Mombasa Road Retravelled

by KJ Griffin

  Chapter 21

  The next morning brings a change of fortune in all sorts of ways. For a start, both Little Stevie and I don't wake till just shy of nine o'clock, almost a record, and one of his longest lie-ins since we were house-sitting for friends of mine in Surrey three summers ago and we stayed up till three a.m. four nights in a row to watch and invest in Copa America matches from South America on their Sky HD.

  We sit on the edge of our beds rubbing the sleep from our eyes and stare blankly back at each other. And now that we're alone and intimate once again and I'm peering deeply into Little Stevie's dark eyes, for the first time since his release I'm overcome by all the emotions I should have felt last night.

  To begin with, there's Yasmiin: That was a Sydney Carton moment from her yesterday, cashing in all her plans for revenge on Vic Hanson and Gregory Aspinall Watt to rescue my son from the horror of Nairobi Central Police Station. And to think I was feeling jealous of her for a short while last night! Truly shameful. Even that special confessional in the Vatican, the one they keep deep down in the vaults of St Peter's for ex-Nazis, South American dictators and Opus Dei members to get it all of their chests wouldn't do to repent of such ingratitude.

  And what of me and Little Stevie here? Are we to pick up in the heart-rending silence of last night, or can this new day truly be a new dawn for both of us?

  In a determined effort to get things back to normal, I start to flare my lips at Little Stevie, contorting my mouth into the most exaggerated gelada baboon faces ever pulled either by primate or by human imitator.

  Nothing doing. He just lies there watching me, stiff and inert. So instead, I scramble out of the covers and start to jump up and down on my bed like a territorially challenged, silver-maned adult male.

  And that finally does it! At first his smile is accidental, like he's just learning the craft, but as I continue to jump higher and higher and more excitedly up and down on the creaky bed springs, Little Stevie finally breaks into a steady chuckle and before long we're rolling around together on my dishevelled bed, play-fighting like two adult geladas when they cavort all over the sheerest cliff drops of the Ethiopian Highlands.

  Which brings tears for me, hot and salty tears that are part-flavoured with the heady syrup of his forgiveness.

  'I'm hungry, Dad,' Little Stevie says when we've both calmed down, and isn't that strangest of admissions from my son further evidence that things are starting to look up?

  Outside and barefoot on the cold stone kitchen floor, only Kiwi John is up. He's got a mug of steaming coffee in one hand, while he rubs a stubbly chin with the other, all the while frowning at the radio, which is still only playing a succession of brass band marching music performed by soldiers of the Kenya Rifles, till he tweaks the dial and we pick up a programme on Tibetan pottery from the BBC World Service.

  'It's black,' Kiwi John sips, grimacing at the taste of his coffee. 'No milk. We're running out of everything in the house. Bugger the bloody GSU! I'd sooner risk getting shot and drive into Karen this very morning than slowly starve inside my own house.'

  He's right of course. Whatever the situation on the streets outside, we can't simply sit in this comfortable house while supplies dwindle and even Little Stevie develops symptoms of an appetite.

  So Kiwi John and I talk through the best course of action while he slurps and pulls faces at his black coffee, and I eventually manage to persuade Little Stevie that he shouldn't come with Kiwi John on our next mission, but stay at the kitchen table instead, where he can make up for lost time on his football books. I haven't the heart to point out that updating the form books will be impossible with the internet down and no access to the BBC's results service, and I feel like a fraud when we redirect Little Stevie inside to the comfort of the kitchen table, his grubby football books and a blackened banana. But for as long as this political tension continues, the only certainty is that my son isn't going to be further exposed to any of it.

  Outside, Kiwi John starts up the Land Cruiser and we edge warily up the hill towards Langata.

  'Looks like we won't be alone,' my old friend grunts, pointing to the unusual numbers of pedestrians forming an almost seamless and unbroken line at the side of the road, their patched-up trainers churning up clouds of red dust that eddy around the almost universal empty gunia bag hanging from the tops of the women's bright headscarves or the shoulders of the men folk. These pedestrians are alert and purposeful, glancing nervously at the Land Cruiser as we pass them by, and you can almost smell their relief when they see we are not in a police vehicle.

  'It's exactly a year ago since we arrived back in Kenya,' I shout above the engine's roar to Kiwi John.

  'And look what you've done to the place!' he snorts, which makes us both chuckle.

  At the top of the hill we see a long line of people patiently queuing outside every ramshackle kiosk, whose gaudy fronts advertise Sweet Menthol cigarettes, Kasuku cooking fat and Safarimobile top up cards. The people are calm and silent, but you can still smell the tension in the air. It would probably take only a thin line of blue uniforms in the distance to send these brave foragers hurtling back into the cypress hedges and thickets.

  Kiwi John and I glance at each other and roll our eyes. Will there be anything left for us once this army of safari ants has ransacked and pillaged whatever provisions have survived the chaos Football Kenya has unleashed on the country?

  We drive on to the Asian-owned supermarket, whose prices will hopefully deter most of this horde, but the car park is full when we get there and a phalanx of uniformed security guards pokes menacing rungu sticks in our faces.

  We double park in front of a white Mercedes and I whistle to the meanest looking security guard, beckoning him over:

  'Here my friend, it's for you,' I say, holding out a twenty dollar bill.

  It's reassuring how well the magic of foreign currency still works in every African crisis. A mean squat face immediately lights up and this heftily-built colossus folds the note crisply in half before stuffing it inside his breast pocket.

  'Please find the owner of the shop and tell him we'll pay for our goods in dollars,' I smile, pointing past the line of customers that's snaking out of a shop front that was once whitewashed at least forty rainy seasons ago.

  Our security man leaves us sitting awkwardly in the Land Cruiser for some time, but when he does reappear he gestures energetically towards the back of the store.

  'Come, Mr Anand says you can come in the back door, bwana. Follow me please, sirs!'

  Which we do, and are greeted at the rear of the shop by what is likely to be one of Mr Anand's sons, dressed in smart pressed jeans, a clean shirt and a trendy haircut.

  'How much you got?' he asks suspiciously; I show him a wad of hundreds.

  'Ok, help yourselves,' he nods approvingly. 'Winston here will help you.'

  It's such a scrum inside we're grateful for the preferential treatment and for the services of the old grey-beard Winston, replete with grey apron. We write down a list of items and Winston returns with pretty much all we asked for until several brown boxes are full and we feel we've sequestered sufficient stores to keep us going through a few more days of anarchic police crackdown.

  Both Kiwi John and I are in lighter mood for the short drive home. The morning blanket of dense grey murk has been chased away by a potent sun, and all but a cheeky handful of recalcitrant white powder-puff clouds remains. Kiwi John puffs contentedly on a rough Rooster cigarette, while I lean out of my window watching jacaranda, eucalyptus and flame tree leaves bend in a stiff, warm breeze.

  In the opposite direction the lines of determined shoppers still pace purposefully up the hill towards Langata and Karen. I feel guilty to see all their gaunt faces when we have so many boxes of imported goods piled up and lurching around behind the cab.

  'This is amazing!' I murmur. 'Yesterday not a soul was out and about; today it's as if they've suddenly lost their fear of the GSU - there's a bit of the Berlin Wall feel about
it.'

  'The locals are quiet and tame today,' Kiwi John grunts, throwing his cigarette butt away, 'while there's still food in the shops. But it won't take long for them to clear the shelves. And if this political shit continues to rumble and their bellies stay empty, they could turn on anyone, even us.'

  At which point we ourselves turn. Right, pulling up outside the corrugated iron gates, which are thrust back unusually quickly to reveal a shiny black Land Cruiser parked up against the verandah, in front of which Julius Chege is standing in a neat-pressed open-necked white shirt and khaki trousers, talking earnestly to Laila. He turns our way when he hears the roar of his Land Cruiser's ancient relative, and his gold-trim Ray Bans glint in the sun when he waves towards us.

  'Dismas Mosiro has been arrested,' Julius says, shaking our hands while he shakes his head. 'They're holding him in Nyayo House. You and Little Stevie should come with me, Brian. It's not safe for you here. The CID could be here any minute.'

  'We've already been there,' I sigh, and I tell him the whole story of our spell inside Nairobi Central and about Little Stevie's release, courtesy of Yasmiin, while we unload the boxes from the rear of the truck and dump them on the verandah, where Laila and the girls fuss over them with approving clucks. Little Stevie comes out too, squinting into the sun:

  'I want to do running, Dad,' he announces, ignoring Julius's outstretched hand and coming down the verandah steps straight towards me. 'Where's Farah gone?'

  'Dunno,' I shrug, and finally force my son to acknowledge Julius Chege.

  But Julius shakes Little Stevie's hand with a frown on his face. He isn't sure we have seen the end of the police and cautiously rubs his little goatee:

  'What's to stop Wamunyu coming back for you Brian? and her as well?' he adds pointing to Yasmiin, who has just reappeared on the verandah dressed in what looks like some of Almas's teenage jeans and t-shirts.

  'Do you think Vic Hanson can be trusted a second time? And, my God, you look thin Brian!' Julius continues, as though he's only just looked me up and down.

  'We'll only come with you if Yasmiin can come too.'

  'No problem,' Julius smiles,jumping up the verandah steps to shake Yasmiin's hand.

  'Will you come with us, young lady?' he asks.

  'They need me,' Yasmiin replies, gesturing at me and Little Stevie. 'But where will you take us?'

  'My own house in Kileleshwa will be fine,' Julius shrugs. 'I have too many friends in the police. They can't come to my house without me knowing about it first.'

  'Even when the telephones are out?' Kiwi John grunts from his perch on the swinging chair.

  'Even when the telephones are out!' Chege reassures us with a sly grin.

  So we pack in a hurry. And Little Stevie doesn't seem to mind all the fuss this entails as long as Yasmiin is coming too. What's more, even Kiwi John and Laila must see the sense in this idea, for their protests are mute and few, but when it's time to hug them goodbye, Laila and the girls are sniffing; even Kiwi John's eyes look red and misty in the hot sun.

  'Keep yourself going long enough to see the end of all this,' he orders me with such a fearsome man-hug I'm not sure he really believes I will last the distance.

  And when Almas gives Little Stevie a sly peck on the cheek, he neither flinches nor backs away. Instead, there's a ghost of a smile on his face and he even catches her eyes:

  'Bye, Almas,' he says, waving his hand in the slow, clumsy circles of a little kid waving at a passing train. 'See you after the revolution.'

  At which we all laugh and cheer, especially Julius, who helps us load all our gear so quickly into the back of his Land Cruiser, it's like he's expecting a police raid any second. Then, once Yasmiin is tucked away in the back seat next to Little Stevie and we're charging away up the hill towards Langata, Julius whispers in my ear:

  'Brian, it's not just for your own safety that I want you to come with me. If you don't mind, I want to introduce you to someone important, someone who can help us get what we all want.'

  It's quiet on the road now. The long lines of shoppers must have all returned home long before dusk to the safety of their charcoal fires, where beans and ugali porridge are likely to be steaming away in pots lined with Kasuku cooking oil. So, feeling strangely relaxed and contented as I watch the fading light of a tropical sun wash and lick the leaves of a line of eucalyptus trees into golden curls, I pat Julius on the shoulder and say:

  'I'll meet the Devil, or worse, even Sepp Blatter himself if that helps! Whatever it takes, Julius. Let's put an end to all this right now.'