Elephant Dropping (9781301895199)

by Trzebinski, Bruce

  Brian studied his boss’s face for any deception and saw only shiny-eyed enthusiasm. Malindi was nothing more than a mild setback. ‘Sir, I thought I would drive back down to Malindi this weekend, and go by the Mombasa Branch.’

  ‘Good idea, you can introduce yourself to Mrs. Faiza the manager there. She has been with our bank for years, and don’t forget to keep your receipts, so you can get your travel allowance refunded.

  Ok, Mr. Nicholls, sorry about your enforced education by the authorities - our reality, third world hazards I’m afraid. Don’t go mistakenly thinking it’s because of your skin colour. Those police are just armed, certified and licensed bullies to all people.’ Adeptly drawing their meeting to a close, he rose from his desk, a proffered hand to Brian. ‘Good luck Mr. Nicholls,’ as they shook.

  Back at his desk Brian was none the wiser after his meeting. If there were any hidden agendas they were well concealed, the passport saga was seen to be clearly Brian’s mistake.

  He fished out Doug’s card. Rapid Motors, Doug Fernandez, master mechanic. A mobile number, barely legible, was scrawled along the bottom. He rang the number. ‘Hello Doug, it’s Brian.’

  ‘Yes mate, just got your wheel stud off.’

  ‘I need you to do a full service on the car. I’m planning a safari this weekend. Can you give me an idea of what that would cost, and how long will it take you? That’s assuming you can fit me in.’

  ‘Sure, sure, give me a few minutes and I will call you back.’

  Brian rang off. His use of the word safari had him excited - about time he got out of the city in a real 4x4.He was tempted to get the road map out, but instead returned to the computer. He pulled up the trading figures of the Malindi branch, noting with some surprise that the Golden Palm loan submission had almost doubled on the day he left Malindi. Computing the entire loan scheme for Golden Palm, he whistled softly to himself at the figure.

  His mobile rang it was Doug. ‘Hi Brian, I have been looking your donkey over, apart from one weak front shock absorber, all is ok on the chassis side. The battery could do with replacing if you’re going off into the bush; otherwise, it’s good for a few more weeks. So, if I replace the shock, change the oils, filters and tune up, the bill will come to 8,000 plus material and labour.’

  ‘I see,’ Brian paused.

  ‘So captain, what do you want to do?’

  ‘Go ahead. What would a new battery add to the bill?’

  ‘Probably another 5,000.’

  ‘Alright, next question. When can I have the car?’

  ‘Hmmm not till tomorrow, say by 10 a.m.,’ Doug replied.

  ‘I really need the car to be ready by then,’ Brian said.

  ‘Right captain, can you drop off a deposit, say about 7,000 shillings? I don’t want to incur expenses on your behalf.’

  ‘Are you open over lunch?’ Brian asked.

  ‘Yes, got a rush job on a Range Rover,’ teased Doug.

  ‘Ok, I will see you at around one,’ Brian laughed.

  Returning to his work he brought up the training scheme on the computer. His absence from the project had given him a clearer perspective, and he had to admit it was impressive, no wonder Njenga was enthusiastic. If all went according to plan, it would indeed put NNB ahead of its rivals. Brian, setting his misgivings aside, buried himself in his work for the rest of the morning.

  He was alarmed when he saw his car, up on jacks all four wheels removed, the bonnet propped up against the workshop wall. A figure up ended inside the engine bay and another under the car. There was yelling and banging coming from somewhere near the front. As he got nearer, he could hear Doug’s voice. ‘Bastard, pull harder, come on you bitch! Ahhhh fuck it, hold the - you jinga!’

  Another voice yelled back. ‘Imeteleza!It slipped!’

  ‘Jesus, god give me strength,’ yelled Doug. Bang! ‘Ohhhh, fuck!’

  He scrambled out from under the car. The veins standing out on his face, breathing hard, he clutched a large spanner. There was a mixture of blood and oil streaming down his wrist. He rushed towards the up-ended figure, spanner raised to strike, shouting. ‘You useless, bastard, slipped? I’ll show you slipped!’ He stopped when he spotted Brian, and tried to hide his loss of temper.

  ‘Ahh, hello mate,’ he said a little too loudly. The other figure, Juma wriggled backwards out of the engine bay. Doug held out his bleeding hand. ‘See this? It’s real blood, you clown!’ Juma pulled a face, but otherwise remained silent, returning Doug’s glare. Doug dropped the spanner with a clatter, and headed for the sink in the workshop, muttering under his breath. He held his thumb under a stream of tap water. Half the nail was sticking up at right angles, the blood poured out from under it - it looked painful. He exhaled repeatedly a hissing noise over pursed lips.

  ‘Hey Brian, give me a hand will you, there’s a first aid kit in the cupboard beside the door. I need a pair of scissors.’ Brian found the kit and held out the scissors.

  ‘No mate, I can’t cut with my left you will have to help. Just cut the nail where it’s sticking up.’ Bracing his hand on the sink, thumb raised, ‘just along there.’ Doug pointed with his other hand.

  Brian stood back, holding the scissors, nervously opening and shutting them. ‘Ummm, not sure I can do this.’

  ‘Sure you can, just snip it across where it’s sticking up. What’s the matter, afraid of the blood?’ Doug challenged, Brian could not hold his eye. ‘Hey Juma, get your arse in here,’ Doug called his assistant.

  Brian stepped forward. ‘No, it’s ok, I can do it,’ and in one movement expertly held Doug’s thumb in a firm confident grip and neatly sliced off the protruding nail.

  Doug surprised at Brian’s swiftness, looked at the thumb. ‘Nice cut,’ he muttered, ‘thanks. That damn shock mounting rusted to hell. Going to have to cut it off,’ Doug decided, still running his thumb under the tap, the blood flow a thinning stream. ‘Think I have a spare one I can weld on. Hand me that towel would you?’

  Juma was now standing in the workshop looking on. ‘What are you looking at?’ Doug demanded. ‘Think this is a TV show or what?’ covering his hand in the towel, not waiting for a reply he went on. ‘Find a spare shock mounting and get out the welding machine while you’re at it.’

  Juma said equably. ‘We have no Range Rover mountings.’

  ‘That’s true, but we have Land Rover mountings on that old chassis round the back, and we can modify that one.’ Juma trundled out the welding machine. Doug yelled out. ‘The front mounting!’

  ‘Sawa,’ came the reply.

  ‘Been working with me for years, got nine kids. Can you imagine, and now he’s thinking of getting a second wife. He named the last kid “Carbuleta”, says he’s going to be a mechanic.’ Doug grinned. He dried off the thumb with the towel, squirted ointment on it from a tube and wrapped it expertly in a gauze bandage while Brian watched. Holding the end of the length of gauze he said. ‘Cut that off would you mate?’ Doug then did the same with sticking plaster, covering the thumb completely. When he had finished, he flexed his hand experimentally. ‘Hmmm, can still ride, but it’s going to hurt like a bugger for a few days.’ He leaned on the sink holding his injured hand up and looked at Brian. ‘Sorry about all the shouting, I’m passionate about my job,’ he explained.

  Brian said. ‘Yes, I see you have a certain flare. I brought you the money.’ He put the wad of notes on the table.

  ‘Good, I won’t charge you for the thumb.’ Doug responded. ‘Want a pair of overalls, I don’t pay much, but life isn’t dull?’

  Brian smiled. ‘No thanks, got stuff to do this afternoon.’ He took off his jacket, undid his tie, rolled up his shirtsleeves and slung the jacket over one shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he called out, as he made his way to a nearby matatu stage.

  Brian boarded one of the multi coloured mini buses heading towards the city centre, alighting outside a convenient pavement café, he had a sandwich and a coke. He then made his way on foot in the general direction of the pa
rliament buildings, asking directions from passers-by for the Company Registrar’s office, which he knew was somewhere in the area. He found it after being misdirected twice to the map office. The registrar’s was tucked away in a nearby square. As he entered the building, people three deep were leaning over a long counter clamouring for attention, the noise of an open-air market. In the background, paper files, packed in untidily on rickety shelves lined the walls up to the ceiling, while more sat waist high on the floor. Blue-coated workers moved ladders and shifted files, while shouting back to customers in the crowd. A pickpockets haven, he stepped outside discouraged, how could anyone make sense of that mess?

  ‘Hey, mzungu,’ a man hailed him; ‘you want to buy a company. I have one for sale cheap, buy even two?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Brian replied, moving away from the crush.

  ‘You need an agent?’ The hawker persisted, following him.

  ‘What kind of agent?’ Asked Brian, stopping to look back at the man following him; a plump moon faced African in a shiny dark blue suit, two sizes too small.

  ‘You need name search? You want to register a company?’ He asked pointing back at the door.

  ‘Yes I needed some information but, it looks like one could wait all day to get served in there,’ Brian replied.

  ‘Which company? You tell me, my name is Duke.’

  ‘It’s called Golden Palm. I want details of the directors.’

  ‘No problem,’ Duke replied, ‘cost you one thousand for a search,’ he said confidently.

  Brian studied his face. Probably a back door out of the place. He had already seen a notice in the main hall listing the search price. ‘It says two hundred in there, for a search,’ he challenged.

  Duke agreed. ‘Yes officially, but if you want service it’s four hundred, and then there’s something for me.’

  ‘How long do you think it will take you?’ Brian dubious.

  ‘About half an hour.’

  ‘Ok Duke, I will give you 500, if you succeed, the other five, ok?’

  ‘Write down the details on this.’ Duke handed Brian a slip of printed paper. Brian filled out the form and handed it back.

  ‘Just wait here,’ Duke said and walked into the building.

  Brian sat down on a crumbling wall that looked like it was once a decorative flower surround.

  A short time later, Duke was back. ‘I have the information you need, the names of the two directors of Golden Palm are: Jugdish Yusuf Patel and Azizza Fatima Mustafa. The company is a land buying company and was formed on December second last year two thousand and five. It is registered to P.O. box 626, Malindi, Coast Province.’ Duke held out a piece of paper.

  Brian took it and exchanged it for the money. ‘No telephone number? You’re sure these are the only directors of Golden Palm?’

  ‘Yes, that is all that was on the file.’

  ‘Are you always here? I might need more information later on.’

  ‘Yes,’ Duke said, ‘you can always find me here, this is my mobile number,’ he handed Brian a card.

  Brian thanked him and took a taxi back to his apartment. He took out his diagram and studied it, adding the names of the directors of Golden Palm and his new contact at the registrar’s office. It was clearer now, that the police in Malindi were involved somehow in the disappearance of his passport, but how could they have known that he had it in his briefcase? He had only used it at the airport. Had someone unnoticed, followed him on the plane down to Malindi? The very idea chilled him.

  Wanting to check on the NGO he looked through an out of date telephone directory in vain for the Danish embassy then picked up the landline and tried the operator’s number.

  It rang for a long time, a sleepy voice mumbled. ‘Hello, sema.’

  ‘Is that the operator?’

  ‘Yes, it is he.’

  ‘Can I have the number for directory enquires please?’

  ‘Nine one four,’ the voice mumbled and hung up. He dialled the number. Surprisingly it was answered promptly.

  ‘Yes, how may I help you?’

  Brian asked for the number of the Danish Embassy. There was silence and the sound of rustling paper. He could hear people chatting in the background, the receiver put down with a thump that startled him - the line still connected - more chatting and the receiver was picked up again. ‘Hallo? The number is, seven five six, one one five one, or seven five six, one five two, or seven five six, one five three or seven five six, one five four.’ Brian just managed to decipher the last number before the phone went dead.

  He was getting used to this. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered, ‘what a system.’

  Armed with a number, he paused to formulate what he was going to say when he rang the embassy.

  He made the call, and asked if he could speak to head of the NGO organisation working out of Malindi. He was politely informed they do not divulge information like that over the phone. Brian asked. ‘Could I have the physical address of the embassy?’

  He sat in front of his diagram; he had to conclude that Evans or someone in his bank was involved in the passport incident, the motive to prevent Brian looking through the banks records. He went back to the telephone directory and idly flicked through it, thwarted on all fronts, feeling lonely and frustrated. He thought about calling up one of his casual girlfriends, but was in no mood for frivolities. Whoever was targeting him could organise car accidents. How did he know if his seemingly innocent encounters weren’t also being monitored? He realised, this sort of thinking would make it impossible for him to return to Malindi.

  He reached for the phone and rang his sister Sally in England, he needed to hear a familiar and trusting voice, only to be thwarted by her answer machine. He left a brief, loving message and promised to try and call her later.

  SEVEN

  Evans, excited by the news Azizza had just given him, rang his wife to tell her about the car, he had not expected to get it back without a fight. Obviously, Patel was getting worried. This event, he decided, needed a few beers to celebrate.

  Telling Florence he was going out on business, he made his way to a small anonymous bar just off the old town square. The unwashed half curtains contributed to the atmosphere, there was only one other patron at the counter. Evans, nodding a hello, slid onto a barstool and ordered a cold tusker from the barmaid. He had a view of the square from where he sitting and idly watched the traffic as he nursed his beer, daydreaming about the Mercedes.

  ‘Have you got a match?’ the other patron slurred at him.

  ‘No, I don’t smoke, sorry.’

  The drinker peered myopically at Evans, holding a cigarette in his fist. ‘Don’t I know you, you look familiar?’

  ‘I don’t think so, I don’t come in this bar much.’

  The man transferred the cigarette to his mouth, patting his pockets, hunting for a light. ‘Yes the bank, you work at the bank.’

  ‘Actually I’m the manager, and you, where do you work?’

  ‘Land office, here in Malindi.’

  Evans stared. ‘How did you know I work at the bank?’

  The man pointed out of the window. ‘See that chicka?’ Evans swivelled round to see Azizza, emerging from Patel’s white Landcruiser. ‘She gives me lots of money, says it comes from you!’ He cackled loudly, his laugh spluttering into a smoker’s cough.

  Evans moved to a barstool behind him to hide, while watching Azizza. But she locked the car and walked out of sight. Intrigued he asked. ‘So why does she give you money?’

  ‘Title deeds. I’m a corrupt thief, selling out to an Arab woman, who won’t fuck me,’ he burst out laughing, quite clearly drunk.

  ‘Oh, and what does she pay you for the title deeds?’

  ‘Why should I tell you?’ the man asked belligerently.

  ‘Ahh, just talking, my name is Evans,’ holding out his hand.

  The man looked at the hand and then reluctantly took it. ‘My name is Hassan.’

  ‘Hassan, you want another beer?’
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  ‘Yes, but have you got a match?’

  ‘No, but I can get you one,’ Evans quickly stepped out and bought a box of matches from a passing hawker. ‘Here you go,’ he handed them over.

  ‘Thanks bro.’

  ‘No problem, two more beers,’ Evans called out. ‘Let’s sit at that table,’ pointing to the corner, ‘it will be more comfortable.’

  Hassan was reluctant to move, but the sight of two full bottles of beer stirred him on. It became apparent as he stood up that he was well into his cups. He wavered, leaning over at an angle, Evans sure he would fall, but he rallied and shuffled forwards. He sat down in the plastic chair with a thump. ‘Ahhh, ashtray!’ He called out pointing his unlit cigarette at the barmaid. He then struggled to light his cigarette, tipping matchsticks on the floor as he opened the box upside down. ‘Damn,’ he muttered.

  Evans waited for him to light up before returning to his original question. ‘So you know that woman, the Arab?’

  ‘Yes, but she won’t fuck me,’ Hassan complained. ‘We do good business together, why can’t she sweeten the deal? She has a nice body,’ he winked confidentially.

  Evans grunted his commiserations, pressing on. ‘So how much does she pay you for those title deeds?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘She brings them to my bank to take out loans. If I know much she pays, perhaps I could charge her more, and you and I can make beer money,’ Evans suggested.

  ‘You say I can’t pay for my beer?’ Hassan squinted at him.

  ‘No I’m sure you can, I’m just suggesting a little extra. After all, your title deeds are ending up in my bank. We are already partners in a way,’ Evans reasoned.

  Hassan was not so drunk as to give his game away. ‘You do your job, and I do mine. How much do you lend out on the title deeds?’

  Evans could see this idea was not going in his favour. ‘You’re right, we should keep our jobs separate,’ he agreed.