Black Mischief

by Carl Hancock

The business of approval took less than a minute, another proof for Abel of how swiftly democracy can move in Africa when the need arises. Papers were duly signed. A final proposition was soon on record. Reuben Rubai was to make his first visit to the Naivasha area as prospective MP.

  When the meeting had finished, Abel sat on alone at the empty table. His mood was sombre. He was tired. Perhaps he should take Sally on a holiday, make it up to her, even if he dared not tell her what he was making up for. In Paris she could go wild in the shops, only Sally never went wild about anything. She had said more than once that she would like to visit the churches of Rome, but he knew for a fact that there would be lots of steps, so perhaps not a good idea to go when she was carrying the boy in her belly.

  He had slept with another woman, been unfaithful to Sally. For most of the men that had just left the room this would not have been a problem. Far from it. He would have admitted that he had enjoyed the experience. But there was this obsession about keeping control at all times. The pretty little friend of Reuben had drawn him into a mess of careless behaviour. Why had he given her that heap of money?

  She had come back into the farmhouse. How much had she heard? How much? No control again. She would never have dared to speak about what she had heard. But, on balance, best to take no chances. Uchome would see to it all.

  But, but, but she had chosen to hide away. It did not take him long to work out a chain of danger. McCall, the election, Serena and, at the end, Miller and Komar. Even if they did get wind of his conversation, hakuna matata. No one would believe her. Hearsay, his word against hers. But all this would be so … inconvenient. Two lawyers would smack their chops to have even this tiny morsel to chew over. No doubt there would be lies printed up in The Nation and The Standard. She must go and soon.

  On that same afternoon as that meeting, Rebecca Kamau and Maria Kabari were together in Bertie Briggs’ guesthouse, not far from the edge of the lake. Heavy rain was creating what Rebecca called ‘the beautiful African noise’ on the mbati roof, so the two women carried on with their jobs without trying to speak to each other. The unused cottage had been finished with good quality materials and ready for use as an office, headquarters.

  The heavy shower stopped just as Maria was boiling a kettle for a mug of milky chai. They took their drinks and sat on the wicker chairs out on the small veranda. The air was fresh and the damp plain leading down to the lake was lush with thick, rich grass. At first, the far shore was out of sight as the grey curtain of rain moved steadily across the lake towards the heights of Eburu and beyond.

  ‘Hosea has put in his papers for a transfer to a station somewhere in the Rift. There are vacancies for sergeants in Gilgil and Navaisha.’

  ‘What do the girls think about that?’

  ‘For them, closer to Nairobi means closer to paradise. Also, if it comes quickly, it will be two more votes in the election for Thomas.’

  ‘He will need every vote he can get.’ Rebecca’s tone was subdued. ‘He believes he cannot win. Rubai money and favours will count for a lot. Papa thinks so, too.’

  ‘I think Thomas is right.’

  ‘But you will still vote for him.’

  ‘Of course. Serena gives us hope for the future. Paul will make a good president. And you would make a good candidate for Nakuru South. You would win.’

  ‘Win?’

  ‘Rebecca, you are a beautiful, talented woman. Most of the red-blooded men in the country are half in love with you. The women love you even more.’

  ‘Maria, why do you say these crazy things?’

  ‘No, not so crazy! Let me explain. Thomas is going to be in the election, whenever Mr Big decides that there will be an election. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, maybe Thomas will win and become the Serena man for Nakuru South. Maybe he will not win. But if Rebecca McCall was the candidate, then, for sure …’

  The two friends were in a state of high animation. Maria was pumped up by the logic of her argument, Rebecca by its absurdity. Maria had not yet reached the end of her reasoning.

  ‘Darling, give me a minute and then decide if I am crazy. Mama Ngina, they name streets after her in every big town in this country. Why do the people do this? Because they love her. Mostly they love her because she was the president’s wife. What was her great talent? Being herself, a big, lovely lady with a huge heart. There has never been another woman like her. Until now. Until Rebecca Kamau. You are beautiful. Everyone in this country knows your story. They could make a film about it. Even the Yankees know you are something special. You are a woman and you have topped all the men in this country. And here is the big point. You give our women … hope. Hope.’

  Rebecca looked away in the direction of her faithful friend, Old Longonot. She was embarrassed, outwardly by the praise from a woman who was the wisest woman she knew and inwardly for a sense of disloyalty towards Thomas himself. Once or twice thoughts had forced themselves into her head against her will. A woman MP for Nakuru South, highly unlikely. A young white bwana, impossible in these times.

  But Maria was not finished with her words of persuasion.

  ‘The hospital, Rebecca.’

  ‘Maria?’

  ‘Think about it. Mister Big and his boys give out lots of money and make promises that they never keep. Serena can show the people the field where the hospital will stand.’

  ‘That would help Thomas also.’

  ‘Yes, but would it be enough?’

  ‘Perhaps not, but that is the road we must take.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  euben Rubai was excited. He was riding in the back of one of his father’s Mercedes. There was a chauffeur and a single bodyguard in front and, by his side, Frank Kisaro, the best Mister Fixit in the party. Kisaro had been given his orders. He must guide and coach the next MP for Nakuru South through the day. ‘He’s very green, Frank. Light touch, light touch. Got me?’

  Reuben read the situation differently. At last his father had learned to trust him enough to send him out on a big job on his own. Papa wanted him to take along some office boy just in case he needed advice on ‘protocol and procedure’. Reuben had picked up the expression from an article in The Nation and he was determined to work it into a conversation sometime soon.

  The one formal meeting that had been arranged was with the town mayor and the council. That done, Papa had advised him to wander around, ‘meet people, make contacts and ask questions.’

  The crucial piece of information that he had been given by one of the Rubai spies in the workforce at Londiani was that the young screwball boss and his soft-headed father had flown up to the farms up in the foothills of the Big Mountain and would be out of the way until evening.

  It was still midmorning, but Reuben was bored with the business of shaking hands with strangers. He never once asked someone to vote for him when election time came ‘round. That would have been too much like begging for favours. The social conscience of his youth, his desire to help ‘losers’, as he now described them, had given way to the Rubai trait of helping himself first and then, if there was a little something left over, well perhaps he might find a use for that later.

  ‘Take a right here. See that sign, “Londiani Farm”. We’ll take the road the trucks use. That way we won’t get the car covered with dust. Frank, I want to have a word with some of my voters. Smart idea, huh?’

  Frank replied with a bland smile. He had known from the start that he was not going to enjoy the job of escorting this spoilt moron for the day. This one was just as bad as the boss’s dead kid. But he had worked out a strategy for number one son that would work just as well with this know-all. Say little, smile a lot, keep agreeing with all the big ideas. Above all make lots of mental notes and write a few handy quotes in his little fat book. The boss would be expecting a report.

  Reuben was more impressed than he would have admitted when he stepped out onto the huge concrete apron where three large Londiani trucks were parked. Three of
the eight-wheelers were being washed down and everywhere he looked, he saw signs of neat practices and efficient work. He sent the bodyguard to find the manager, the boss mechanic or whatever they called the bwana in that part of the farm. Farm? Factory more like!

  A small young man in blue overalls turned up and introduced himself.

  ‘My name is Donald. I’m the junior foreman in the motor pool. How can I help you, sir?’

  ‘Well, Mister Duck, I will soon be the MP for the district. I want to speak to the flower people.’

  ‘You mean the field workers. If you would —’

  ‘Don’t try to be smart with me, Mister Duck, or you could soon be promoted to ex-junior foreman!’

  It was curious how, after he had been accepted by Papa as son and heir, and successor to the beloved Julius, Reuben seemed to have also inherited the cool dude way of speaking of his elder brother. It made him feel impressive. South Bronx or Brooklyn, he would not have recognised either, but he had seen the films and that was good enough for him.

  Eventually, he found himself with his mentor, Frank, standing outside the office of the head foreman.

  ‘Looks like a nice chair in there. I think I’ll just …’

  ‘No, Bwana, there are important papers in this office. The boss would not like it.’

  ‘Oh, too bad. But if you’ll just move over.’

  ‘No, Bwana! Do not make me use the violence.’

  Reuben was deeply insulted at such a threat. He thought of putting his bodyguard on the job, but the big, barefoot man in shabby clothes barring his way had a wild look about him. The half smile on his face suggested that he would relish a challenge. Frank Kisaro would have advised caution but said nothing. This kid would have reported such advice and made it sound like weakness, and weakness did not appear on the Rubai register of good behaviour.

  * * *

  ‘You don’t recognise me, do you, preacher man? ‘

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?

  ‘You said the words at the party at Muthaiga. We didn’t meet. I’m the next brother down, soon to be known as Reuben Rubai, MP for this whole place.’

  Stephen Kamau put his mind on red alert. He had been rushing with some late orders when the call came to return to the office. For the moment, he must shut out business worries and focus totally on this young man and whatever problem he was about to present.

  ‘Get your people together. Some place where I can … talk to them, make a speech, yeah, make a speech.’

  ‘But Bwana Alex and Bwana Tom are away on business.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘I don’t have the authority.’

  ‘No problem. I can give you the authority. Right now.’

  ‘Sir, if we stop the workers now, we will lose tonight’s consignments. It will cost many thousands of shillings.’

  Frank saw danger here. This big flower man was having difficulty in holding in check an anger that Reuben had not noticed. He drew his arrogant pupil to one side.

  ‘Go through with this and you’ll be answering to the boss when we get back. It won’t be me that will giving your father the news.’

  Self-centred Reuben was quick to assess situations in terms of profit and loss. On Frank’s advice, he saw that he was not going to win this contest. But there was the matter of losing face. With great speed he switched tacks and, in the process, caught the senior foreman of Londiani off guard.

  ‘Do you have a new woman working here, by the name of Lydia?’

  ‘We are taking on new people all the time.’

  ‘You’d remember this one. City girl, a cutie, not one of your local heavies.’

  ‘I’ll have somebody check it out.’

  ‘Forget it. No good upsetting the works. Maybe, one day, I’ll have one of these money making places myself. I’ve got other business to deal with today. Kwaheri, Mister Flower Man.’

  So it was back down the driveway to South Lake Road and a left turn towards town. They had gone only a hundred metres when Reuben had new orders for his support men.

  ‘Stop! I’m getting out. I need some air. I know this area. Charlie, I won’t be needing protection. You three go back into town. Get yourselves some lunch and be back here by two. If I’m late …’ He smiled imperiously, ‘ just wait!’

  The Mercedes sped off with its three occupants relieved to have been given a freedom break. As they moved away, Frank noticed another sign for Londiani, this time pointing down a murram track. Reuben had taken the turn and as he strode along, he kept glancing to his right, through the gaps in the hedge. This was no casual stroll of a city boy seeking fresh country air. His target was specific and close at hand.

  The newly built house was set on a low rise with views in all directions, across the plains to the distant hills and, much closer, to the lake where he could see the grey-blue waters riffled into tiny waves by the breeze of the late morning.

  If his information was correct, she would be somewhere inside checking on the wooden floors that had been laid the day before. He pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside. He tried to pay no attention to the tingling sensation in his scalp and his laboured breathing. This would be the first time he had been alone with her.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ The involuntary cry was quickly followed by Rebecca clasping her hands to her face. The recall was instant and all but brought her tears. It was less than a year ago that Julius Rubai had been an unexpected and unwelcome visitor to her bedroom in the rondavel in Londiani village. She had survived his savage attack but at a great cost to her mental and spiritual wellbeing. The scars would never fade completely.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Have I come at a bad time?’ Reuben made no effort to hide his sarcasm.

  ‘How did you know about this place?’ The venom in her voice was unmistakable.

  ‘An old friend. I just happened to be in the area. Social call. Well, that’s only partly true. You see, I’m in the market for a house around and about. When I’m elected, I’ll need a place for overnight stops. Pied a terre. With your education, you must know the expression. Do you know the owners? I’d like to make an offer.’

  ‘Shut up and go away.’

  He was surprised by her aggression but pleased, too. ‘Oh, I do like the fire in those beautiful eyes. Anyway, do you have their number?’

  ‘Whose number?’ She spat the words impatiently. She was angry with herself that she did not have the forcefulness that would send him on his way. She tried again. ‘This house belongs to Thomas McCall and myself and when we are married, we will …’

  ‘Do you think that would be a wise thing to do? It’s only months ago that your beloved Julius was snatched away from you. You and I were practically brother and sister.’

  ‘Have you been drinking or are you just plain crazy?’

  ‘Now that was uncalled for.’

  On the surface he was toying with her, but beneath a thin veneer of calm, he was throbbing with a mixture of emotions. One of these was anger, but it was not the strongest. ‘Crazy’. She had found the right word. He wanted to take her there and then. Julius had failed but only because her maniac giant of a father had been around to prevent him. He had heard the full story, eventually. Now Papa was a long way off, counting his roses and carnations. Here, far away from any possible interruption, the sweet sensation in his loins was pushing him towards the edge.

  ‘Maria, is that you?’ Rebecca was desperate to try anything, just to gain a little time, and for a few seconds she succeeded. No answering call came, but her ploy had been enough to knock Reuben off balance. A pang of doubt sparked hesitation and he saw that the moment had passed. The resultant cold fury pushed him to be more daring while struggling to present a composed front.

  ‘I’m disappointed. It’s lunchtime and you haven’t offered me so much as a cup of coffee.’

  ‘No coffee, sorry.’

  ‘But you’re not, are you, sorry I mean. Why do you hate our family like this?’

  ‘There is no hate
. I just do not want you in my life.’

  ‘Okay, my turn to be open. Rubai, that’s a big name in this country. A person should think carefully before causing problems for us. You won’t sell me this house?’

  Rebecca smiled. ‘Never. It is to be our home.’

  ‘McCall.’ He sighed wearily. ‘You still want to go through with it. Don’t answer! But I want to remind you that this is not a lucky family. And Bwana Thomas has already used up any luck he ever had. You know what I’m talking about?’

  ‘Are you threatening us?’

  ‘Of course not.’ His offended manner was not convincing.

  ‘Good. Now I want you to leave. If you hurry they will still be serving lunch in La Belle Inn.’

  Reuben was astonished. What had happened to the gentle, respectful young woman, the polite churchgoing lady, the product of the best girls’ school in the country? This was the second time she had gone for him. She was beginning to remind him of some Nairobi street bitch. Perhaps she had been learning from Lydia. But this time there was no back-up and he wanted her more than ever.

  Minutes before he had been ready to make a grab for her body. Now he wanted her for a wife. He stared blankly down at the polished floor. He was discovering his true feelings for the first time, sure that, at last, he had something real and wholesome to offer her. This was where Julius had made his mistake. He was just as sure that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to win her over. But it had been ingrained into the Rubais to expect to get what they had set their minds on.

  It was Rebecca’s turn to feel astonishment. As if by magic Reuben’s cynical manner, his threatening innuendos were replaced by a humble, pleading tone of voice.

  ‘Um, look, I know what I must have sounded like just now. Making unreasonable demands, expecting things to go our way. Things come too easily to us. But give me a minute. This is the real me. I’ll lay it on the line. I think we could make it …’

  Her look of bewildered revulsion did not put him off.

  ‘Yes, I understand. But think it through. We have a lot in common.’

  ‘You mean we’re both black.’