Mombasa Road Retravelled

by KJ Griffin

  Chapter 25

  Euphoria subsides with surprising alacrity back home at Julius's house. And with Yasmiin still absent on a mysterious walkabout, Kiwi John back to his Langata home and Julius away for days on end in CNN live-news heaven, Little Stevie and I are kept as prisoners of kindness in Njeri's middle-America bubbleworld. For a few days I can't get enough of hearing Dismas declaim with disarming reserve on any television that will have him how the great privatization of Kenyan non-real estate is going to work out when FC Kenya wins the coming election:

  'Sky?' the man from Fox News asks Dismas over and over again, 'but who would want to own a whole bunch of sky?'

  And what's worse he plain doesn't get it however many times Dismas explains.

  But a news buzz can only last so long, and eventually, there's also only so much of Njeri's delicious food that I'm too sick to eat and have to politely refuse, and there are only so many repeats of Blue Planet, Frozen Planet and Planet Earth that Little Stevie can rewatch and rewatch, beating David Attenborough's voiceover by several seconds per prompt on the Chege satellite TV, so it's something of a relief when Kiwi John finally reappears late in the afternoon two days after Dismas's triumph at State House and breathes in hard and long when he sees me laid out by the pool in the warm sun, buried under a heap of blankets:

  'Shit, Brian, you look awful!' he mumbles, shaking his head and ever so softly stretching out an arm to help me shift my position on the lounger:

  'Come on, mate, it's time to go home. You're coming back with me now.'

  And I don't need to look into his eyes to know they are full of tears, which once again I must not witness:

  'Home!' I mumble. 'That's right, mate, your place is my real home.'

  'Can Farah come too?' is all Little Stevie asks when I tell him we're moving out, for it's only now that I realize Farah has taken to hanging around with Little Stevie even when they're not out running. I think for the first time ever I can almost say my son has made a friend, and that observation brings a special glow to my heart: they'll make a good pair these two when I'm gone: Meru's answer to Forrest Gump and the Quiet Boy!

  'Of course,' I say, 'Farah is family now. You don't mind, do you, John?'

  I watch my old friend's greasy ponytail bob to and fro as he shakes his head and then disappears into the kitchen to find Njeri. Their voices can be heard for some time before Kiwi John returns to me by the pool.

  'You really want to leave us, Brian?' Njeri asks, and her voice is almost cracking up as she asks, for no one needs to state the obvious that when I leave this house, it will be goodbye and farewell.'

  'Keep an eye out for Little Stevie for me, won't you, Njeri?' I ask with a knotted throat, which provokes a sudden outburst of hysterical sobbing. Soon, it's actually Njeri who needs my support, and she clings on to me so hard and gives me such a passionate kiss that I'd like to think Yasmiin would be jealous if only she were anywhere around.

  All this commotion brings Nancy out of the house, and Njeri's daughter stands blinking in the sunshine, wondering why her mum is so distraught.

  'I'll go and put your bags in the truck,' Kiwi John announces, no doubt glad of an excuse to escape all the emotional mess.

  Which is seemingly all lost on Little Stevie, for he doesn't ask why Njeri is still crying as she walks with us out to Kiwi John's battered old version of her deluxe Land Cruiser and why she and Nancy, now joined by Alfonse and Lucas, are waving forlornly at us through a dirty cloud of diesel smoke when Kiwi John revs the engine.

  'Bye-bye, Brian,' Njeri calls out. 'Julius and I will come over to see you as soon as he gets home.'

  But I'm rather hoping that won't happen. Farewells like this are hard enough already, and I've got the mother of all separations coming my way so very, very soon. I must act almost immediately now, for something subconscious tells me I won't have enough strength left in my body to carry out my final plan if I leave the big wrench just one day longer.

  'Are we staying in Kiwi John's house a long time, Dad?' Little Stevie asks, as we bump along towards the Ngong Road and then out to Karen.

  I swallow hard.

  'You're staying there for good now, son. It's going to be your home.'

  No reply.

  I'm leaning forward almost against the windscreen, squashed up between Little Stevie and Kiwi John with one leg either side of the transmission. From time to time I cast a cursory glance at Little Stevie, but our eyes never meet and he stares resolutely out of the window, turning only once to look fleetingly at Farah, who is sitting outside the cabin on the tailgate behind.

  But finally, just after we pass the Langata dukas Little Stevie breaks his silence.

  'Where are you living then, Dad? Are you going to marry Yasmiin and move away from me?'

  Now the tears are hot and urgent down my cheeks and Kiwi John makes several jerky gear changes for no apparent reason whatsoever. I put a hand on my son's knee and squeeze it hard, trying in vain to get his eyes.

  'Stevie, there's something I need to tell you, something I should have told you a long, long time ago.'

  But now I've started, I can hardly finish my sentence and we rattle along again in silence, drawing ever closer to Kiwi John's house. Little Stevie keeps his head steadfastly out of the window all the while, but suddenly, just as we turn at the top of the hill that leads down to Kiwi John's house, he sticks his head back inside, looks me directly in the eyes, and the alarm I can see there is the most frightening thing I've ever had to face.

  'Stevie, I'm dying,' I say in a bare whisper, almost unable to keep his gaze. 'I'm going to die any day now. You won't have your dad with you any more from here on.'

  His eyes have left mine now and his gaze is fixed straight head.

  'But you will be fine,' I continue. 'You're going to stay with Kiwi John and Laila. From now on you will be part of their family. And Yasmiin will be around to look after you too and help you with all the football betting.'

  My words must have sunk home. For immediately I see Little Stevie's hands shoot straight up over his ears and he starts banging his head against the passenger door, plunging straight into Big Distress Mode.

  'Alpha Ophioci?'

  We have arrived. Kiwi John knows just how urgent our situation is and toots furiously outside the corrugated iron gates, and when they are finally flung back, we enter with such a jerk you would be forgiven for thinking that Little Stevie could be shaken from his star data, but of course, he can't, and this crisis-of-all-crises continues with him wading even more plaintively through that miserably rambling and unappealing hunk of sky that is Ophiocus, while Laila and Lulu appear on the verandah, wave sombrely, then saunter over to help us inside the house.

  Their greetings are restrained and they immediately realize something is very wrong with Little Stevie. Almas and Lulu have been told what's going to happen to me, I guess, but if they were expecting any recognition from Little Stevie, they're not going to get it anytime soon, for he walks straight past them and Laila too like he's never met anyone in this house before but is well enough acquainted with the room layout to make his way directly to bed.

  There are hugs and kisses from all of them for me, but I have to bypass most of these and instead hobble tentatively inside after my son.

  Soon I find Little Stevie sprawled across his bed, hands firmly folded across his ears, chanting an ever-shriller litany of obscure star data from Ophiochus.

  Nor does he respond to anything I do or say, till eventually I'm feeling so sick myself that I wave Laila away and just lie down on the bed next to Little Stevie, while we migrate from Ophiocus through Pegasus and on to Perseus, where I can listen to the key facts about Algol, the beautiful binary alpha star of this constellation, whose fluctuating luminescence so confused the ancients that the Arabs dubbed it 'the Devil'.

  Laila and Lulu appear several times at the door, fussing over the pair of us and insisting I get inside the covers of my bed just opposite Little Stevie. Eventually Almas too ho
vers in the doorway, frowning at Little Stevie and evidently pronouncing him way too 'uncool' in her teenage head.

  It's dusk when my mobile goes. The unlit room is as gloomy as I feel inside.

  From the other end comes a long pause, then a deep but bashful voice.

  'Brian, how are you feeling, bwana?'

  'Dismas! Or rather, Mr President!'

  Dismas chuckles and I can imagine the shy, toothy grin.

  'Not yet, Brian. We agreed on Deputy President until the forthcoming election.'

  'Well, Deputy then,' I concede. 'But President can only be a matter of time!'

  Again, Dismas laughs hesitantly:

  'I hope you are right, Brian. The people are hungry for your slices of sky!'

  Even I am forced to laugh a little at this. But it costs me in the guts to do so.

  Dismas carries on:

  'But I also called to thank you for sending me your friend Yasmiin Nassir. She is an excellent and very capable young lady, Brian. Sheikh Nassir's daughter, too. Yasmiin can be a very useful campaigner for FC Kenya at the coast, and I have promised to find her a suitable post when we win the election, as we surely shall. I know you will be happy, Brian, to think of your kichuna as a major player in the Government.'

  I'm so wrong-footed that I can only mutely echo her name:

  'Yasmiin??'

  Which makes Dismas chuckle again:

  'Yes, a truly capable young woman,' he repeats. 'And true to your instructions, one of my first acts as Deputy President was to revoke the residence permits of Victor Hanson and Gregory Aspinall-Watt. I am told they were deported last night. Their property will be confiscated too in due course.'

  'Deported?' I meekly stammer. Then suddenly this all makes sense, and now I finally realize why we have not seen Yasmiin since revolution day.

  'Deported?' I repeat mutely, then find I like the sound of that. 'Deported indeed! Good work, Yasmiin!'

  And no sooner have I uttered Yasmiin's name for the third time than I hear it repeated in the living room. And almost immediately afterwards, she bursts in.

  The phone drops from my hand in all the surprise and the battery clatters out from its case on the stone floor. Yasmiin is about to throw herself on top of me but stops just before she gets to my bed, realizing that we're still in Big Distress Mode here, even though the star data is being mumbled so softly and incoherently now that I've completely lost my reference point in the celestial chart.

  So instead of coming to me, Yasmiin rustles the folds of her long, Arab dress and sits on the edge of Little Stevie's bed, leaning across to stroke the back of his neck.

  And not for the first time recently, that's all it takes! He sits up stiffly, rubbing his eyes, then stares blankly first at Yasmiin and then at me:

  'I'm hungry, Dad,' he announces, like none of the last hour's moaning ever happened:

  'Hungry?' I answer and can't help but smile. 'Then come on, let's go to the kitchen and see what's there.'

  And what a gathering we find when we get to the living room! In the corner by the window, Guarav is swaying to and fro in the rocking chair, quaffing a beer and nibbling nuts, while Kiwi John is spread out on floor cushions next to him. Luxmi and Laila have found something in common - I'd love to know what - and are chatting on the sofa like old friends. It's the first time I've seen Luxmi in western clothes - jeans and frilly white top - and if I wasn't so sick, I guess I'd be taken by how pretty she looks this way.

  They all look up when we come in and there's a big chorus of 'Brian!', while Yasmiin marches Little Stevie to the kitchen and bangs around a whole collection of pots and pans in a praiseworthy effort to find something that is sufficiently bland and tasteless to appeal to his dietary restrictions. Soon Almas and Lulu appear with Farah from the TV room, and can't I just tell from Almas's face that the marathon man from Meru has been even poorer company than my own son in the teen lounge!

  Kiwi John thinks the only medicine I should be on is cold Tusker, so I graciously accept the bottle he pushes into my hand, sipping gingerly from the comfort of the big old leather armchair. The gas hurts my stomach and I can't take the queasiness for long, but Kiwi John's response is simply to swap the beer for a large tumbler of scotch on the rocks and who can argue with that? In my condition I really shouldn't be accepting my old mate's medicine, but soon find after a couple of sips that the uplift from the alcohol is just what I need.

  And when the others see me start to relax and my tongue begin to loosen, there's a collective relief you can feel all around the room; individual conversations that had but minutes ago susurrated stealthily in the shadows unite and form a concordant whole.

  'I'm finished with Football Kenya and with Betfair now,' Luxmi says, leaning across the table and shaking her head at me, 'Whatever the change in politics, Brian, your football betting industry just got too big to handle.'

  I hold up a hand:

  'I know, Luxmi. And don't worry! You've done more than enough already. From now on Kenyans will have to organize their own bets. Who knows, maybe a new local Kenyan Betfair franchise will open up, where locals can do their own betting and banking by mobile phone?'

  There's a lot of nodded agreement around the room at that, so I carry on:

  'But even if we're out of the betting equation, Luxmi, we have created our own website, and Little Stevie will continue to put his tips on there, won't you Stevie?' I shout over to the kitchen.

  No reply from that quarter, but soon he and Yasmiin reappear from the kitchen. Yasmiin sits on the armrest of my chair and Little Stevie on the hard chair next to her, picking at a plate of lukewarm chips, which she has placed on the coffee table in front of him:

  'But I want you to continue to operate my own account on behalf of Little Stevie here and Yasmiin. You'll do that for me, won't you, Luxmi?'

  She nods. And the room has fallen silent at this. I have alluded to the taboo. They are all uncomfortable again.

  'And he's even making selections from the Portuguese Liga now, aren't you Stevie?' I say, trying to sound jolly.

  But still there's no reply, only the steady mastication of chips at my feet.

  Then suddenly Almas saves us:

  'I'm going back to the TV room. Will you come with me, Stevie?'

  And he looks up and accepts the invitation just like that, like it was someone else who ignored this pretty teenager with nail varnish, straightened hair and cherry lipstick on his way into the house.

  Their exit draws smirks and sniggers from around the room and winks from Laila, first to me and then to Kiwi John. Meanwhile Yasmiin rubs my arm and hugs me when Little Stevie has gone, giving me a slow peck on the cheek before inexplicably wiping the lipstick smear off with a hennaed hand and chuckling as she catches Luxmi's eye.

  Furtively, the erstwhile party mood returns, spreads shoots, then propagates.

  So before long we're all humming again and I do my best to let it stay that way, surreptitiously popping a couple of my pain reliever pills when I think no one's looking. These soon make me feel woozy, but I fight the drowsiness as long as I can and am eventually rewarded by a comeback of sorts, for the taste of the whisky switches on an old Pavlovian response somewhere deep inside where the cancer hasn't been yet, and with the chat freely flowing I feel able to leave the living room and step outside to light up a cheroot, most likely my last, resting up in the old rocking chair out on the verandah before my legs give way.

  No sooner have I sat down than I hear the flymesh door open and close. It's Yasmiin. She slouches down at my feet, enfolding my waist in her grasp. Silky swathes of her dress vie with loose strands of hair to tickle my bare arms. Her head rests on my lap.

  We stay this way for some time, and despite the circumstances this feel good. Real good. I kiss the top of her head and stroke her hair; neither of us feels the need to speak, till eventually I break the silence:

  'Dismas thinks very highly of you; you've certainly made an impression there!' I tell her. 'The way he was t
alking, it sounds like you'll be a minister in the new government before too long.'

  'Maybe.'

  Yasmiin's voice is distant, like she doesn't really care about this at all, or is thinking of something altogether different:

  'And having Dismas expel Vic Hanson and Gregory Aspinall-Watt was absolutely the right thing to do. I'm glad you told him those were my instructions. It's exactly what I would have wanted, a just but restrained revenge.'

  'That's good,' Yasmiin murmurs, again sounding like she couldn't care less.

  Then:

  'It's soon, isn't it, Brian?'

  I take a long pull on the cigar and nod:

  'Tomorrow.'

  She frowns:

  'Tomorrow? Then I will come with you. And Little Stevie too.'

  'No, no! That's the whole point,' I protest weakly. 'I have to be alone when it happens, Yasmiin. Dying, I reckon, is a very private business. I want some dignity, some space. I want to do it my way, and that means being alone. Besides, Little Stevie could go into the mother of all Big Distress Modes if he was there at my side when it happened, and seeing your sweet face, Yasmiin, just before death comes, would fill me with so many regrets? it might kill me!'

  Neither of us laughs, of course. But Yasmiin does lift her head from my lap, which allows me to grab her chin.

  'There was a time, Yasmiin, just a few fleeting days, when I wanted you to become Little Stevie's wife after I died. I know that will never happen now, nor would it right for you, or for him. But there's something else you could be, something far more suitable than a wife.'

  I'm looking into her eyes now, and even in the faint light from the kitchen I can see that she's been wearing eyeliner and that it has smudged across her cheeks.

  'What's that?' she asks, throat hoarse.

  'His mother.'

  'His mother,' she repeats catatonically, her head resting against my chest as we sway back and forth. Then, she lifts her head and sits up, stroking her nails against my cheeks.

  'Little Stevie will always be my special child, Brian, even if I have ten others with someone else.'

  And that makes her cry. Softly. Like every wasted teardrop is resented. I've never seen Yasmiin so passive, so malleable before. It almost makes me wish I could die more often!

  We keep it this way a good while longer, listening to the pitter-patter of conversation from inside. But at some point a wall of weakness hits me and I wince, stopping the rocking motion abruptly. I can't take much more:

  'There's one more thing, Yasmiin. Something you mustn't argue with. I am going to say goodbye to you tonight. Here and now. Don't sleep over in this house, please. I don't want to see you in the morning or do this all over again. Tonight is it for us, Yasmiin. I've already asked Kiwi John to take you back into town later.'

  'But??'

  'No buts,' I shake my head, and this time it's me who's the active partner in all this hugging, nuzzling an ear lobe and kissing the side of her cheek. 'Tomorrow's going to be tough enough as it as. I owe it to Little Stevie to concentrate on him and him alone. No time for anyone else, Yasmiin, not even you.'

  'But if I stay I can make Little Stevie feel calm. I can help him by being here when you go.'

  Of course, that's very sensible but I'm not taking it. Instead, I sigh and just about finish the whisky tumbler without bringing it all up again:

  'Then come back after tomorrow afternoon when I'm gone. He will need you then.'

  I'm on my feet again now and we're standing nose to nose, resting our foreheads one against the other. Neither of us wants to be the first to break away and there are tears for both of us.

  But finally Yasmiin seems to have accepted what I'm staying. She pulls her head up, wipes her eyes and smiles. Right on cue, as if he had been watching through the flymesh screen, Kiwi John appears with keys in his hand. And behind him stand Luxmi and Guarav:

  'Brian we've got to go now,' Guarav announces. His voice is cracking and I can hear Luxmi stifling sobs. There's so much that we all could say, so much we all feel we should say, but none of us has the appetite.

  In the end, half a lifetime's acquaintance with Guarav is done in just one tight hug; just over a year's close working friendship with his sister, Luxmi, is done in even less, and the woman I spent forty-five years waiting to fall in love with leaves me with little more fuss than you'd expect from a long-haul terminal adieu. And really that's the way it should be: I've always found that words just muck it up when emotion is supreme.

  Now we've been through the messy stuff, they almost hurry to the cars. I stand on the verandah waving with as much energy as I can as Luxmi and Guarav leave in their father's Toyota Corolla. Kiwi John's Land Cruiser roars into life the second the Toyota leaves the compound. As he reverses and spins the big beast around, I hear the passenger window winding down.

  'Goodbye, Brian. Goodbye, my love,' Yasmiin's voice is mournful. I can hardly muster a reply.

  Then they're gone. And in a strange way I feel almost instantly relieved.

  And that perverse lightening of the soul persists the next morning, even when a brilliant burst of six-thirty sunshine probes through a gap in the shutters and suffuses the back of Little Stevie's head in a halo of light and I realize that this will be the last time I will ever wake by his side. He seems to sense my eyes on him and wakes:

  'Time for running,' he yawns, rubbing his eyes.

  'Go for it!' I smile, and am glad I can back him not to read how much emotion is pent up behind such a simple statement.

  Mercifully, it doesn't take long for he and Farah to leave. And once they've gone, I'm up and showering and sipping coffee so cheerfully, I feel as great as I ever have done on such a perfect, cloudless morning. Maybe I've recovered? You hear of miracles like this all the time: He cured himself by willpower alone! I'd better wake up Kiwi John and tell him the joyous news.

  But no sooner do I stand up than scimitar swipe of gut-ache cleaves my insides in two. In no time, I'm writhing on the wooden floor with a trickle of watery vomit drooling from the side of my mouth, and am desperately glad when Laila finds me, scoops me up, cleans me up and puts a couple of blankets around my chest.

  Little Stevie and Farah take nearly two hours to return and Little Stevie glares sullenly at me when he finds me stretched out this way.

  'Dad, what's up?' he asks morosely.

  'Go inside and have your shower and breakfast,' I tell him. 'I'll explain later.'

  And while he does that, Kiwi John is busy in the courtyard preparing the Land Cruiser and the Africa Twin for our final trip.

  By the time Little Stevie reappears and slumps down in the rocking chair opposite me on the verandah, Kiwi John is standing next to us, wiping oil-stained hands across the perspiration on his brow.

  Laila has prepared an early lunch for Kiwi John and the girls but accepts that neither Little Stevie nor I, for our differing reasons, will want any.

  So, when they go inside to eat, I sit up and call my son over. It's the moment I've been dreading all my life:

  'Stevie, I'm going on a trip, my last trip, to the place we went camping by the Nguruman Escarpment. Do you remember that night?'

  'Yes, Dad. I'll get my stuff.'

  Just like that! His response completely throws me. I've been rehearsing the speech that should follow now for months and months in my head. And every time I've run through it, I've anticipated every kind of reaction: Ultra Distress Mode, thrashing around on the floor kicking and screaming, repeating every word after me with catatonic echolalia, complete and utter breakdown. The one thing, of course, I hadn't anticipated was just this.

  'But Stevie,' I say grabbing his hand, 'I don't think that will be such a good idea. When Kiwi John brings me back from there, I won't be alive anymore.'

  'I know, Dad, you'll be dead. A dead body that doesn't move or say anything. You told me yesterday. You'll be dead, Dad, and that's it, and we'll have to bury you in the ground like we did with Auntie Rosie in Grimsby three years ago.
And the vicar tripped and nearly fell in the grave.'

  And it's all said so blandly and so matter-of-factly that even though I'm used to a lifetime of the unexpected, this time I'm completely lost for words.

  And then the laughter starts. And the tears. And soon I'm bellowing out so loudly that the whole house joins me one by one, till we're all part-roaring and part-crying in turns out here on the verandah, while I repeat time after time what Little Stevie just said. And each time I do, I hug my boy over and over again and he doesn't push me off or throw his hands around his ears. When I look up at him, there's even the faintest trace of a smile.

  So, by the time we all calm down, Little Stevie has been inside and got a small backpack together. But even now Kiwi John looks at me sceptically:

  'Are you sure he'll be OK with this?' he asks, nodding at Little Stevie.

  'Yes,' I reply, certain now that everything is going to work out OK. 'He'll be fine. Just fine.'

  And then a sudden thought occurs:

  'And I tell you what, Stevie. On the return journey, after I'm dead, you can ride the Africa Twin back here to Nairobi! How about that?'

  'Yes, Dad,' he answers softly, and only I can read through the apparent absence of emotion in his voice to decode how much this latest proposition appeals.

  And so the day I've been dreading ever since we landed in Kenya turns out to be one of the best. We sit there in the shade of the verandah, Little Stevie, Kiwi John, Laila, Lulu, Almas and I like one big family, which really we are, sipping sodas through the worst of the midday heat till the long-anticipated knock on the corrugated iron gates is heard, and Kiwi John himself leaps up to answer.

  Fingers leads the way, immaculate blue jeans and neatly pressed cream shirt completely unsuitable for the dust of Magadi where we're heading. Kevin's even worse, in what seems like some cheap grey suit your grandfather donated to Cancer Research in the eighties. Only Big Evans Majengwa, chest muscles rippling out of khaki tank top, looks fit for this trip.

  The handshakes, the hugs and the catching up take forever, and if the mood was jocular before their arrival it's positively festival spirits now; indeed, this is jollier than a wake in County Donegal, where even the corpse has slipped back to consciousness in honour of the almighty shindig itself to sink a few last pints of the black stuff with all his old mates before the peat bog reclaims an escaped prisoner.

  'You must hurry up and get to the sky, Mr Brian,' Big Evans Majengwa booms out, 'because soon, thanks to you, we will own all of it!'

  Which makes us roar even louder.

  If ever there was a moment to leave, this is it! I never thought it would turn out this way, but right now I feel entirely in the mood to get on with what must come.

  In my original plan I was going to leave the riding of the bike to Kiwi John with me as passenger, while Fingers had the driving of Kiwi John's Land Cruiser sub-contracted out to a jua kali mechanic mate of his in Langata village just up the road. But in the spirit of the moment, and especially seeing as Little Stevie will now be coming too, I decide to dress up in my leathers one last time, pop as many pain killing pills as I can manage without feeling too woozy, and after hugging Laila, Almas and Lulu in turn, kick-start the Africa Twin into life, riding out of the compound like a Viking thane to his funeral pyre.

  Kiwi John follows close behind with Little Stevie a solo companion in the passenger cabin. Fingers, Kevin and Big Evans Majengwa form the guard of honour in the open truck behind, all sporting metallic sunglasses that glint in the sun. We toot and wave and cheer and watch Almas and Lulu jumping up and down on the verandah, like I'm heading for stardom rather than oblivion, and in the vibe of the moment I yank back the throttle as hard as it will go and hurtle up the hill towards the Langata dukas faster than is sensible.

  I ease up at the junction and enjoy the feel of the sun on my face, cruising at a gentle pace all the way back to Ongata Rongai, where I have to wait up amid the habitual herds of cattle and have my boots and tyres nibbled by goats till Kiwi John's Land Cruiser catches up.

  Fingers, Kevin and Big Evans Majengwa look ready to leap out at anyone who even dreams of molesting us, but maybe it's the FC Kenya magic that's doing the trick, for we survive Ongata Rongai without any adverse interest, heading clear of this dishevelled sprawl and back on the Magadi road.

  The traffic thins along the steep undulations that cascade towards the lower slopes of the Ngong Hills. In the criss-cross winds of Baridi Corner, where the escarpment suddenly cuts away and the rift valley is opened up in limitless, sumptuous folds for as far as the eye can see, I have to rest up for a while.

  The euphoria is waning a little now and the sickness returns like a disparaged lord. I sit in the shade of a gnarled acacia, the same tree where Little Stevie and I sat down over a year ago and mucked around with some herdsboys. Little Stevie settles next to me, watching a line of red ants investigating a crevice in the gnarled acacia bark. I take a couple of deep breaths and pat his knee, while I catch my son casting a sly glance at his watch. I know what that means:

  'Who's playing?' I ask, taking as many swigs of water as I can. I must confess that today's football programme had completed slipped my mind.

  'Vittoria Settubal against Benfica.'

  'And Benfica are in great form. But have you put any money on, Stevie?'

  'No, Dad.'

  So I'm glad this has come up now, and without further ceremony I pull out my mobile and pass it over:

  'It's up to you know, Stevie. Luxmi will still run the Betfair account for you and give you money out of it whenever you or Kiwi John or Yasmiin need it. All you have to do is call Luxmi before each game and tell her what bets you want to place. Here, you try. Find her number in the address book.'

  Which he does, then passes the mobile to me, but I refuse and push it back at him:

  'No, you have to do it alone now. Talk to her!'

  'Hello Luxmi. Benfica to beat Vittoria Settubal in the Portuguese Liga at 22:30 Kenyan time tonight. Eight thousand pounds, with one hundred each on the 0-0 and 1-1 correct scores.'

  And that's it. No hellos, no goodbyes, no other conversation. But it does the job!

  It's getting late now. Sinking down towards the rift valley floor, we watch a low sun puffing its full red belly into the western sky. The breeze at this altitude mitigates a potentially potent heat to perfection.

  'Let's go,' I say to Kiwi John and the Kibera boys, who must have deemed it important to leave me alone with my son while we were sat there at the tree, and have been enjoying cigarettes and a muttered conversation of their own without the benefit of any shade.

  A dry wind stiffens as we plunge down the opposite side of the escarpment. The big Africa Twin sucks up extra energy into its carburettor with every twisting, downhill curve of tarmac, while my own energy levels deplete in direct proportion. But the upbeat curve of the day leaves me with just enough left to sample and savour for one last time the vast panoramas of dry thorn scrub that peel away from every hairpin turn, and all the way through the long, hot valley to Magadi town the same mood endures, till we stop for a water break at the police checkpoint.

  'Time of return?' the police constable asks, looking suspiciously at the motley crew in front of him. I'm almost glad there's no FC Kenya recognition here.

  'Late,' I chuckle, and wink at Kiwi John.

  Who slips a thousand shilling note into the policeman's hand:

  'Don't worry about us, mate. We'll keep to our own time.'

  'Why thank you, Good Sirs!' he salutes in astonishment at the sight of such an enormous tip. 'And may God bless you!'

  'Thanks mate,' I laugh. 'I might need that if it turns out I've been wrong all along about his lack of existence!'

  Which makes the policeman laugh, though I doubt whether he really got my drift.

  Back outside the police shack, Kiwi John grabs my arm:

  'Will you be all right riding on the stony track the other side of the lake?'

  'You bet,' I lie.
In any case, we'll soon find out.'

  Sure enough, the hard riding soon takes its toll. From here on I have to expend my last reserves of strength just to stay upright on the bike. And the frequent stops I have to make mean that the shadows are already long in front of me when we reach the Ewaso Ngiro and the two Masai moran manning this new barrier flag me down with stony-faced intent.

  But by the time I've cut the engine and let the dust settle around us, Fingers, Kevin and Big Evans Majengwa have leapt down to do the talking and all too soon the receipt book is tossed away. Instead, they're queuing to shake my hand:

  'Mr FC Kenya and the Quiet Boy!' they smile, energetically shaking both of our hands. 'It is an honour! Please to come to our land any time you like. For you, payment will not be necessary!'

  'I'll remember that when I come back,' I laugh, and I shake their hands all over again.

  Dotted here and there in gaudy colours along the track we pass an unwelcome number of tents, which I'm anxious to bypass. The going is tougher than ever on this riparian track, and several times I almost give up and get Kiwi John to take over through the dense, cloying blankets of alluvial dust that congeal into a sea of syrup where the bush has thinned out.

  But fifteen minutes of the hardest riding I can ever remember finally brings me to the spot where Little Stevie and I last camped all those months ago, when FC Kenya had just played its first game in Italy and the money that Sampdoria banked us against Livorno got the whole bandwagon rolling.

  Here, I cut the engine and wait for the wall of dust that's advancing in a straight line towards me to catch up then smother me in its folds before Little Stevie jumps out, closely followed by Kiwi John.

  And when Fingers, Kevin and Big Evans Majengwa join us on the river bank, I see that they have the two Masai moran in tow too.

  'I hope you don't mind that we brought these Masai with us,' Fingers smiles bashfully. 'They will help us to find you before the hyenas do, Mr Brian.'

  It's the first direct mention that anyone has made of what lies ahead, and is something of a mood changer. The Kibera boys' heads are downcast and they scuff up the dust with their clean shoes.

  The sun has long slipped behind the sheer escarpment on the other side of the river. I sense that I don't have long now and am suddenly in a hurry to go.

  'Well, gentleman,' I smile, 'It goes something like this: I'm going to step outside for a while and I might be quite some time!'

  They all look mystified and I'm not surprised. I was expecting the allusion to be lost on Little Stevie and the Kibera crew, but it doesn't even seem that Kiwi John has picked up on it either.

  So this is it!

  'Thank you, Mr Brian, thank you for everything,' Fingers smiles, gripping my arm. 'We will never forget you.'

  'And you are always welcome to visit us in our mansions in the sky!' Kevin adds, shaking my hand in turn.

  Big Evans Majengwa nearly saves me the trouble of a walk into the dark by all but finishing me off with a rib-crushing hug that is within an inch of being more effective than the vial of pills I've got zipped inside the pocket in my leathers.

  'And we will always look after this boy for you,' he beams, grabbing one of Little Stevie's wrists when one orbit of my son's restless shufflings brings him within range.

  'Then I know he'll be fine,' I smile.

  And now that Little Stevie is standing next to me, here comes the hardest part. Finally a lump of something harder lodges in my throat:

  'Stevie, this is it!' I say

  'This is it,' he echoes.

  'It's time to say goodbye,' I continue.

  Which again, he blandly repeats.

  So I grab his shoulders:

  'Stevie, you are the best thing that ever happened to me. And I would never have wanted you to be any different at all! I love you too much, too much for words. Always have done and always will.'

  No reply.

  So I hug him tight one final time. If my heart wasn't crushed moments ago by Big Evans Majengwa, it has been now. But despite the tragedy of the situation, I'm still glad that Little Stevie has come on this last trip with me, rather than staying back at Laila's house as I had originally planned.

  Kiwi John and I are last to embrace:

  'Have you got your pills?' he asks, quite matter of fact.

  I nod.

  'And whisky?'

  'Too clich?d,' I smile. 'This water will do. I'm heading straight up the escarpment as far as I can comfortably climb, right on up past the break in those thorn bushes,' I add, pointing across the river.

  'Then so long, mate!' he winces, patting my shoulder. 'And you know that this boy will always be safe with me.'

  Now I turn one last time towards my son and catch a brief glimpse of Kiwi John's arm around Little Stevie's shoulder before it's brushed off. Both of them turn away from me, leaving me to face the river.

  So with nothing more than a bottle of water in one hand and my leather jacket in the other, I turn away with waves and goodbyes from the Kibera crew ringing in my ears and wade in my leathers into the murky water of the Ewaso Ngiro.

  It's refreshing in a way, and though the water is warm enough to do little more than take the edge of my heat, it's a tonic all the same.

  When I reach the opposite bank I resist the temptation to take one last look back and plough on instead with squelchy feet through the gap in the thorn bush.

  After a couple of hundred yards, just where the bush clears and the ground begins to rise, I stumble into a troop of baboons. One adult male scrutinizes me closely and bares his teeth, prancing around in a wide circle as I drift away to the right, so I adjust my course to keep well away from his retinue. Maybe that's what does it, or maybe he smells what's inside me, for the old warrior instantly gives up the alarm and resumes his interest in an unappetizing mouthful of burnt grass.

  Soon I've cleared the thorn scrub and from here on it's an easy carpet of dry grass underfoot, though the gradient steepens. I'm panting heavily with every step. Waves of heavy sweating alternate with sudden pangs of chill, forcing a rest stop every two or three few paces. At each of these I nearly give up, telling myself, 'stop here' or 'this will do' so many times, I'm embarrassed to be associated with the other half of me that has to listen to all this crap!

  But a fresher breeze suddenly wafts over from the western side of the escarpment and the power to push on to the summit kicks in. So, with the soothing balm of the wind across my face, my pain eases to such a degree that a kaleidoscope of jumbled memories plays across my mind:

  Suddenly I'm back in the Kenya I knew in those hard-living days just after my brother Stevie was shot. Nights of passion with Jameela flash into consciousness, and though richly and frequently consummated, all that seems tarnished with the stain of inanity compared to what could have, but never did happen with Yasmiin.

  Next in the random juxtaposition of a feverish mind, I see Musembe's shifty grin, the bare patch on his scarred scalp and the remnant of cigarette hanging limp from a torn lip. Like the dear old conman himself, I was an irreverent and irrelevant character too back then in the long-gone days, fulminating in vain against ills that people thought risible back then, but which are now almost accepted as commonplace truths. How they laughed at me for years when I riled against the fat cat bankers and the acquisitive madness of the developed world, shouting out in-your-face warnings of what the world would look like when every peasant from Patagonia to Phnom Penh was living the American dream. Oh yes, they labelled me a Luddite and a throwback back then, but thanks to Dismas's vision hadn't I seen it all coming? Wasn't I one of the first to rail about the mushrooming populations of the third-world slums, whose dash to the free-market consumer bandwagon would see the Amazon lumbered up, processed and sold item by item on Amazon.com, and the Serengeti cleft asunder by a vast motorway, awaiting the annual migration of Toyota vehicles from one retail park on the Tanzanian side to another on the Kenyan! All that seemed so clear back then yet was so scorned at the time: no
w, it's accepted as obvious and hardly worth a couple of Tweets.

  Well maybe, just maybe, with FC Kenya I scored the ultimate winner. I was only joking there at first, honest! I only wanted to show the spivvy financiers up for what they really are and make people see what will happen when private ownership purchases the last communal resource left on Planet Earth. But what unravelled here in Kenya over the last year is more than could ever have been imagined. Who knows, maybe it will continue to catch on? At least now there's a small speck of hope.

  Next, more distant and fleeting memories spring to mind: I'm back to the years of wandering in Ethiopia and Yemen and the brief fling on the rebound which brought me the birth of my darling son. I can see his face now at every stage of evolution. As a 'workless' dad, I was able to devote every hour of every day to bringing Little Stevie up after his mother was killed. I was there for every train ride and park session with him, and even when the experts finally informed me at the age of six why he wasn't talking properly, what did that matter? Not to me at least. It was only later, years later, that doubts about what would happen to him after my own death hatched huge worry eggs at the back of my mind.

  But I'm at that stage right now, and now it's come and I'm powerless to control Little Stevie's destiny any longer, I feel strangely relaxed about leaving him. It's not just what he said to me this morning, though of course that helps. In a strange way, maybe he needs me gone! Maybe he's got it in him after all to develop as his own man.

  Which brings me to the top. And finally I can look out westwards from the this vantage point and am just in time to see the very last shards of direct sunlight peel off into the western sky, which is suffused in a deep orange glow.

  It's cool enough to put the jacket on now and I'm glad I brought it. Time to get on with my job. I had all the doses and instructions carefully explained to me by a bent doctor I left a substantial gift to in Westlands several weeks back. Without any more forethought I sink the pills one after one in slugs of warm water. Lie down with your head back, I was told, in case your body tries to throw them up. That way, if you do, you should choke on the vomit.

  Lovely thought!

  But I do lie back and close my eyes. And when I do, a strange sensation occurs. Is it the roar of this invigorating wind, blowing across my face for the last time? No, I think not. It's something else. It's a crowd! How strange to hear them all chanting and shouting up here!

  But lying back with my head against the grass, I see it all clearer than ever. The referee has just blown for a foul up front against us. It's been a tough game, one of the toughest I can remember, and there's something else about it to, something I can't quite remember. Oh yes, that's it! I follow the referee's arm, pointing to the touchline, and looking over I can see Dismas holding up my number.

  And as I wipe my face in my shirt, Brian Green's voice is crystal clear in my head, just as it is every Saturday afternoon on Radio Five Live:

  That's it for Brian Wood! He has now played his final game for FC Kenya and the crowd rises as one to applaud as Dismas Mosiro brings off his inspirational, if so often maverick, captain. And look at this, Robbie, what a lovely gesture! Both sets of players have formed a guard of honour!

  Yes, it's great to see such a loyal servant of the game get such an emotional send-off, Robbie Savage agrees. I wish my last game at Derby had ended in such a way! But for Brian Wood, it's going to be a tunnel of applause all the way from the pitch to the dugout.

  Down here at the pitch level, it's more personal and less panoramic.

  Guarav and Luxmi are first in the line, jogging up and down on the spot as they pat my back:

  'I'll make sure the Africa Twin runs perfectly for Little Stevie,' Guarav smiles.

  I nod and thank him, while Luxmi whispers in my ear:

  'And I've got everything organized on Betfair - Little Stevie has made another couple of thousand this afternoon just on Benfica!'

  I thank her warmly and move on.

  'You changed the way we play,' Kevin, Fingers and Big Evans Majengwa smile, shaking my hand in turn. And for the first time ever, Big Evans Majengwa resists the urge to thump a hollow in my shoulders and contents himself with a simple nod instead.

  There are players I can hardly remember playing with now in the middle of the line:

  'Batik, Mr Brian?' I hear Jonas from Naivasha ask speculatively, before a broad grin betrays the fact that he's only joking.

  Which was fun, but soon I have to swallow hard again, because I'm about to come up with some of my closest team-mates:

  'Brian, we will miss you so much,' Njeri smiles, kissing me full on the lips, and doesn't she look sexy in her Wolfsburg-green shirt!

  'But there's hope for Kenya yet!' Julius smiles, pulling his wife towards him and patting my shoulder.

  For my next few paces through the tunnel, Lulu, Almas and Laila kiss me each in turn, while at the end of the line stands Kiwi John, bouncing the match ball up and down in his hands.

  'So long, mate,' he smiles. 'We've had a ball!'

  And a cheer goes up from the nearby section of the crowd when they see us hug each other tight one last time.

  'And my word, doesn't this stunning new striker, Yasmiin Nassir, look a complete player, Robbie?' Alan Green continues.

  Robbie Savage laughs:

  'You can say that again, Alan! She and Brian have formed a sensational partnership since she joined the FC Kenya team!'

  'Which is why I suppose, Robbie, they are both embracing long and hard and there are tears in both players' eyes.'

  'Goodbye, Brian,' Yasmiin murmurs, stroking my cheek, and as we kiss goodbye there's another deafening roar from the crowd.

  And now it's Brian's turn to say goodbye to his son, Alan Green says to Robbie Savage, his voice reduced to a whisper. Do you think that Little Stevie Wood can ever be the player his father was?

  In many ways, he's better! Robbie Savage quips, I mean just a look at Stevie Wood's win ratio: the figures speak for themselves!

  Little Stevie is jumping up and down and looking at his boots.

  'Stevie?' I ask.

  At first there's no reply.

  'Stevie?' I repeat.

  'Dad?'

  'I'm off now, Stevie, this is it!'

  There's an eerie silence descended on the stadium and for a while all I can hear is the wind.

  Well, it would have been nice to get something more, but then I'm used to this from my son, have been all my career.

  Time to turn and go now. Dismas and the tunnel beckon.

  But suddenly, a tug on my shirt:

  'Dad? I love you, Dad, and always will!'

  And now, panting hard and sweaty, like he's just done twenty sharp miles with Farah, Little Stevie finally does look up into my eyes, and as he throws himself into my arms the roar from the crowd is so loud that at first all my son wants to do is to cover his ears, but I grab one of his hands before he can do just that, and together we give a clenched-fist salute to every corner of the ground, sending this vast and windswept stadium into delirious pandemonium.

  'Bye, Stevie,' I shout hoarsely above the din.

  'Bye, Dad,' I barely make out in all the cheering.

  And so, I leave the pitch.

  Up above me, the sky has gone dark, and don't I prefer it that way! It was nice of Dismas to bring me off that way, right into the bosom of the home faithful. All that remains for me to do is to stretch out, switch this thing off and let go.

  Goodbye everyone! And thanks for listening to my story.

  The End