Black Mischief

by Carl Hancock

  ‘Of course,’ Abel lied. He did a rapid calculation. ‘Six, plus or minus.’

  ‘Mmn, okay, we’ll pick up final details on that later. Now, where do they live?’

  So began a long and detailed interrogation, mainly concerned with people. He wanted to know about ages, physical and personality details and he insisted on spreading his inquiries beyond the immediate family.

  ‘This Bertie Briggs sounds important.’

  ‘Another of the old-time bwanas who cannot get it into his head that this country is not ruled from London any more. Arrogant white Europeans who think that they are real Kenyans.’

  Abel was working himself into a rage. But this was not the red-hot boil-up that he experienced on the night of Julius’s death and which was repeated many times in the months that followed when thoughts of that devilish family came into his mind. The emotions now were cold, the anger, the hatred, the longing for revenge. To him the reason was obvious. And at last he had found the man who could bring him peace. Those days of frustration that were all too common when the local boys were on the job were about to end.

  ‘Mister Rubai, you have given me everything I need for now, except for locations, but I understand that Mister Uchome will supply all that information.’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’ How like an ordinary business transaction this was. Put your signature on a contract, write a cheque and problems disappeared, as easy as switching a light on to bring brightness to a dark room.

  ‘Patrick, get in here and bring your stationery.’ He stood and offered his hand to his saviour. ‘I have to leave you now.

  My boys will see you back into the city. Anything you need, anything, they will organise it.’

  ‘The rest of today I’ll be making preparations. I will be in Naivasha in the morning. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Mr Rossi, I want these people to hurt. Don’t worry about the girl, Lydia. We’ll see to her later if it’s a distraction. I think, maybe, that she is less … No matter. We will meet again very soon. Uchome, take care now!’

  Chapter Thirty

  ews has always travelled fast across the plains of East Africa. Now that a little more of the light of civilisation has come to silence the mysterious messages that were sent on the wind by the romantic beat of the drums, the family mobile does a more efficient job. Or so some people believe. No more need for the sensitive ear to interpret the latest bulletin from the bush.

  By the time Tom had turned off South Lake Road onto the bumpy murram of the track that led to Londiani, a dozen stories were flying up and down the villages of south Naivasha. A single phone call from Paul Miller’s house to Rafaella and Angela who were together in the McCall kitchen had created a score of rumours. Variations on the basic themes of murder, kidnap and rescue brought great excitement to the beginning of the working day. But could so many twists and turns have been possible in so short a time, between bedtime and sunrise?

  Stephen Kamau, the trusted chief foreman, heard some of the different stories and understood that no work would be done in the fields that were noisy with continuous chatter. He gathered his people together into a large tent that had just been cleared of its last row of roses. By the time he stood in front of them, Rebecca was at his side. She was smiling.

  ‘It must be good news. Rebecca knows all the secrets of this place.’

  Stephen was brief. He focused on the kidnap of their beloved Bwana Alex and his rescue, his ‘miraculous rescue’.

  ‘Bwana will soon be safely home. I think he will come down to talk to us later. For now, let us thank and praise our loving Father for his goodness and mercy, and return to the tasks of the day.’

  There were two meetings later that day. As Bwana Alex slipped into the large tent, the excited hubbub of expectation soared into a loud, prolonged cheer that itself turned into a more traditional harmony of blended voices. The improvised choir of a thousand accompanied itself with rhythmic clapping and swaying movement. As he walked among them, his workers, his friends saw some proof of his ordeal in his pale face and sunken eyes. They were distressed and angry that violence had come again to bring danger to the McCall family, their family.

  He returned to the jua kali platform and raised his arms in triumph, wearily some thought. As he spoke his words of thanks, very few even in the front row paid attention to the slim, pretty figure behind him standing between Rebecca and Signora Rafaella.

  Lydia was entering a new phase in her education. The years spent in a way of life that most of those in the crowd in front of her would have described as sordid, if not downright disgusting, had taught her many lessons. She had learned to read characters quickly. Her life might depend on her ability to pick out the customer who came to her wanting more than to use her body for a brief, intimate encounter in the privacy of a bedroom. Some men thought that their money bought them the right to indulge their wildest sexual fantasies. There were friends who had been murdered by such sadistic perverts.

  For now, she enjoyed looking up and down the rows of these flower people with families to return to when their work was over. Why could she not have been one of these girls, with their glowing faces, their colourful kikois? But she had chosen to sell her body, not her labour.

  Alex and Stephen chatted for a few moments. A loud cheer went up when the big foreman announced that work was over for the day. The large crowd of workers dispersed quickly through the open sides of the tent.

  Half a dozen girls made straight for Rebecca. They had been friends from their schooldays before Don and Rafaella McCall had sponsored their foreman’s bright eldest daughter at Santa Maria in Nairobi. Rebecca was no longer the famous singer but one of the Naivasha gang, noisy with their shrieks of uninhibited laughter and high spirits.

  Lydia was welcomed into the group. It was a new experience to be in such company. Her city friends seemed older and wiser with their pretentious air of cool, street smart ways. They would not have been so ready to embrace a stranger so wholeheartedly. These flower workers had kept some of their girlish enthusiasm, their love of getting up to things.

  As they made their way up to South Lake Road, the bubble of excitement moved along slowly, a colourful piece of Africa, enjoying life to the full.

  ‘I want to show you my favourite place.’ Rebecca and Lydia were strolling back to Londiani after the last of the girls had boarded their matatu to their homes on the other side of town.

  ‘The washing garden. It is beautiful, Rebecca, but a surprise, too. Where is the machine for the clothes?’

  ‘There isn’t one. Plenty of hot water from the boiler. See, over there. We carry it to the two troughs, put in the powder and work away, like baking bread, only better. No flour on the hands and the hot water is like dawa. It makes you feel good. I love being on the stage, but this is better. I think there is water. I will show you.’

  In ten minutes the girls were caught up in the rhythm of the kneading and the slapping and the rinsing.

  ‘This is a good place to think. To talk, also. Lydia, New York, will you come with us?’

  ‘On Sunday? I think I must go back to Nairobi. My family will be worrying.’

  ‘But someone will be watching the house. We could send a message. Paul will take it. And he is working to help you travel. So it will be easy for you. Just two weeks.’

  ‘New York, is it like Nairobi?’

  ‘Come and find out.’

  ‘Do you think they will give me a job down in the fields? Those girls, your friends, are they happy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rebecca, suddenly, why so sad when you say this?’

  ‘Listen.’ Rebecca let the sheet she was washing fall back into the hot, soapy water. ‘Look around. Beautiful Kenyan garden. These flame trees, the bougainvillea, the bananas over there in the corner. My favourite is this big hedge between us and the house, cei-apple. You can eat those yellow fruits. But it is a hidden place.’

  ‘But how can this make you sad?’

  ‘Those girls, my fr
iends, many of them long for one special thing. They want their own toto, to carry on their backs in a shawl. This will make them feel like proper women.’

  ‘So they will get married soon?’

  ‘Some, but not many. A man will give them the child, but there will be no marriage. A child is good but the men, well, not often. They will drink. They will take their money and beat them. But there is something else.’

  ‘They are afraid that their family will be angry?’

  ‘No, they are excited and they feel no fear. But I do, for them. I have been in the hospital here and spoken to a lady nurse from another country. Many of the babies die, some of the mothers. There is no love in that place, no compassion, not many things to help when the baby is coming. In Nairobi yes, if you have money. I am sorry, Lydia, but this sadness is close to my heart. I am blessed many times over. I will use these blessings. Soon the workmen will get our land ready for the new place. So many people will help us. Some will be coming to Londiani tonight. You will see them. And it is going to happen.’

  * * *

  Peter Bellengeri owned a cattle farm on the other side of the lake where he kept two large earthmoving machines. Fred Sawyer was the leading building contractor in the Nakuru district. Sonya Mboya had spent her working life in hospitals, mostly in maternity wings.

  Rebecca was thrilled to see all three of them together for the first time on the veranda of Londiani. The sundowner was still going on long after the darkness settled on the valley and the lake had been transformed into its nocturnal steely grey.

  The story of the day had been repeated for the newcomers. The mood was convivial and optimistic when the conversation moved on to the idea of building a new hospital for the town.

  Rebecca was sitting against the backdrop of the night sky as she set out her dream. Her natural beauty was enhanced by the passion of her belief that powered a glow in her face that held her listeners spellbound. For the hundredth time Tom fell in love with her. Once again the strength of her feeling and her fluency convinced him that she was the one who should be standing for Safina in the election and not him.

  ‘I love this place. We all know that our people, we, need many things to give us what is important in our lives. Families want clean water that is brought into their home. Our children need schools with books and teachers who really care. The list is long. Why do I believe that a hospital comes first? Because that is where the lives of so many of our people begin, those dangerous hours when we make our journey from the womb into the world. Thomas and I hope to be married soon. We want our babies born close to home and we want the best for all our mothers-to-be. Bwana McCall has given us the land. I know he does not like that name and I promise that I will not use it again. But we must honour his gift and we must begin to honour it tonight. Am I foolish to speak out this dream?’

  Enthusiasm tempered by realism was the hallmark of the discussion that followed this longest single public utterance of Rebecca’s life. By the end of the evening her dream had become a project. Temporary appointments were made to give some focus to different aspects of this newly born plan. It was reasoned that, without these, the blurring of areas of responsibility could undermine the practicalities that dreams must have to become realities. Tomorrow might become next week, next year and, eventually, never.

  Rebecca sat silent but wide-eyed with delight to watch the way that the three people in the room who could be described as experts set off ideas in each other. As Fred Sawyer, Peter Bellengeri and Sonya discussed possibilities, she could visualise the new place not as an empty, lifeless shell but a thing of beauty alive with human activity.

  ‘Contracts, costings, materials, all dull paperwork will be the practical strengths here.’

  ‘Totally agreed, Peter. We will need a clerk of the works almost straight away.’

  ‘Fred, you and Peter could organise that.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Alex, if you trust us.’

  ‘Course we do. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here tonight.’

  ‘No, Alex. I’ve seen too many scams and rip-offs, sometimes by so-called honest businessmen you thought you had on your side. Make haste slowly.’

  ‘But this is going to work, for sure. A lot of lives are going to be changed, Rebecca. I want to be part of this. I want to make a proposal to get us going. I had a walk around the land on my way here. I hear you and Tom are off to America on Sunday. Two weeks?’

  ‘Yes, Peter.’

  ‘There are no plans yet, but by the time you get back, I could have my machines over again to finish clearing the site. Alex and Bertie, you could come over. We’ll have a rough area ready. We need plans. The council will have to approve, etcetera. Come on. Let’s get going.’

  * * *

  Maura and Lydia were back by seven from their overnight stay with Mary Coulson in Gilgil. Two four-wheel drives were packed and loaded for the safari up into the south-western side of the Aberdares, a treat for the boys, a time away from houses and crowds. Lydia rode with Sonya and her boys. Bertie drove, excited by the prospect of taking Ewan on his first adventure into wild country. Tom led the way off the A104 onto the lower slopes of the Kinangop. His only passenger was Rebecca, but they were loaded with the tents, the sleeping-bags and the rest of the ridiculous amount of equipment and supplies needed to spend a single night out in the open on a cold mountain.

  The boys were into a magical new land. They loved the bumps and lurches as the Pajero clambered relentlessly up the stony track that, in places, was more like a dry river bed. Sonya thought that too much of such a rough ride would bring on the nausea she invariably felt on long journeys by air, but this was a triviality compared to hearing the delight of her boys as they shrieked and laughed at every new bounce and roll.

  Ewan, belted in at his father’s side, was less assured. He was strapped in tight and his view was limited to what he could see above the level of the windows and that meant the endless green of lush foliage broken occasionally by squares and triangles of blue sky and heavy sacks of grey cloud. For a time Bertie wondered if it had been a mistake to bring a boy, not yet three, up into this mass of forest and thicket. Had he brought him for selfish reasons, too eager for him to start experiencing the great life outdoors? But, at last, infected by the happy noise coming to him from behind, Ewan reached over to touch his father’s arm.

  ‘Dad, can we come up here to live?’

  A relieved Bertie turned to smile at Sonya. ‘What about a couple of songs to let the forest people know that we love being up here with them?’

  ‘I don’t know any songs all the way through.’

  ”Course you do. Here’s one. Used to sing it at Pembroke. You heard it last bonfire night. “Old MacDonald had a farm!” Yes?’

  After singing themselves out, the travellers settled into a happy, dozy state, lulled into silence by the heavy sound of an engine working hard in a low gear. Nearer the top, the road became less bumpy, but the boys and Lydia were surprised by the chill on the breeze blowing in through the open window. So the windows were wound up and there was a struggle to put on anoraks. A heavy shower rattled on the roofs and for a time blotted out the now more distant horizons. When the rain stopped, it was time to get out. They had reached the flat, open glade that was to be their base for the next twenty-four hours.

  Noah and his brothers stepped down onto the sodden clumps of grass and looked around. No sign of blue sky up here. The silence was broken only by the drip of thousands of droplets of water sliding from the leaves of the trees close by. Tom unloaded the boxes of rubber boots and thick, woollen socks. The boys did not like the chill, damp air, did not see it as a refreshing change from the heat they had left behind on the plains. Even the slightest movement of their bodies up in this alien land helped the cold to tighten its grip on every inch of their skin. But there was a remedy close at hand.

  A mug of hot sweet chocolate warmed their hands and cheered them up. As they drank, the boys looked ‘round again to find that the landscape had change
d miraculously.

  The damp trees suddenly showed off their solid branches at comfortable heights, inviting young legs and arms to heave themselves up and explore the mysteries of the overhanging foliage. For Ewan, all the attraction was at ground level. Those muddy puddles in the tracks were wider and browner than those he splashed through in Rusiga, even when the long rains had lashed down on the night before.

  While the boys played, the adults worked. The little patch of green became a proper camp. The gas stoves were soon full on and heavenly smells were helping to change the playground into a paradise.

  ‘Daddy, can we come here to live? Please!’

  ‘We’ll have to ask the bwana of the mountain.’

  ‘Where does he live? Can we go and see him, now?’

  ‘Ah, well, I think it’s his day for being over by the big mountain.’

  ‘Bigger than this?’

  ‘Yes. And, Ewan, I don’t think he likes houses in his kingdom. Nests he likes and dens, but our houses with their fires and their chairs. I don’t think the dragon …’

  ‘Dragon?’ Sammy grabbed Moses around the shoulders and peered up into the trees with a mischievous grin lighting up his face. ‘I hope he lives up on that big mountain!’

  ‘Is it a pretend dragon, Daddy?’

  ‘Well, boys, I’m not sure. I’ve never seen him, but I know for sure he likes good Kenya boys who look after the forest.’

  The quiet time after lunch was brief. Tom made an announcement.

  ‘Who wants to go fishing?’

  Four young bodies flashed into full-on energy.

  ‘Any of you ever heard of the Karuru River?’

  Four foreheads beetled in puzzlement. Tom and Bertie smiled. ‘Bertie and I have been up here lots of times, with my father, Eddie and Rollo. Always managed to catch something.’

  ‘Any sharks up here, Tom?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Ewan. I remember one time your mother …’ Tom stopped abruptly, angry with himself for his carelessness. He looked across at Bertie and shook his head, regret written all over his face. Bertie had recovered his poise and almost had it wrenched away in the next second. Ewan explained to his three young friends unemotionally.