Murder on Safari

by Peter Riva

  “Beech Baron six-one-three-two-Foxtrot, that’s affirmative. Good luck.”

  Past the outer beacon, they got the Baron sideways for a moment in a crosswind, Amogh and Pero, one hand over the other on the throttles again for safety, pulled the port engine throttle back—gently, gently—until they squared up, Amogh called for overall reduced speed and Pero overdid things with the flaps, setting them at thirty. They almost stalled, landing short, on the grass, one hard bounce, something groaned; the left wing was a little low. They rolled to a stop, watching the fire truck race towards them. “Sorry Amogh.”

  “That’s okay Mr. Baltazar, we’re down, and you know what they say . . .”

  They said it together, finally laughing like kids, reciting the pilot’s motto “Any landing you can walk away from is a good landing!” Pero was sure the poor Baron, shot up and bent, wouldn’t agree.

  CHAPTER 22

  Aga Kahn Hospital

  It is never wise to overlook a wound in Africa, no matter how small—or how embarrassing. Pero’s was not much of a wound compared to his other friends’ injuries, but it hurt all the same. Actually, it hurt his pride more than anything. There he was, lying in a hospital room, bottom sticking up in the air, with a nurse scheduled to come in every hour and change the dressing on his septic thorn punctures. When uncovered, his rear was a colorful shade of purple and yellow. The Gurreh bushes Pero landed on turned out to be toxic. Pero had a temperature the day they landed at Wilson and even rated a lecture from the doctor that night while being admitted. But Pero explained that his tetanus and other shots were up to date, so he was hardly likely to die, was he?

  The Italian hospital resident wasn’t amused: “You have huge blood vessels in your posteriore, Signore Baltazar, you get an infections there and it goes to your heart. Presto, you are dead.”

  Cheerful doomsayer, Pero thought. Actually, he was feeling great. The headlines of the Standard and Daily Nation said it all: “al-Shabaab Captured & Killed.” Typical exaggeration, perhaps, but there was a great picture of Sergeant Gibson Nabana, “wounded in the course of his duty.” He was shown with the three suspects in chains. Behind Sgt. Nabana were a grinning Joshua and Jack, who “aided the brave sergeant in his daring raid.”

  In the hospital, there were more of his friends, some patients, some constant visitors, none of whom featured in the papers, thankfully. Tom Baylor had been transferred from the HMS Cardiff. He was recovering, nurses reported. It was touch and go in the ICU for a while, but the staff finally reported he was out of danger. They were keeping him unconscious for a day or so more, allowing the head and chest wounds to heal.

  Mary’s faithful bodyguard, Kweno Usman, took four bullets from the shooter spraying bullets at the stage, but only one hit flesh, his leg. He was hospitalized but already on crutches, twenty minutes at a time. Kweno even hobbled by Pero’s room that morning very early, just after they were woken by nurses at dawn. Even in his hospital gown, he was a vast hulk of a man. He wanted to thank mon capitaine! for saving his life. Pero explained a loan of a vest was hardly saving his life, that Kweno was the really brave one jumping in front of JT. Kweno’s natural humility would not allow him to believe he did anything brave at all. He was learning English, so his simple explanation became a statement of fact Pero had to accept, “It was duty.” Then he saluted, waving a crutch in the air and turned, ambling down the corridor.

  Later on in the morning, Ruis stopped in and delivered the information Pero was longing for, mostly delivered in a technical way with little or no emotion. Ruis knew there were enough emotions flying around, everybody whispering their fears and gratefulness. The shooting at the Meeting resulted in three dead and four wounded. JT was taking personal charge of the families of the deceased who were, sadly, all local staff of the good Pastor’s church. The official mourning period following the service extended his stay in Kenya. JT was, thankfully, completely unharmed, full of vitality and making converts. The failed al-Shabaab attempt, he assured the reporter from Time Magazine, “was resolved by the firm hand of God inside that thundercloud!”

  Ruis was, however, a little disappointed with that conclusion, “Never mind the bump or two from your plane, Pero.”

  “Well, what else could he say?” he changed the subject, “Priit doing okay?”

  “I’m off to see him again. They say he’s fine today, the leg will heal no problemmo,” said with justifiable pride.

  “Well done Ruis, really. Impressive.” Ruis turned as he heard Mary and Heep walking down the hospital corridor.

  Pero could just hear Mary, “No, Heep, I will not allow him to be sent back; I want him with us, period.” Heep, it seemed, was being bullied against his wishes, which Pero knew must signify a strong bond between them. Heep seldom gave in to anyone unless he cared more about them than his own opinion.

  As they turned the corner of the open doorway, Mary first saw Ruis, “Ruis, is he here?” Ruis stepped aside allowing Mary to see Pero’s behind sticking up. “Oh, for goodness sake, you look ridiculous!” and then she started laughing. Heep peeked around her and, eyes bulging, and joined in the laughter. Ruis joined in.

  “Okay, guys, that’s quite enough. You try lying in this position . . .” and then Pero laughed as well. “Yeah, even I think this is ridiculous.”

  Heep couldn’t resist, “Shall I get the NY Times photographer in here to snap the aviation hero in all his glory?”

  Ruis, still chuckling, turned to leave, “See you soon Pero. I’m staying until my patient is better, well enough to travel. I’ll call in tomorrow.” And with a wave, he left, no doubt to check on Priit down the hall.

  Mary and Heep seemed happy together; she slipped her arm in his. After they stopped laughing at him, one after the other leaned down, Mary kissing his cheek and Heep holding Pero’s hand and patting him on the back at the same time. Well done old friend, well done.”

  “Me?” Pero asked, “Who was it who jumped in front of Mary when that shooter opened up?”

  Heep didn’t answer. Pero had heard Heep took a bullet in the vest, for which he sustained a broken rib and loads of kisses from Mary.

  JT had stopped in to tell Pero it was the unselfish gesture she needed to regain her faith in men—well, “This man Heep anyway. I like him son.” Praise and approval, Pero thought.

  There was little else to say among friends. Each of them was equally in the debt of the other and yet each of them felt they had not done enough. Both Heep and Pero knew it could be like that when you care about friends. Mary simply felt she could never repay the honor the two men had afforded her. Silence was, in a way, testimony to their mutual admiration.

  So Pero turned the conversation to “the walking giant, he’s just down the hall. He came in this morning; the leg is healing pretty well. JT told me he was going in there to read psalms with Mary’s protector as he calls him. I guess Kweno will have to take English lessons.”

  “My uncle has already arranged for some, although psalms in French have interesting subtleties; JT is quite enjoying the mental exercise.” She looked at Heep, “Anyway, Kweno is staying on with me, it is all arranged. We just haven’t told him yet, something about his Nigerian military service. But we’ll get that worked out . . .”

  Heep held up both hands in surrender, “I give, if Kweno raises no objection, why should I? Anyway, you haven’t asked him yet; he may so no.”

  “Want to bet?” Mary’s eyes were flashing, and Pero hoped Heep would recognize the danger. He did, smiling; he bowed to her. Pero was certain Mary would be his future wife since he felt they were already bickering like an old married couple. Mary kissed Heep’s cheek and said to Pero, “Keep him here, will you, I have a favor to ask down the hall . . .” and with that she left.

  With Mary gone, Heep stopped smiling, took a chair and sat next to Pero’s bed. He looked like he was about to cry, so Pero asked, “What’s really up Heep? Spill it.”

  Heep had been bottling up emotions, keeping his sorrow from Mary, “P
ero, they all could have died, and all those Kibera people roasted alive, will we ever get over that? I’m already having nightmares.”

  “I don’t know. It is seriously depressing; their level of hatred to do the unforgivable. The drugs they’ve given me here have helped with sleep. But I know what’s on your mind, it’s as we’ve always known, the real world revealed, a world you and I may well know about, be closer to than most people, have seen before, always on the edges . . . Jakarta, remember the faces of those rioting bastards?” Heep nodded. There was no way he would forget the thugs that had robbed them. They had wanted violence; they rioted as an excuse, robbed for pleasure. “Look, just because we’ve seen—and you’ve filmed—more death and violence in the wild than most people, doesn’t mean we’re immune to the experience when we’re the target. Our ability to truly see, reality vision I’ve been thinking it should be called. It is what makes us who we are. We are professionals who care about what we do, yes, and Heep, we only care about what we do because of what we’ve seen, what we know is out there. This experience is far more personal than anything I’ve ever experienced, for you too, I imagine.” Heep nodded, and Pero dropped his voice, “Look, I know you Heep, you’ll turn this experience into art, somehow, somewhere. One day, another Emmy, you’ll know you found something here that needs to be shown to the public, someway, somehow.”

  “Maybe Pero, but it also taught me that I don’t want to risk anyone’s death, ever again.”

  Pero knew Heep secrets well, too well, “Still thinking about that diver?”

  “Yeah, I sent him down there, the currents were . . .”

  “Heep, for God’s sake,” Pero raised his voice on purpose, desperate to alleviate his friend’s suffering, “He was the fucking expert, he was the professional diver, I know you, you deferred to him. It was his decision. It has nothing to do with you. Stop wearing that damn hair shirt, we’re all bored with it.”

  Heep was silent for a moment. “Well, at least you’re well enough to shout.” Heep laughed, so did Pero. “I just don’t want people I care about or who I am responsible for to be at risk because of me.”

  “Heep, I think you proved that by jumping in front of Mary. That was the craziest thing I have ever heard of.”

  Heep lowered his chin and focused on his hands, clenched in his lap. “Yeah, well, it just seemed the thing to do at the time, no crazier than Commissioner Singh with his pop gun going up against that croc . . .”

  They both smiled at the memory. Pero changed the topic, sensing his friends need to arrive at a greater admission, “Love her?”

  Heep’s chin came up and his eyes focused on Pero’s. “As the bullet hit. Yeah, Pero, I knew it then, gott verdammt.”

  “You’re going to have to watch taking the Lord’s name in vain when you ask her to marry you.”

  “Marry?” Heep stood, “Who the hell said marry . . .” He paused, sat, and nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. Trust you to push. Producing my engagement are you? Well then, you’d better get well enough to be the best man.”

  “Done.” The two friends smiled at each other. “Now, go find out what all that racket is, sounds like Kweno is causing a ruckus.”

  They could hear the Nigerian raising his voice in his broken French and JT’s booming voice responding with, “But son, you’ll be with us, and we’ll make sure your family can come as well.”

  “I better go translate, see you tomorrow Pero, feel better and, thanks.”

  Pero raised himself up a bit and turned his face towards Heep at the door, “Hey! Remember Mary needs you, she’s feeling guilty over Jikuru and Kweno; those are her divers Heep, one died for her, the other was prepared to. But remember this: the one thing I’m sure about all this is that stopping these people was about life, not death, life to come, thousands of lives to come. Get out there and enjoy it.” Heep looked at Pero, shook his head, and then nodded, turned and was gone. He didn’t want Pero to see his tears.

  In the mid afternoon, Mbuno arrived, trailed by three nurses whom all remembered the old mzee fondly. He had groupies! When they were alone Pero could finally ask him. “Did you catch your Purim?”

  “Not as well as you caught your Purim, bwana. I locked mine away safely and used that special handy of yours to call the police. They arrested him, oh, many hours later.” He had a twinkle in his eye.

  “Oh, no,” Pero was worried at Mbuno’s newfound weird sense of humor, “Where did you lock him up?”

  “In the broom closet Mr. Pero.”

  “Not that same bloody broom closet, surely?”

  “Oh, yes, the very same. It was not very clean; it was very smelly in fact.” And he laughed. “Then I went and had tea with Miss Sheryl. We had many, many cups of tea—and biscuits, with chocolate—as we waited to call the police, that handy of yours is most complicated, the man who answered kept asking me my name, I said I was you. I am afraid it caused more delay.” He paused, for effect. Mbuno has long had a theatrical streak after so many years of telling stories around a safari campfire. Coupled with this new humor routine, Pero feared more teasing that was coming. “I watched your landing, bwana, it was not very good.” He smiled.

  “Ah, well, Amogh was happy enough. He was the pilot; blame him, not me. You missed with that teasing old friend.”

  “Perhaps. Yes, Mr. Amogh is becoming a fine man, bwana. His father told me to pass his regards on to you. It would seem his lady wife is making something to eat called samosas and sending them over this afternoon . . .” he looked out the window at the sun, “in about an hour I think, they said four o’clock.”

  Pero knew Mbuno was never in need of a watch, so what was he hinting at? “That’ll be nice, she’s a great cook.” Pero thought he would probe a little, “Perhaps you should stay to try them, they’re sweet and delicious.”

  “No thank you Mr. Pero, I am sure you want to rest, it looks very large and painful.” He feigned sincerity.

  “It’s fine . . .” Pero loaded up the hook, “Mbuno, Mrs. Ranjeet’s samosas are made with honey.”

  Mbuno nodded, economical as always with words, and immediately settled in the armchair, waiting for the samosas’ arrival.

  Somehow, Pero knew the honey samosas would be too good for Mbuno to refuse. But, feeling better, he thought he’d try teasing Mbuno for once. “Are you sure you can stay? I am sure you have other clients needing your skills, not to mention help eating all their food.”

  Mbuno fixed his eyes on Pero, “Ah, but not all clients can make some very, very foolish mistakes, and have big accidents, like you bwana . . .” he paused again for effect, “like causing an explosion that breaks all the windows at the police station in Langata. The police were not amused.”

  “The plane hitting in the Park did that?”

  “Oh, yes, bwana, you made quite a big accident with that plane.” Although he saw Pero smiling, Mbuno kept a straight face. “The captain of the police station was not smiling yesterday when he was interviewing people to know who caused this explosion. He badly wanted to know who was going to pay for the damage.”

  “You’re kidding . . .”

  “Ah, Mr. Pero, I wish I was. I was thinking that these samosas might be fair pay for my silence . . .”

  “Oh, shut up, old friend, you win.”

  Mbuno chuckled, “Anyway, Mr. Pero, the captain received a call this morning from the President’s office and it is my understanding that the captain is having to be buying the glass. And the captain is having Sergeant Nabana fix the windows in punishment for all the newspaper photographs he posed for.”

  Both men chuckled then. Mbuno carried on, “Also, I think I am not so old Mr. Pero. It is not me lying there with his kinyume looking so sad and wrinkled, like one of a baboon.” He smiled. Kinyume is behind, in a rude way.

  With that, Mbuno took a seat in the mock-leather armchair between the bed and the window, enjoying the afternoon sun streaming through the rippled glass windows, awaiting the honey samosas with Pero, both of them enjoying the silen
ce. Pero lay, face down, in bed, rehashing the past few days, waiting for the next change in his life, the next show he would have to produce, the one life-fulfilling, life-changing moment that, somehow he knew would materialize out of the ashes of the past week.

  Mbuno, ever aware of unspoken thoughts, summed life up—his and Pero’s, “Sometimes, bwana, it is a blessing to be able to wait.”

  Murder on Safari is the second novel of the legendary guide in East Africa, Mbuno of the Liangulu. The first story is called “A Tribal Rumble: A Safari Campfire Tale” also by Peter Riva.