Mombasa Road Retravelled

by KJ Griffin

  Chapter 22

  The shadows lengthen rapidly, and soon Julius switches on his headlights, revealing a near-deserted road that is taking us into town. The matatu minibuses have evidently taken another day off, and the few pedestrians we do pass vanish into the bushes at the sound of our engine.

  But the police checkpoints seem to have lost interest in proceedings now the state of emergency is several days old. The blue uniforms wave us down with tired arms and the GSU men can't even be bothered to stir from their makeshift seats huddled up next to an oil-drum fire.

  Julius takes us through the roadblocks with little more than a few words in Kikuyu each time; only once is a torch flashed on our faces, and even then the offer of cigarette from Yasmiin's packet is more than enough distraction for a couple of bored policemen.

  But Julius is too chatty for my liking. He wants to hear all over again the details of Yasmiin's dramatic rescue mission, and her curt replies only rouse his curiosity:

  'Fifty thousand dollars is still a lot of money!' he tuts, 'and what's more, I didn't think men like Vic Hanson were susceptible to guilt.'

  'He's not,' Yasmiin sighs imperiously, and the obvious implications about Vic's true motives are just what it takes to dampen Julius down, which in turn allows the full folds of nocturnal silence to reign supreme inside the Land Cruiser's cabin. My guts are hurting again and I guess Julius can sense I've got as much desire to chat as Little Stevie has, sitting motionless on the rear side passenger's seat behind me, observing everything but keeping it all to himself.

  The screech of my mobile is riotously loud in the circumstances. For a second or two none of us seems to realize the full significance of this otherwise banal occurrence, but before the collective sense of astonishment finds any words, I frantically release my seatbelt and wrestle the throbbing device from my pocket, like the precious remnant of my life depends on getting it to my ear before the mystery caller gives up.

  Julius pulls over and grabs my shoulder as I take the call.

  'Everything's back on, Mr Brian,' Fingers chuckles. 'Phones, internet, everything. People are saying that some people in the government want to switch sides.'

  I'm too excited to talk for long, even to Fingers. On the rear seat behind me, Yasmiin rustles frantically inside her handbag in search of her own phone, while Julius pats my shoulder again then punches the steering wheel in celebration as I ring off.

  'Yes, yes, YES!' he shouts, then pulls his own mobile from his pocket, switches it on and makes a succession of calls, talking with increasing excitement in Kikuyu above a background noise of Yasmiin whispering in heavily-sibilated Kiswahili on hers.

  I turn round and smile at Little Stevie, while Yasmiin and Julius gorge themselves on missed call opportunities till eventually, when they're both sated, Julius says to me:

  'Brian, you can end this now, you know. All you have to do is text your army of FC Kenya supporters, telling them when and where to assemble. Mass action. It will be unstoppable, bwana!'

  'Or mass slaughter,' I sigh, feeling inexplicably wistful. 'Anyway, Luxmi's the one with the database of FC Kenya mobile numbers. And I haven't a clue what has happened to her.'

  'Call her now,' Julius urges. 'Call her while you can!'

  Which I do, but there's not even a ringing tone at the other end. Julius snatches the mobile from my hands, redialling several times in succession, but he doesn't sound unduly dismayed when he flatlines for the third time on the same monotone I originally obtained.

  'Keep trying, Brian,' he urges. 'Your lady Luxmi will surely answer soon enough.'

  The streetlights of western Nairobi, never brilliantly lit at the best of times, seem to have lost even their modest tinge of luminescence that once made anaemic efforts to alleviate the gloom, and beneath a moonless, cloud-covered sky the Land Cruiser's beams are eerily potent. You can almost hear the buzz of stifled phone chatter behind every bougainvillea fence, make out the tap-tapping frenzied mouse clicks of thwarted internet chat behind every cypress hedge.

  But when we pull up outside the gates of Julius's block of luxury apartments, I sit bolt upright in my seat. For a Land Rover full of GSU soldiers is sitting sentinel at the gates. I look at Julius in alarm, but he just smiles and pats me on the back:

  'I told you there is someone who wants to meet you, Brian. Someone who can help us finish this business.'

  And with that Julius lowers my window and starts a long, airy Kikuyu conversation with the driver of the GSU Land Rover, whose teeth and eyes alone are visible in the all-pervasive gloom, while in front of us a couple of askaris warily swing back the crested gates on their gold-coloured hinges. There are lots of 'eeehhs' and 'aaahhhs' from the GSU officer before Julius laughs, revs the engine and swings us into the forecourt.

  Njeri is waiting for us at the doorstep with her three children, Lucas, Alfonse and Nancy. Nancy is lucky enough to look like a replica of her mother, and both the ladies of the house are similarly dressed in jeans and loose-fitting sweatshirts, their straightened hair neatly tied back behind a long neck. The boys have inherited more from Julius than Njeri. They're short and stubby, but they wave energetically and are the first to greet their dad.

  Njeri bypasses me, heading straight for Little Stevie, whom she catches in a great scoop-up hug as he jumps down from the car. Just like long ago way back in Magadi, Little Stevie doesn't flinch at Njeri's touch; it seems that between them, Yasmiin and Njeri are breaking down his resistance to physical contact.

  Having fussed over and squeezed Little Stevie in all sorts of places most are not granted access to, Njeri spies Yasmiin:

  'And welcome to you too, young lady. Wow, you're so beautiful! Brian, isn't she stunning?'

  But my confirmation isn't really needed and the next thing I see is Njeri walking towards the house, towing Yasmiin and Little Stevie in either hand. The boys help carry our bags, while Nancy scuttles behind her mum, anxious to see if there really is a rival to her mother's looks.

  But Julius holds me back:

  'Whenever you're ready, Brian, those guys at the gate will take us to the Big Man.'

  'Who is?'

  'General Faustus Ochieng. Commanding Officer of the GSU.'

  I look at my feet:

  'Are you sure this will work, Julius?'

  'Nothing's sure, Brian. But it's a great chance. Think of Dismas Mosiro. We must do this, Brian. For him. For Kenya.'

  'OK,' I nod.

  'Good,' Julius smiles. 'Then let's go in and say goodbye to the families. There's no time like the present.'

  It's new-build, bubble-wrapped heaven chez Chege: shiny electronic gadgetry glistening from open-plan kitchen and alcoves, polished floors downstairs and sumptuous Saxony carpets upstairs. When I left Kenya all those years ago, it was this kind of vision of urban Africa that coaxed the vomit forth in a tidal bore from the depths of my guts; ironically, I no longer need the insane consumer madness to do the job any more - the vomiting just keeps coming of its own accord!

  I find Little Stevie at a spacious computer desk near a giant wall-mounted plasma television. At the other side of the living room sliding doors lead out to a brilliantly illuminated pool, whose shimmering opulence is only marginally diminished by the communal access shared with the three neighbouring houses.

  'Benfica 2, Guimares 0; Nacional 1, Sporting Lisbon 1,' I hear Little Stevie mumbling to himself, pausing after each result to copy the scores from the website to his exercise book.

  We've been starved of football scores for just over a week now and there's lots of work that Little Stevie will need to do on the databases. In normal circumstances I might even have slated my curiosity about this sudden interest of his in the Portuguese Liga - not one of our agreed hunting grounds - but for now, answers to this new development will have to wait.

  'I've got to go out with Julius for a while, Stevie. Will you be OK here with Yasmiin and Njeri?'

  It takes a couple of goes to shift Little Stevie's interest from the Portugese
premiership. Then simply, without even turning to face me:

  'Yes, I'm OK, Dad.'

  So I return to the kitchen, where most normal people are finishing their dinner and even Yasmiin has accepted a plate of rice and stew. Julius points to the casserole dish:

  'Do you want to eat before we go, Brian?'

  I shake my head and look away. My insides are screaming for nil by mouth from here on:

  'Good, then let's get going, Brian,' Julius continues, circling the table with a kiss for all the children before stopping in front of his wife:

  'Leave some stew for us in the microwave, darling,' he smiles as she gets up to hug him. 'We'll eat when we get back, won't we, Brian?'

  Only Yasmiin can tell how fake my nod must be. But before I know it, she too is on her feet and standing next to me, tugging anxiously at my elbow with long, ringless fingers.

  What happens next seems to catch the whole company by surprise, and no one more than me. For Yasmiin puts both hands around my neck, pulls me tight towards her in a lovers' clasp, strokes the side of my neck, and whispers in my ear:

  'Are you sure you are strong enough to go with Julius, Brian? You look so terrible!'

  But this declaration is accompanied by such a wet, full and languorous kiss, you would I assume I don't look so terrible after all.

  Her breasts, squashed to bursting point inside one of Almas's skimpy tops, are so deeply buried against my chest that I can feel the nipples caressing my torso. This should be it - as good as it gets! It's the place you never quite get past in your dreams because the alarm goes or the neighbour's door slams shut every time you get close, or in my case Little Stevie yanks the duvet off me muttering something like, 'Dad, make me coffee, Arsenal at home to Blackburn today, 12-45 kick off.'

  But in this case it's so real it can only be broken by a breathtaking touch of banality, which I amaze myself by supplying so effortlessly:

  'I'll be just fine,' I say, breaking away with the most modest of kisses on those caramel cheeks. 'Come on Julius, let's go.'

  I don't know if it's my own clumsiness or Yasmiin's outburst of passion which has done more to silence the Chege family, but eventually Njeri jumps to the rescue, slipping an arm round Yasmiin's shoulder:

  'I'm glad Brian has found such a woman as you,' she smiles, looking Yasmiin up and down. 'You know his heart was broken last time he was in Kenya over twenty years ago. Bye, Brian! Bye Darling!' she calls out first to me and then to her husband, and as I pull the heavy teak front door behind me I can hear a chorus of 'goodbyes' echoing anew from inside.

  Outside it's very cool. I pull my biking jacket taut around my chest and wait by the Land Cruiser, while Julius walks over to the GSU vehicle just beyond the gates, whose engine I soon hear firing into life.

  'We have to follow them right across the ghost town,' Julius smiles.

  Which we just about manage but at a lethal speed - all the way to downtown Nairobi, where the gradual proliferation of road blocks and checkpoints helps us keep in closer proximity to the GSU Land Rover's tail.

  The blue uniforms manning the barricades wave us through disinterestedly. At one a torch is flashed in our faces, but it's a cursory inspection and the total absence of any other form of life makes the ghoulish police figures shifting in the shadows appear less than real.

  The downtown streetlights, never effulgent at the best of times, would seemingly struggle to illuminate a doll's house tonight. The plangent barking of a couple of distant dogs should have no place in the night air of such a busy metropolis and the ululations of their dreary argument are shocking in their very audibility.

  We leave these deserted downtown streets to follow the new ring road the Chinese are building all the way to the GSU barracks on the Thika Road. I have wound down my window and the cool headwind brings welcome relief to my feverish forehead. Slumped half way out of the vehicle, I am suddenly desperate to sniff the faintest whiff of revolution in the tenebrous dark, but am disappointed to smell no tell-tale signs of struggle. The smoke, the tear gas and the burning rubber tyres of two days ago have long since evaporated and are curiously missed.

  On the newer tarmac the Chinese have laid down in token recompense for the mass cull of fish their factory ships are hoovering out of the waters around Malindi, Julius is able to match our escort's speed more confidently without worrying about sniping potholes.

  My old friend the CNN star is unusually laconic, hunched up against the wheel and concentrating hard, but for me, this silence is preferred. Little Stevie may be safe and out of harm's way, but I'm feeling lower by the second. Of course, I want Kenya to be settled and civilized before I have to leave Little Stevie to fend for himself in our adopted home, but right now I can't see how that can happen any time soon.

  If the GSU boys were on patchy show back in town, it looks like half their number has been put on guard duty on the gates of their barracks. I've never seen so much bristling weaponry glinting in the floodlights by the security barrier, and even a little persuasion from our escorts can't spare Julius and I a very thorough vehicle check and an invitation to step outside the Land Cruiser and endure a vigorous body search. The rough hands probing and slapping the bruises on my head and chest make me double up with pain, but my wincing only seems to induce further patting and prodding.

  'OK, you can go now,' my guard grunts at last, disappointed that he's finished what will no doubt be the only thing between him and terminal boredom on this quietest of quiet nights.

  The Land Rover escorting us is a reformed driver inside the disciplined environment of the GSU barracks, so we crawl at walking speed through a maze of pre-fab and corrugated iron units before pulling up outside a large villa, whose front lawn is squared off by night lights that cast pinprick glows over the razor-sharp edges of manicured herbaceous borders.

  Our escorts have come as far as they dare and they point us almost apologetically up a pathway of smooth stones layered into the clipped lawn that runs right up to a large wooden door, whose porch light reveals a fa?ade of grey stonework.

  We are expected. There is no need to ring. The front door is thrown back the second Julius's toecap touches the porch and a tall uniformed officer gestures us across a dimly lit hallway.

  'The General is waiting for you in there,' he announces, pointing a brusque and bony finger towards a brown door on our left.

  The house seems curiously old, almost settler-style, the sort of place where you would expect to see hunting trophies staring mournfully down at you from oak panels.

  'Julius Chege! Mr Wood!'

  General Ochieng is a giant of a man with more muscle than flab packed into a neat uniform. The absence of a cap is the only concession to home surroundings, otherwise the buttons on his uniform are rigidly tight all the way to his python-coil of a neck. In the dim interior light of what looks like a plush study, the general's dark features remain largely an enigma, though a large and squashed, almost flattened nose is revealed when he passes in front of a lampstand.

  'Do sit down, gentlemen,' the general commands, surprisingly jovially, indicating a stiff leather sofa opposite his own leather chair. Only then do I notice another figure lurking in the shadows.

  'Allow me to introduce Mr Wu from the Chinese Embassy,' Ochieng adds in something of a chuckle.

  'Mr Wu, I think you know our very own CNN star, Mr Julius Chege, but you won't have met Mr Wood. Mr Wood is responsible for starting this whole Football Kenya thing off.'

  I hold up a hand to remonstrate at the General's assertion, but my hand gesture is only bait for Wu, who grabs it energetically, shaking so hard he must think gold will fall from my shirt cuffs.

  Wu is young for Embassy material. He has a full head of hair brushed neatly to his right, a few renegade strands of which loiter on top of a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.

  'I'm nothing political General Ochieng,' I say, at last freeing my hand from Wu's grip and slumping with relief against the arm of the sofa. 'It's Dismas Mosiro you need in t
hat respect, but I guess you know that.'

  Which Ochieng seems to find surprisingly amusing and chuckles once again as he reclines back into his armchair, flashing up the Football Kenya sign at me and laughing even more heartily:

  'I surprise you, Mr Wood, don't I?

  He does.

  And my startled reaction only makes the General laugh even louder. Uneasy where all this is heading, I glance across at Wu, who is inscrutable, and then hard left to Julius, who is scratching the bald spot on his scalp with a sly grin.

  'Oh yes, Football Kenya! You see, I have been receiving your selections since last December, and you have already helped me prepare for a comfortable retirement. Very comfortable indeed. I want to thank you personally for that, Mr Wood.'

  At this the General strides over to shake my hand, brushing aside my feeble attempts to stand up when he approaches.

  And the handshake only seems to inspire him further:

  'Oh, I love it, Mr Wood. I love the game. It's not just the money: it's the thrill, isn't it, bwana? I've done jumps with the paratroopers, you know, Mr Wood. And let me tell you, when you throw yourself out of the plane at fifteen thousand feet, you feel the wind so strong against your throat you want to choke. Only then do you truly know you are alive! But what you do, Mr Wood, it brings the same rush. Dropping from fifteen thousand feet in the night sky or staking fifteen thousand dollars on Wolfsburg to beat Hertha Berlin - either way, you know for sure that you are truly alive!'

  I'm forced to smile at Ochieng's colourful analogy and nod vociferously, which only encourages the General further:

  'Even when you feel confident you know which way a game will go, there's nothing like a large pile of your own money sitting on the result to make you sweat over every kick, every tackle, every misplaced pass, every shot on goal. Take that Norwegian game just six weeks ago, Mr Wood - Tromso at home to Molde. Following your Football Kenya tip I put twenty thousand dollars on Tromso at just over even money. Ninety minutes gone, 0-0, and I hadn't even put any insurance on like you do. I am sweating and sweating and it is one of the coldest nights of our winter, bwana. Suddenly, my computer screen freezes. Market suspended - there must have been a goal, but which way? I tell you, it seems to take forever for the screen to unfreeze. I wait and wait, hunched over my computer like a nervous boy. Finally the market comes back to life. Tromso odds have plunged to 1.02 - meaning only one thing, Tromso must have scored. I collapse in this very chair, bwana, sink down into it like a wounded man desperately clinging to life. I gasp and gasp down air till the strength returns to my veins. I can tell you, Mr Wood, the whole camp heard the roar from the General's house when I finally recovered!'

  'I remember it well - Sigusson the big, blond, hairy Viking forward with a near post tap in,' I smile, and somehow this random recall really does perk me up. My spirits soar, albeit to an altitude somewhat below the massive General's fifteen thousand foot free fall, but at least I'm suddenly back in the game. Don't write me off just yet.

  'How do you do it, Mr Wood? How do you do it, bwana?' the General chuckles, shaking his basketball of a head to and fro in disbelief.

  'Yes, that was a good night,' I sigh. 'And I'm glad you were on board with us, General. But things have taken a turn for the worse now. It seems like our Football Kenya party is just about over.'

  My words kill the General's humour instantly. His face turns serious and he leans forward towards me, resting a plasterer's trowel of a palm on each giant knee.

  'And that is precisely why I asked Mr Chege to put me in touch with you, Mr Wood! You see, Mr Chege and I, we have a plan.'

  I follow the curve of General Ochieng's eyes over to Julius. My old friend smiles awkwardly when my eyes meet his own and shifts guiltily in his chair:

  'The General has an offer, Brian.'

  I've never seen Julius so bashful. What's going on here? Has he hatched a dirty plan with the General which he's ashamed to tell me about? To gauge an answer to this question, I glance at Wu, but the Chinese diplomat still reads like a blank page, so my eyes revert to the General, who sighs:

  'I have had enough of this craziness, Mr Wood. And what's more I know that many of my men, believe it or not, sympathize with you and FC Kenya. Quite a few of them, I know for a fact, are even members of our club.

  'Our?' I can't help querying. Ochieng chuckles again:

  'You saw me flash the Football,' he laughs, folding his fat fingers into a giant O and almost pushing them in my face. 'Oh yes, it's not just the football I love, Mr Wood. I'm also political!'

  The last words are almost spat out as a coup de grace and I can see the whites of Ochieng's eyes set in a penetrating stare. Then, when he has looked round the room and is satisfied that everyone has appreciated the full import of his statement, the General sighs and leans back in his chair.

  'Right now my men do what the government tells them, Mr Wood.'

  'We've noticed,' I chuckle, but the General is beyond humour and continues with a cool gravitas:

  'But more than that, they will always do what I tell them to do.'

  'I'm sure they will, General,' I reply, looking at Julius for clues, but my old friend is only rubbing the bald patch at the back of his head and doesn't give any, so I turn back to Ochieng instead:

  'I'm afraid I don't get your meaning, General. You'd better explain.'

  General Ochieng nods:

  'Tomorrow morning at 0930 I will order all of my men to return to barracks.'

  The General looks very carefully at me, then around the room towards Julius and Mr Wu, who each nod encouragingly in turn:

  'All of them, Mr Wood. None will be left on the streets of Nairobi.'

  The severity of the General's gaze is meaningful, but it's his very meaning I don't get:

  'Which still leaves all the Kenya Police, General. With their tear gas and their live ammunition.'

  The General scoffs:

  'Without my GSU to back them up the Kenya Police will run at the first sign of FC Kenya taking to the streets.'

  'I see,' I say like I don't. It's a good offer, but I can't see how it will break the impasse:

  'But even with the internet up and running I don't know if we can get a message out our thousands of supporters. You see, I don't deal with that sort of stuff at all. There's a lady called Luxmi who I hired for that. She is the only one who can access our database and put the word out on the streets. But I've no idea what's happened to Luxmi or where she is. And even if I could find her, what then? Dismas Mosiro is being detained in Nyayo House. We haven't a leader.'

  But then, an awkward thought occurs:

  'Unless it's your intention to take over the leadership of FC Kenya from Dismas, General?'

  Ochieng must see the relief wash over my face when he brushes away the idea with an outstretched hand, simultaneously rediscovering his good humour and turning towards Mr Wu:

  'Not at all, Mr Wood. I command soldiers. Dismas Mosiro is the people's man. And thanks to Mr Wu's sizeable contribution of US dollars from the Chinese Embassy and my very own contacts, Dismas Mosiro is right now on his way to this very house!'

  The General pauses for the weight of his words to sink in. I turn to Julius, who just grins and shrugs. He's obviously been privy to all the details long before this meeting.

  So Ochieng carries on:

  'And once I'm satisfied that Dismas Mosiro is fully appreciative of everything that I and the Chinese government have done to help him, once I can feel sure that he will repay our kindness when FC Kenya finally takes over the Government of Kenya, as it surely will, then he is a free man and can leave with you, Mr Wood, and your friend Mr Chege here.'

  Which Julius smiles at and adds:

  'What do you say, Brian? Hasn't the General made us an offer we can't refuse?'

  But I'm still sceptical:

  'Well, it's great news about Dismas I shrug, but without being able to find Luxmi I don't see how we can get FC Kenya out on the streets to start the revolution. A
nyway, it's for Dismas to broker any deal - when he arrives.'

  Which takes no more than another five minutes.

  We feel the headlights first, raking across this dim-lit room. Tyres scrunch on gravel, doors slam. Footsteps are heard outside on the path, then voices in the corridor. An adjutant knocks, waits peremptorily, then enters, stamping to attention in the doorway:

  'Minister Mosiro, General!'

  'Aingie!' the General barks in Swahili, then rises to his feet to shake Dismas' hand:

  'Welcome, Mr Mosiro, Sir! Welcome!' the General says, softening his tone and switching to English. 'You know Mr Chege and Mr Wood, of course, but allow me to introduce you to Mr Wu.'

  Dismas smiles wearily at me and Julius before turning to face Wu and he clasps the Chinese Embassy official's outstretched hand.

  Stepping into the pool of light cast by a single spotlight Dismas looks more gawky than ever. His stick insect shoulders have sloped pronouncedly inwards so that the rounded blades almost touch across a narrow chest. The patchy furze surrounding his monk's halo has sprouted longer and more unruly tufts. His eyes are tired and bloodshot and his single front tooth hangs more forlornly than ever over a thin lower lip. Image is everything in the media age: Dismas' mass appeal will never lie in the photo gallery on his Facebook page.

  'Did they mistreat you in Nyayo House?' I ask, looking almost accusingly at the General.

  'Not so bad, Mr Brian,' Dismas sighs wearily. 'They were afraid. And because they were afraid, they feared to torture me.'

  'All the same, it can't have been easy,' I growl.

  'Are you hungry, Mr Mosiro?' the General asks.

  Dismas shakes his head.

  'Thirsty?'

  Dismas nods, and the General calls out for drinks for all of us.

  For me, like Dismas, it's only water, but Julius joins the General and Mr Wu in a large tumbler of whisky. The arrival of alcohol causes the General to lapse back into Swahili, and soon he, Dismas and Julius are engaged in an earnest conversation which I am unable to follow.

  Wu nods and smiles obliquely when my eyes inadvertently catch his own wandering across the room. Julius is leaning forward in his chair and is doing the lion's share of the talking, while Dismas has been refreshed by the water and his deep baritone voice starts to gain increasing entry into the conversation. The General bangs the armrests of his chair from time to time but does not look angry. I guess it's done for rhetorical effect.

  And just as exhaustion starts to take its grip and I heavy eyelids begin to weigh me down in this sofa, my mobile goes.

  It's not a number from my address book, maybe Njeri or one of Julius' family:

  'Still awake, Mr Wood?'

  I recognize the voice instantly but can't place it:

  'Just about. Whom am I talking to?'

  'You have forgotten me so quickly?'

  'Wamunyu!' I curse through gritted teeth. 'What do you want?'

  I can hear a grunt at the other end:

  'Maybe I've got what you want, Mr Wood! You see, I've got two of your friends with me here in Nairobi Central.'

  I sit bolt upright in my chair and almost scream for Little Stevie and Yasmiin, so it's an unimaginable relief when his next words remove that sudden source of panic:

  'Hello Brian,' I hear from a subdued voice.

  The fear that must be constricting the windpipe, choking out all feeling and expression is all too easy to imagine.

  'Guarav!' I murmur. 'What's going on? Are you OK?'

  But there's no reply. Only a pause, some scuffling and finally:

  'Brian!'

  This time the tears are very audible:

  'Luxmi!' I almost shout back. 'My God, I'm so sorry I ever mixed you up in all this business. But don't you worry, I'll have you both out of there in no time at all. Promise.'

  I don't get any sort of answer from Luxmi and it's immediately obvious why not, for instead of her soft voice I hear a scrunching sound in the earpiece, a couple of orders barked in Swahili to a subaltern, the slam of the door, then Wamunyu's deep gangster voice takes over:

  'You made a big mistake, Mr Wood, very big mistake, man, when you got Vic Hanson involved last time round. Now I'm still short of money and time is running out. So here's what we're going to do: You won't have the kind of cash I need while the banks are still closed and I don't have time to wait till they open. But there is a way for you to get your Asian friends out.'

  'Tell me.'

  There's a faint chuckle at the other end, then something more substantial, and I can clearly visualize the big fat gold chain bouncing up and down on Wamunyu's colossal gut:

  'I've decided I'm going to do what you do, Mr Wood. I'm going to become rich from football matches!'

  'It's not as easy as it sounds,' I hiss, and straight away I don't know why I even bothered stating the obvious. But it does piss me off, and I suppose that however unlikely Wamunyu's betting success will turn out to be, the merest suggestion of a wanker like the Chief Superintendent gorging himself with beginner's luck in my home grounds is just too much to bear at this stage of my life.

  'That's why I've come to you, Mr Wood. I've opened a Betfair account and all the cash dollars I got from Vic Hanson left on a Kenya Airways flight two nights ago for the UK. My brother in law has put everything into my new account. Now all I want from you is two winners. And with each win I will give you one Asian!'

  'You shouldn't lump it all on one match,' I can't help but snarl at this oaf through clenched teeth. 'The first rule of the serious punter is never stake more than 5% of your bank on one game.'

  'But I haven't time, man,' Wamunyu snaps back, the gangster-edge ever louder in his voice. 'And you're the expert, Mr Wood, so I guess I can take a chance with your tips. Besides, if I do lose, I'm going to keep your friends in here till you give me my cash back, so what's to lose? Now tomorrow is Saturday, isn't it? Lots of football matches being played all over the world, I guess. I want my first tip from you by tomorrow afternoon, Mr Wood. If you win, I let your pretty Asian girl out. If not, she and her brother will stay here with me and you will bring me fifty thousand US.'

  'You'd better make sure the GSU?'

  But I stop myself just in time and look across the room at Dismas, General Ochieng and then to Julius, who seems to be doing all the talking now. Wamunyu mustn't know anything about the secret deal being struck in this very room. No, his turn will have to come later:

  'What's that about GSU?' I hear Wamunyu ask.

  'Nothing,' I almost shout back. 'I said Man U, you know, Man Utd. But wait, that's not where you should put your money. I'll call you tomorrow lunchtime.'

  And then a pause, as an unwelcome thought occurs to me:

  'But how do I know you'll keep your side of the bargain?'

  'You don't,' the Chief Superintendent snorts. 'But what other choice have you got, Mr Wood?'