Elephant Dropping (9781301895199)

by Trzebinski, Bruce

Lucy clapped her hands in glee as Brian opened the box. In there, wrapped in layers of tissue paper, were the shoes he had asked for. He took the box and sat down on a nearby chair. Undoing his trainers, he tried on the new shoes, walking a little in the small shop testing the fit. Lucy enthusiastically fussed around him. ‘Ahh, good smart shoes you look good,’ giggling. ‘Nice big feet heh!’

  Brian found the shoes comfortable and was well pleased. ‘Ok, I will take them,’ handing them back. ‘How much?’

  ‘For yous friend,’ stowing them back in the box, ‘special brice, only four thousand five hundred.’

  Brian reached for his wallet. Lucy hissed loudly and put her hand on his arm restraining him. ‘No,’ she commanded, ‘thisis man he want to sheet you, too heckspensive!’ she almost spat, as she scowled at the shopkeeper.

  The shopkeeper muttered something to her under his breath. Lucy challenged him to repeat it - so he did. The two of them glared at each other, a full-scale argument ensued, rising in tempo as there seemed no solution in sight. Brian alarmed at the tone and the body language as both of them aggressively waved their arms around. It sounded very ugly. He tried to intervene. Lucy would have none of it. At one point the shopkeeper, getting fed up, took the shoes off the counter, and shaking his head resignedly at Brian he put them away. Folded his arms, and stared at Lucy.

  Lucy reacted by pushing Brian towards the door. ‘Let’s go,’ she ordered, ‘thisis not good man like you,’ giving the shopkeeper a withering look.

  ‘Look, I need those shoes,’ Brian protested.

  ‘Ok, but you pay only three thousand. I know another place. Three thousand,’ she stuck three fingers up at the shopkeeper.

  ‘Three thousand five hundred,’ he said adamant. The argument about to start all over again, but Brian forestalled it by hurriedly taking out his wallet and sliding the correct money over the counter. The shopkeeper quickly grabbed it, smiling in triumph at Lucy.

  She threw her hands in the air. ‘Ah Birin, why you do that?’ now turning on him.

  ‘It’s ok,’ Brian said trying to pacify her, ‘I’m happy to pay the price. Thank you so much for your help.’

  Lucy looked at him, about to say something, and then just shrugged as though she was helpless with such a fool.

  ‘Do you need a receipt?’ asked the shopkeeper, putting the box containing the shoes in a plastic bag and handing it over.

  ‘No that’s ok, thanks,’ Brian replied.

  As they stepped out Lucy ignored the shopkeeper. ‘You want more shop?’ She asked, still clearly annoyed with him.

  Brian hid a smile; this girl really was a dynamo. ‘No, that’s all I need. Can I buy you a coffee or soda to thank you?’

  ‘Ok, I know a good place,’ she brightened, ‘let’s go,’ and charged off down another alleyway ducking and weaving through the narrow streets. Brian followed in her wake. He was surprised as they abruptly emerged from the old town back on the sea front road. Lucy led Brian along it and turned right, up a flight of stairs into a restaurant with the word ‘Gellati’ emblazoned in rainbow colours across its front.

  ‘I like hice cream,’ Lucy said licking her lips. ‘You like?’

  She hailed the European owner in Italian, as they sat down at a table overlooking the road. He returned her greeting and brought a menu over addressing Brian in Italian.

  Brian said stiffly. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Ah Inglezie.’ The owner said knowingly. ‘Welcome to my ‘ouse,’ and placed the menu in front of him.

  Lucy leaned over and tapped one red fingernail urgently on a picture of the dish she wanted. ‘Thisis one for me.’

  The menu was written in Italian, but pictures of the food were self-explanatory. Brian ordered the large bowl of mixed ice cream for her and a smaller one for himself, and cappuccinos for both of them. Lucy looked out over the road at the sea. There were bathers on the beach, a small sports fishing boat went by. ‘You like to swims?’ she asked Brian.

  ‘Yes, how about you?’

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘No too many shack.’

  ‘Shack?’ said Brian. ‘Oh, you mean sharks.’

  ‘Yes shack, this is what I say, shack. Too many,’ she shuddered involuntarily. Lucy fidgeted in her chair looking concerned. Suddenly, she stood up. ‘I go piss,’ she announced, and disappeared inside the restaurant.

  Brian watched her go. His eyes, not for the first time appreciating her slender figure. She was quite a girl, a real firebrand, and he was grateful for the shoes. He would never have found that shop without her. Their order arrived, closely followed by Lucy. Excitedly she tucked into her ice cream, smacking her lips, hissing at the coldness and scrunching her eyes up at Brian. ‘Mmmm, it’s good,’ she hummed with pleasure. He ate his at a more leisurely pace studying her, enchanted. It was very good ice cream. She finished hers in record time, scooping out every bit with her spoon, finally tilting the bowl over her face. She put it down and started on the cappuccino, loading in three teaspoons of sugar. Only the heat of the brew prevented her from downing it in one go. Catlike, she sipped rapidly and noisily at it, her pink tongue flashing as she grinned at him between sips. The assault did not last long and she put the cup down with satisfaction. A cocoa moustache remained on her upper lip, she licked this away dexterously, leaned back in her seat and belched loudly. ‘Hamdidilai.’

  Brian laughed out loud. She was a riot.

  ‘Why you laugh at me?’ she demanded.

  ‘Did you enjoy that?’ he asked.

  ‘Shuwa,’ she replied.

  ‘Do you want another one?’

  Lucy looked like she was seriously considering it, and then said. ‘Maybe tomorrow, you, Birin, you nice man, arching her eyebrows, you buy me hice cream tomorrow?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he answered. The swelling on her eye had now disappeared. Her heart shaped face was very pretty, a small aquiline nose, large black eyes with long lashes, a voluptuous mouth.

  She looked young. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Me, nineteen.’ She said proudly, straightening in her chair and pushing her breasts out. ‘I’m a womans, have a son three years,’ she held up a thumb and two digits.

  ‘Really?’ Brian asked in disbelief.

  ‘Yessy, look I show you,’ and she rummaged in her handbag, taking out a small wallet. On one side was a photo of Lucy with a small baby in her arms beaming at the camera, on the other, an ID card with her photo, claiming the owner to be Amina Hargeza, born 31st September, 1987. Malindi sub location. Ganze.

  ‘Amina, your real name is Amina?’

  ‘Yes, bit everyone call me Lucy. Thisis Baraka, my son,’ she tapped on the photo. ‘See, me a real woman, I have a son!’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Brian, ‘but according to this ID you’re eighteen not nineteen, and there is no thirty first day of September. There are only thirty days in September.’

  She shrugged dismissing the information. ‘Where we go now, back to your hotel?’

  Brian said. ‘I’m going back to my hotel. Where would you like me to drop you?’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ she announced confidently.

  Brian having already witnessed how volatile she could be, waved to a waiter to settle their bill. ‘Where is your son now?’

  ‘He, with my aunt. Back home in Ganze, my home village, that way,’ she said, extending a bangled arm in the air.

  Brian paid the bill and they walked down the road along the seafront in the direction of the town centre.

  ‘You want taxi?’

  ‘No wait.’ Brian looked at her kindly. ‘Listen Lucy, thank you. I’m very pleased with the shoes, but now I must go back to my hotel.’

  She looked at him, frowning. ‘You have a wife?’

  ‘No, but even if I did, I’m not looking for romance - although you are very attractive,’ spotting storm clouds brewing.

  Lucy glared at him. ‘You don’t like me, you don’t like us African womans, you queer?’

  Brian smiled. ‘N
o, none of those things.’

  ‘So, what your trouble?’ She demanded her voice rising.

  Brian had to admit he was torn. Lucy was beautiful and good fun, but that ID could not be accurate. He tried to explain himself. ‘Look Lucy, I’m an old man. I’m old enough to be your father.’

  ‘Oh,’ she stared out to sea, ‘so you old man, no power?’ Making a rude motion with her forearm.

  Brian smiled. ‘Yes, I’m old man, no power,’ he agreed.

  ‘We go to chemisti, buy you medicinis, you become man, I helep you.’ She offered brightly. ‘Look my body, just plessha for you.’

  ‘No Lucy, look I really must go,’ said Brian waving down a taxi. ‘Here, take this,’ he reached for his wallet.

  She walked away from him. ‘Go,’ she said, then louder. ‘Go! I don’t want money. Go you shit,’ she shouted and strode down the road away from him.

  Brian looked after her with regret. He climbed into the waiting taxi and gave the driver the address of the hotel. He waved as the taxi passed her. The striding figure ignored him. He was sorry the afternoon had ended on a sour note. In two minds, he almost asked the cab driver to stop, but, instead he thought of the shoes as a memento, they certainly had a story to tell.

  Lucy stormed down the road, affronted. Stupid man, how could he say no, must be a queer. She should have taken his money. She made her way back to the shop where they had bought the shoes. Barging in, she demanded her commission.

  ‘Out,’ he shouted, reaching for his stick.

  ‘What about my money?’ She demanded.

  ‘For what? Bringing the price down? Out, now whore!’

  Lucy beat a hasty retreat. ‘Another fool,’ she yelled back at him, as she stepped out of the door. Why did I help the mzungu? I could have made money on the shoes and taken the money he’d offered. What was I thinking? She made her way through the old town of Malindi, wondering where to go. She paused at a shop window to examine her reflection, emerging at the square where she and Brian had caught the taxi. She crossed it and went into a small bar frequented by civil servants. It wasn’t the right time of the month, the patrons would be broke, but sometimes she could get lucky here. The bar was almost empty and as she entered she hailed the barman for a soda, and then sat down to wait at a table by the door.

  Lucy was in fact eighteen despite her young looks, and born of a Somali fisherman and an Ethiopian mother. Her smooth skin and fiery spirit was from her father’s side, her distinctive crinkled hair from her mother. As a child she had grown up in the town of Merca, on the Somali coast. The in-clan fighting there had spread out from the capital, Mogadishu. Her father exchanged his fishing net for an old rifle and went to war to defend his clan’s honour.

  Eight-year-old Lucy, her two younger brothers, an aunt and her three children, were bundled into a large, wooden cargo Dhow, already overcrowded with four hundred other refugees, they set sail south for Mombasa. On the second day the engine failed, a makeshift sail was rigged up, but this was of no use when they were becalmed. The captain had only laid in fresh water for the length of the trip, and passengers began to die, first the old and infirm and then the children. Tossed unceremoniously over the stern, this bounty attracted a school of sharks, who circled the dhow all the time expectantly, dark torpedo shaped shadows flitting through clear blue water.

  On the fifth day, land appeared on the horizon, the current had pushed the Dhow in towards the shore. That night the captain and crew fled in a small speedboat taking the last of the petrol, abandoning the passengers to their fate. Lucy’s mother died in the night. The child fell asleep against her, listening to her shallow breathing and when a sudden rainstorm awaked her before dawn, her mother did not move. The other passengers rallied to this god sent mercy, wringing out their colourful shukas to catch as much water as possible. At dawn, Lucy’s mother was consigned to the deep. One large shark sped in at the sound of the splash, taking the wrapped body and attacking it savagely. Lucy and her brothers watched silently from the stern, as their aunt wailed a high keening lamentation. The bilge pump ran out of fuel and the Dhow began to fill with water, listing dangerously. A few of the passengers tried to use the few buckets on board to bail her, but this pathetic attempt was soon abandoned.

  That was when the U.S. navy destroyer found them. Loading pumps, food and water and a tow line the wooden ship was soon astern of the destroyer doing a steady eight knots south to Mombasa, with four armed U.S. marines on board. The destroyer captain radioed for a tug to make full steam out of Mombasa to meet them. In port the Somali refugees were met by a UN agency, loaded into trucks and transported to a camp north of Mombasa.

  Lucy and her aunt spent the next four years in this camp, until an administrative mix up caused them to be separated. With no adult relative to care for them and forced along with other children into exchanging sex for food by the U.N. camp workers, Lucy became pregnant and was later reunited with her aunt at the village of Ganze south of Malindi where she had her baby. At sixteen, emotionally scared and rebellious, she drifted into prostitution. Now tainted in the clan’s eyes, no man would take her for a wife. Back at the bar Lucy finished her soda and went out into the street, making her way on foot to the truck stop bars.

  *

  Patel caught the two o’clock Kenya Airways flight to Nairobi. He booked into the New Stanley hotel in the city centre. In his room he used the phone to arrange meetings for the next day.

  In the evening, dressed casually in jeans and a pullover, he left the hotel. Hailing a taxi, he gave the driver the address of the NNB flats. A short drive later at the apartment gates, Patel instructed the driver to wait, while he approached the entrance on foot and spoke to the security guard.

  ‘Hello, I have come to see Mr Harcourt in flat five.’

  The security guard wordlessly handed him the visitors book. Patel used an alias. The guard pointed him to a flight of stairs. ‘Third floor on the right side.’

  He climbed the steps, turning left to Brian Nicholl’s apartment, checking the number on the door. He removed the passport from his pocket, put it in a brochure from Brian’s briefcase and knelt down by the door. A quick shove and the leaflet slid inside the apartment. Brian Nicholls might wonder how he hadn’t noticed himself dropping the brochure, but would be more than relieved to get his passport back. The job done, Patel got back in the taxi and drove off to meet Kamau, his contact in the Immigration Department. The whole operation could not have taken more than three minutes.

  Patel answered a call from Azizza. ‘Yes dear, what is it?’

  ‘I have just heard from Evans, Nicholls has asked to meet the directors of Golden Palm. He called the company registrars before coming to Malindi, and it turned up blank.’

  ‘No. That’s not possible the company is registered. There is no problem there, but wanting to meet us or the directors is quite out of the question, don’t you think?’

  ‘I agree,’ Azizza said, ‘however Nicholls is hoping we can introduce him to the NGO organisation. It could become a problem.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. Listen, I have a meeting to get to now. Let’s give it some thought, and I will call you later. By the way the package has been delivered.’

  ‘Ha!’ exclaimed Azizza, and rang off.

  Patel had taken the immigration officer out for dinner at a local restaurant where they served roasted meat and cold beers. Kamau had wanted to make a night of it, but Patel cried off after dinner; besides the officer was already quite drunk, and not much good was to be had by prolonging the evening. Kamau insisted Patel be driven back by his official driver. ‘Too many thieves around these days,’ Kamau explained, ‘see you soon my friend.’

  Patel called Azizza from his hotel. ‘Yes, my dear, have you any ideas on what to do about Nicholls?’

  ‘You don’t look like a Danish national do you?’ she replied.

  ‘Too complicated,’ he said

  ‘Oh, you thought about it?’ Azizza was amazed.

  ‘Sure, th
ese days anyone can be a Danish national.’

  ‘Oh come on?’ she scoffed.

  ‘It’s true my dear, Europe is not what it used to be.’

  Azizza, never having been out of Kenya could not argue. ‘Ok, so what’s next?’

  ‘We can get his work permit cancelled,’ said Patel. ‘It will cost a bit of money, but Kamau said it can be done.’

  ‘On what grounds?’ She asked.

  ‘Undesirable character, apparently Nicholls has a weakness for African women.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ She asked affronted.

  ‘Nothing but we can make something wrong with it.’

  ‘Ahhhh - ok, spare me the details.’

  Patel reasoned. ‘The cancellation is not ideal, the bank is bound to send another auditor, then it’s back to square one.’

  ‘So, how do we deal with his request to meet us, this NGO idea was yours after all?’ She asked.

  ‘We can pull it off, we can claim the NGO workers are away in the field, we only need six more months. We can give him an e-mail address, so he can correspond with them, and besides we are the agents on the ground; send him all over the country looking for them.’ Patel giggled.

  Azizza started to laugh. ‘You are too much, but I still don’t see how this NGO stuff will work. Good luck tomorrow.’

  *

  Brian was on the beach early, swimming and even a little jogging. His ankle had almost completely recovered. A good night’s sleep had relieved him of the stress of the last few days.

  Later on he called the detective on his mobile. ‘Yes, where are you?’ Mugo asked.

  ‘I’m here at the hotel, and wonder if you had any news for me?’

  ‘The Immigration Department says there is no record of your application in their office.’ Mugo stated, almost with pleasure.

  ‘No record? That’s not possible; the application went in months ago. The NNB bank applied, you have a copy of my work permit.

  ‘Yes, it is a copy, but where is the original?’

  ‘It must be in Nairobi, with my passport,’ Brian explained.

  Mugo was adamant. ‘How do we know you are telling us the truth? Do you think the Immigration Department would lie to us?’