeds to form an island of vegetation. Offices in low buildings surrounded it; he could hear the crackle of a radio.

  The open portion of the courtyard was closed off at a distance by a high cement wall, topped off with strands of rusty barbed wire. Along this wall, some tin roofed lean-too’s sagged up against it. Brian wondered if there might be an outhouse. He plucked up the courage to ask the cop at the reception desk and hobbled across the courtyard. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the cop manning the reception, ‘I need to pee, do you have a Gents?’

  ‘Over there,’ the cop, pointed at a small building, partially hidden by the crashed vehicles in the corner. A bent flagpole wearing a tattered police flag hung limply above it.

  Brian set off to explore, picking his way around twisted and crumpled cars and avoiding shards of glass littering the ground. The smell of urine was unmistakable as he reached the building and pushed the door open. A cloud of disturbed flies flew up from a cement plinth with a stained hole at its centre.

  Brian gagged involuntarily and the door swung shut. Looking around, he hopped to one side of the hut tucked his shoe under his arm, and furtively relieved himself against the wall.

  As he turned to make his way back to the station, the police pickup raced into the compound. Armed cops leapt off the car and dragged three women out of the back of the vehicle.

  The policeman with the swagger stick kicked at them as they lay in the dust, urging them to their feet. ‘Malaya!’ He was shouting, ‘prostitute,’ driving them towards the reception. Brian stood transfixed, staring in disbelief at this violent and chaotic scene. The cops freely handled the women, grabbing their backsides and lifting their skirts, and shouting with glee, ‘Malaya, Malaya!’ The ugly circus disappeared into the build
ing.

  Brian appalled at what he had just witnessed, considered walking out of the gate but realised he wouldn’t get far without shoes. Waiting for a while for the noise to abate, he hobbled back to the station dreading what he might see. The reception was unmanned; he could hear distant screaming, followed by what sounded like loud slaps, and more shouting. Presently, the reception cop came back, breathing hard, a huge grin on his face. He was sweating and his eyes were shinning with excitement.

  ‘Get in,’ he breathed at Brian.

  Brian said. ‘Actually, can I wait here?’ Where the hell is Evans? He needed to get out of here fast.

  ‘Ok, no problem colleague.’

  Evans drove up to the police station with Brian’s briefcase, astounded to see his boss, standing outside in a stained shirt, barefoot, one shoe tucked under his arm.

  Brian looked at Evans in disbelief. Is that my briefcase? It is!

  ‘So sorry for your trouble, Sir,’ Evans apologised, handing it over. ‘I drove straight up here. What has happened?’

  Brian explained the accident, including his lack of shoes, while opening the briefcase to check its contents. Relieved to see the money but flicking through the documents, he couldn’t see his passport. Eventually he put the case on the ground and methodically went through it. No passport and no work permit. Shit!

  Evans stood there embarrassed at the sight of his boss scrabbling through his briefcase kneeling in the dust.

  Brian wracked his brain. Have I left it in the apartment? No, I wouldn’t travel without it - stolen? Surely not, the money and credit cards were still there. ‘Did they send the copy from Nairobi?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet. I drove straight up here. Why do the police want your passport anyway?’ Evans asked.

  ‘They say I need to prove, who I am.’

  ‘Oh, do you have a driving license, or any other ID?’

  ‘Yes, good thinking Evans that might work.’ He fished out his driving license, a credit card and his business card.

  Mugo appeared at the reception. ‘Hey you mzungu,’ he called out, ‘I was looking for you.’

  ‘Ah, Detective Mugo,’ Brian hobbled over. ‘This is Evans, my colleague from the bank. Good news he’s found my briefcase!’ Evans stayed where he was.