Lucy’s room contained a single bed, a strip of cracked linoleum on a concrete floor and a rickety wardrobe. A single bulb lit the tiny cell and a small high window offered token ventilation. Pictures torn out of fashion magazines made up a collage on one wall; her aspirations pasted up.
She sat on the bed and examined her face with a small hand mirror. Shit, fuckers. She swore at her reflection and angrily tossed the mirror onto the bed. She stripped off her clothes, put on her flip-flops and with a towel and bar of soap, headed for the communal bathroom. A windowless L-shaped alcove, with just a standpipe and a small bucket to sluice with.
Later she sat on the bed, combing her hair out, tugging at the knots, while puffing on a joint. Examining her eye in the mirror, her fingers explored the swelling tenderly. Damn. It meant she would have to go down to the truck stop bars for a few days just until the eye healed, provided she didn’t end up with a matching shiner from those rough johns or a competing tart. Perhaps she could find that kind mzungu. He would do just fine she mused as the ganja took effect, easing her reality. The police would know who he was but would want money.
The other man in the car, the fat one she had seen before in a night-club, he was the local bank manager. It might be worth talking to the security guards at the bank, they might lead her to the kind mzungu. With that thought, she lay back on the bed still wrapped in her towel and got some much-needed sleep.
*
Brian tried to relax on his sun bed beside the pool. He couldn’t get into his novel, and felt awkward trying to behave like the other tourists. He wasn’t on holiday and they were. Bloody police he was thinking, he had so much work to do and was itching to get on with it. An idea came to him. Evans could bring documents from the bank. He made a decision, picking up his towel and book, and headed back to the apartment. He called Evans on his mobile.
‘Hello Evans, listen, there’s nothing to stop you coming here, to the hotel. Yes, we could work from here. The police can’t object to that. We can have a meeting, and go through the fundamentals of your loan strategy. What do you think? Can you work this afternoon? You can - good shall we say two thirty?’
After the call Evans sat at his desk and considered this morning’s events. These mzungus always think they have all the answers. He rang Azizza for advice, emphasizing the fact that Brian was not allowed to work and incredulous over the incident with the girl from the station.
‘Ok,’ said Azizza. ‘Never mind, now, getting back to your meeting, this is what you say to Nicholls, are you listening?’
‘But the meeting is illegal, I could go to jail.’
Azizza almost laughed. ‘Now, Evans calm down, do you want me to help you or not?’
‘Yes ok, yes go ahead,’ Evans said reluctantly.
Azizza outlined the plan of action. Patel listened in on the speaker nodding his approval as she talked him through the simple plan. ‘If you don’t know the answer, just stall or change the subject, or say you have to refer to a file back at the office. Ok? Don’t worry, let things unfold. You will be fine Evans, so don’t be nervous.’
‘Ok thanks.’ He said and rang off.
Patel was intrigued. ‘Nicholls paid a whore’s fine?’
Azizza nodded. ‘He is obviously a misguided nice guy.’
‘Nice he maybe, but not very sensible,’ Patel snorted. ‘A sensible man would have paid the cops to leave him alone, not forked out for the prostitute.’
‘Why are you interested in the girl?’
‘The devil is in the detail,’ Patel said mysteriously. ‘let’s see if she crops up again, Malindi is a small town. Now my dear,’ returning to what they were doing before the call, ‘I have been thinking I need to fly up to Nairobi soon.’
Azizza nodded, watching him closely. Patel had the tricky job of getting Brian’s passport returned to his apartment in Nairobi. She had argued that Brian could always apply for a new passport, so why take the risk?
He had agreed but said the risk was minimal and the last thing they needed was the British government investigating Nicholls over the loss of his passport, especially in Malindi where a European passport was highly prized by Somalis attempting to gain access to Europe.
The two of them had agreed on registering the NGO as a Danish one. It was difficult to find Danish translators, so business issues in third world countries were conducted in English, making it easier to fill out the application forms.
‘So, if I catch the two pm flight, it gives me time this evening to discuss everything with my contacts and I can file the applications tomorrow, getting back here by the afternoon.’ Patel reasoned.
Azizza looked at him - yes fly up, in time to catch the bank and a flight to London this evening - she rapped her fingernails on the table, an unconscious tapping.
Patel noticed. ‘I’ll be back my dear before you know I have gone.’ He knew she would not be so stupid as to try and steal the money, even if she was thinking it. ‘Now, let’s go over the details of the application, a small mistake could cause us real problems.’
*
When Lucy woke, it was mid afternoon and she was ravenous. She dressed in a pair of tight jeans and high heels. Her perky breasts provocatively held up a patterned sleeveless top. She hid the swollen eye from any direct gaze with an oversized red beret and checked her face in the mirror, glossing her lips. ‘Perfect,’ she muttered. Selecting a small handbag, she shut the door behind her and descended the stairs.
There was a small café on the corner of her building, where she ate and planned her next move. Finishing her meal, Lucy stepped out of the door a toothpick in her mouth, ready for action. A matatu dropped her in town and she walked down the street beside the NNB bank. Spotting the security guard Lucy exaggerated her walk to the corner of the car park where she stopped and fished out a cigarette from her bag, she put this to her lips and turned and faced the guard. ‘Hey sojah,’ she called out in kiswahili, ‘got a light?’
The guard strolled in her direction. ‘I have a light for you if you have a cigarette for me,’ he answered. She held up another cigarette and smiled. He pointed his truncheon down the road, as though chasing her away. ‘Go to that corner, by the tree,’ he instructed, ‘I will come there.’
‘Ok, thanks,’ Lucy set off to wait for him. The guard first walked in the other direction, doing a once over around the car park and returning, hidden from view he joined her. He took the cigarette and lent back on the tree, lighting his first before lighting hers.
They puffed in silence weighing each other up. He looked her up and down with undisguised relish. ‘Rough night sista?’ He pointed his cigarette at her eye.
‘Cops,’ she explained.
‘Buggers, where did they pick you up?’
‘At the bar, outside the Moondust night-club.’
‘You look expensive,’ he said.
‘Thanks’ she smiled at him.
‘Maybe at the end of the month, I will come and visit you?’
‘Sure,’ she smiled, knowing he could never afford her.
‘Ah, money is tight this time.’ He blew a puff of smoke upwards.
‘You don’t have to pay me now,’ she replied, ‘in fact I need to know a few things.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What things?
‘I met your boss today.’
The guard straightened up, looking about anxiously.
‘Relax, he was with a mzungu, said his name is Birin, with light hair, the two of them were in a small white car.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘so what?’
‘Have you seen this mzungu?’
‘I might have,’ he replied, relaxing back on the tree.
‘Do you know where he is staying?’ Lucy pressed him.
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Come on,’ she smiled, ‘help a sista out.’
‘If I tell you, what do I get?’
Lucy pouted at him and giggled. ‘I can see you are hungry.’
He smiled. ‘Ok, the White Marl
in apartments are where he is staying. He is from Nairobi.’
‘Thanks,’ Lucy said, stubbing out her cigarette.
‘What about my promise?’
‘I will keep it.’ Lucy said as she strode off. ‘I will promise not to tell your wife. See you, sojah.’ He laughed in appreciation at being outwitted; he finished his cigarette watching her walk away.
*
Back at the bank, Evans organised his office for the afternoon. Collecting files and a notepad he made his way to the hotel. Brian met him at the reception dressed in surf shorts and a T-shirt. ‘Good of you to come,’ he smiled, ‘I thought we could find a quiet place in the shade, overlooking the pool where we can relax and talk.’
The setting and Brian’s casual attire fazed Evans. The meeting started amiably enough with Brian explaining his job in detail, his expectations and mandate within the company. Much of this Evans already knew but was finding it hard to concentrate - from where he sat, he had a full view of a voluptuous woman sunbathing in a micro bikini, who at regular intervals turned over, toasting herself.
Brian so busy talking didn’t notice Evans was distracted. Finishing his diatribe he ended by asking a direct question. ‘So now, Evans, tell me how this small loans scheme came about? It has proved to be a veritable success.’
Brian waited. Evans stared at him blankly. ‘Sorry Sir, could you repeat the question?’
Brian did so and Evans reluctantly moved closer, the woman now out of his view. ‘Sir, the small loans scheme is handled by a company called Golden Palm. They have guaranteed the loan re-payments to the bank on behalf of a co-operative of small scale farmers known as the Sabaki Settlement Scheme.’
‘But,’ Brian countered, ‘if Golden Palm should go bust, the bank will end up with these plots, along the Sabaki River.’
‘True,’ agreed Evans, ‘but Golden Palm has a safety net. It’s funded by a Danish non-governmental organisation, an aid package for small scale farmers in third world countries from the European Union. They have volunteers from Denmark here, mainly gap year agricultural students who give help and advice to the farmers.’
Brian was impressed. ‘I see, so the success of this scheme is mainly due to the support of the NGO?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Evans.
‘Do you know if this NGO has any plans to do this sort of work anywhere else in Kenya?’
‘They might have plans, but I have not been made aware.’ He answered, repeating almost verbatim what Azizza had told him.
‘How can I contact the NGO people - through Golden Palm?’
‘Yes,’ Evans ventured, although this was un-scripted territory.
‘Ok, that explains things. You see, I’m thinking if this NGO were to expand to other areas of the country, we could offer them better interest rates, a partnership as it were in our other NNB outlets. Can you arrange for us to meet the Directors of Golden Palm this week? I would like to sound them out on this idea?’
‘Yes, I can ask them.’ This new turn was certainly not planned.
‘Good,’ Brian rubbed his hands, smiling. ‘I must say, it sounds like a marvellous arrangement, the bank has almost zero risk.’
‘Yes, we were most thorough on all aspects of the loan agreements,’ Evans said proudly.
‘You have a good team at that bank.’ Brian agreed. With the loans scheme out of the way, the discussion turned to more everyday banking matters. They drew the meeting to a close on a companionable note, agreeing to meet in the morning, before going back to the dreaded police station.
*
Lucy sauntered along the main street of Malindi town, past coffee shops, furniture showrooms, supermarkets and bars. The strip about a mile long, with the White Marlin Hotel more or less at the end of it. She had plenty of time, on the lookout for work, greeting acquaintances as she strolled along. The bar where the police had picked her up was open, but she wasn’t going back in there today.
At a beer garden opposite the gates of the White Marlin she ordered a soda and sat where she could watch the hotel entrance. There was no point in trying to gain access to the complex, she would never be allowed in on her own. As Lucy waited, she methodically painted her nails with a colour matching her beret.
The gates opened and a white car drove out with Evans at the wheel. ‘Good,’ she muttered with satisfaction, both at her nails and the sighting of the manager. As luck would have it a few minutes later Brian walked out still dressed in his surf shorts, trainers and T-shirt and started to walk downtown, waving away offers from taxi drivers.
Lucy blew on her nails staring intently from across the road. It’s him, she decided and leaving money on the table hastily followed. She tottered across the road in her high heels almost colliding with a cyclist. ‘Birin! Birin!’ She yelled out at the retreating figure.
Hearing the commotion behind him, he turned to see an African woman in a red beret, high heels, breasts jiggling, bearing down on him. The woman was shouting out ‘Birin!’ He stopped. ‘Hello Birin,’ breathed Lucy as she caught up, smiling excitedly.
Brian looked at her uncertainly. ‘Oh Lucy it’s you?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’ She gushed.
He held out his hand formally. ‘Hello, how is the eye?’
Lucy took his hand and held on. ‘Tell me, you see better than me,’ pushing her face at him.
Brian tugged at his hand to no avail. ‘Did you see a doctor? He peered at her eye. Apart from the bruising, it was almost normal. The swelling had mostly subsided.
‘Where you going?’ asked Lucy, ignoring the question.
‘I was going shopping,’ Brian answered.
‘Oh good,’ she laughed with delight. ‘We go together.’
Brian managed to get his hand back. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘What’s the trouble, you nice man you don’t like me?’
‘No it’s not that. I don’t know you,’ and he shrugged shyly.
‘I comes with you,’ she decided for him. ‘I know Malindi, besti brices, they will sheet you. What you want buy?’
‘Ah, listen, I don’t think this is a good idea.’
‘Sure it is,’ Lucy smiled, ‘you heleped me, now I must helep you.’
‘Ok,’ he relented to humour her. ‘Perhaps you can help me. I need good shoes,’ he pointed at his trainers. ‘Do you know a shoe shop?’
‘Oh yes, a very good one, let’s go.’ She took his arm and hailed a passing tuk-tuk. ‘Hey derever,’ she yelled out lustily, ‘wait! Ngoja!’ The taxi pulled over noisily idling beside them. She dragged him towards it. ‘Come, Birin let’s go.’
He laughed, charmed despite himself. ‘Ok Lucy. By the way my name is Brian.’ He climbed into the tuk-tuk.
Lucy gave the driver an address and they set off. ‘Ok, yesi,’ she agreed, ‘Birin, that is what I say,’
‘Where are we going?’ Brian asked her.
‘To the old town, besti shops there, besti brice. ‘Here,’ waving at a passing shop, ‘too heckspensive and not good, you will see, Lucy, she know everythings.’
The tuk-tuk beetled along the main drag, going up the hill into the old part of Malindi. A veritable maze of flat roofed, two and three storied old buildings in narrow streets, built in the old Arab style, some of them dating back to before Vasco da Gama. The taxi stopped in the main square, a mini park with trees at its centre and from here they would have to continue on foot through the labyrinth of alleyways. Lucy bounced out of the taxi and paid the fair to the driver. ‘Oh, let me pay,’ Brian protested.
‘No, you pay already to those bladi, fakin policies, bastardis,’ she said with feeling, her nostrils flaring prettily.
Brian smiled at her description. ‘My sentiments exactly,’ he said.
‘Huh?’
‘It’s true, what you said, I’m agreeing with you.’
‘Ah, never mind, come, twende. I teach you Kiswahili, hay? Twende says let’s go.’ Lucy shot down one of the narrow streets, skipping despite her high heels. Brian following
dutifully, captivated by her speed and energy. Her lithe body turning easily as she alternately walked, skipped, turned around to look at him all the while chatting away. ‘What shoe you want, like those?’ Pointing at his trainers as she athletically jinked left down another alleyway.
‘No, not these.’ Brian said following her. ‘Something for work, I lost my shoe in an accident in a tuk-tuk yesterday.’
She stopped abruptly. Brian almost crashed into her.
‘Here good shop,’ pointing at a storefront with racks of shoes in it’s display window. Lucy barged in the door, high heels tipping with the effort, as her small frame strained against it. Inside the air-conditioned shop a long glass-topped counter ran down one side and a tall man, of Somali origin stood behind it. Behind him on the wall was a display of shoe types, each one on its own mounting. Brian’s eye flicked over them quickly, reading all the leading fashion brands, amazed at the huge selection.
Lucy spoke quickly to the storekeeper in her language. He responded in the same, a guttural staccato sound, harsh and loud.
He smiled large teeth at Brian watching him. ‘Welcome, what shoe you likes sir? Here very smart shoes.’
‘Yes indeed,’ Brian said, gazing at the display. His eye settled on a conventional dress shoe, pointing at it with his finger. ‘That one.’
The storekeeper lifted a long stick from behind the counter and rested it on a shoe. ‘Thissis one?’ he asked.
‘No, the one next to it.’ Brian replied.
Deftly, the man hooked the shoe off its stand, and passed it on the end of the stick. Brian turned it over, the sole was hardy and supple, on one corner in tiny lettering he read, “Made in the Republic of China.” Aha China, these were replicas. He examined the shoe, the stitching flawless - copy or not he was impressed. ‘Good, do you have it in size nine, in brown?’
‘Yesis,’ said the shopkeeper, taking the shoe. He hoisted it back on its display and then rummaged around under the counter, pulling out box after box, until he found the right one and handed it over.
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