by Iman Verjee
For the rest of the week, he waited for her as she slipped out onto the quiet street with her bike. And when she saw him leaning against the veranda gate, kicking a small football between his feet, she admitted to herself that she was glad to see him. She tried not to acknowledge the rush of pleasure when he looked up and seemed equally happy, waiting patiently as she cycled toward him.
He would walk beside her, run as she went faster, eventually having to stop and catch his breath, no longer able to keep up as her delighted shrieks rid the morning of its peacefulness.
But then the sun would rise up from behind the misty cover of clouds and, slowly, the other children would emerge from their houses and the two of them would lose each other. But every morning as he watched her riding toward him, Michael would quickly forget that he had been forced to watch her leave the previous day – how she had disappeared into her own circle of friends as he had turned back to the pile of dirty dishes and vegetables ready to be peeled and boiled, his heart tightening at the reminder of why he was really there.
16
Following the unjust refusal of his request for a raise, Constable Jeffery Omondi discovered a dance called Bribery. It involved several intricate steps, a willing participant, a lead and a mutual whirling, spinning and climax, which left both partners with a satisfied outcome of relief.
David stayed with him for the first day on the promise that he would receive some part of whatever exchange happened. They stationed themselves at the very same roundabout and instantly Jeffery felt his temperature rise, a hotness spreading through his body. His mother would have been disappointed to discover what he was doing, and under normal circumstances he would have been ashamed, but death had a way of putting things into perspective. Still, his arm remained paralyzed by his side; every time he tried to lift it to stop a car, it stayed stubbornly immobile.
‘If you don’t stop one soon, I’ll stop it for you,’ David snapped, growing impatient.
The next car was a trundling old Subaru, wheezing its way toward them, and Jeffery stepped out onto the road and raised a palm, having to chase the vehicle for several steps before it came to a jerking halt. He rapped on the passenger window and motioned for the driver to open the back door. As they climbed in, David rolled his eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’ Jeffery asked.
‘Wait and see. We are here for you to learn, what else?’
The driver was a Kikuyu man who seemed too young for his face. Graying hair and teeth, which though intact were stained and chipped, making him appear toothless. His clothes seemed to swallow him up and each time he moved it was with a tremble and a shake. The car had the pervasive stink of cheap alcohol and the driver constantly smacked his lips together, fiddling for a sweet in his pocket with a quivering wrist.
It was easy for Jeffery to recognize the side effects of prolonged addiction to chang’aa. A popular alcohol amongst his friends, the memories of Jeffery’s father had kept him from succumbing to its lures. It cost only ten shillings per glass and was very potent, distilled from millet, maize and sorghum. The place his father used to frequent tended to add other substances such as jet-fuel, embalming fluid or battery acid to give the drink an extra kick, and although many who enjoyed it suffered from blindness or death, the only horrific consequence of his father’s habit had been his temper.
‘Have you been drinking?’ Jeffery demanded in the car.
‘No.’
The next step was lost on the police officer. His instincts told him to pull the driver over and take the wheel. But then he remembered his mother who was getting weaker every second and he looked to David for help. The other man was looking out of the window, covering his mouth with his hand. Either he was disgusted by the stench or amused at the situation, Jeffery couldn’t tell.
‘It’s against the law to drink and drive,’ Jeffery announced to the car in general. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To pick up my employer at City Market,’ replied the driver. He, like David, seemed bored.
Jeffery tried once more. ‘We are going to take this car to the station and put you in a jail cell. You’ll have to get your employer to pay the fine. Ten thousand shillings for drunk driving.’
The driver stayed silent and turned on the ignition. He knew how to play this game, while Jeffery was still stumbling, still stammering. ‘Give me five hundred bob and I’ll let you go.’
‘I only have fifty.’ The man reached into his pocket and brought out a note that had been folded multiple times into a neat, little square. ‘For my lunch and bus fare.’
David heaved. ‘Enough of this – what do you think you’re going to get from this mzee? Look at him, seriously, Jeff, wewe ni mjinga.’ Jeffery began to climb out but David grabbed him back. ‘At least take the money.’
But his fingers were too loose – what would the man eat? How would he return home? So David took it for him, clapped the driver on the shoulder and said, ‘Thank you for chai. Move on.’
They stood in uncomfortable silence and watched the man rattle away. All Jeffery could think about was the fifty shilling note now nestled against David’s chest.
‘Rule number one,’ David said, ‘choose your car wisely. Why waste time with someone who has nothing to give you? Fifty bob can’t even buy you a hand-job from the most diseased whore on K-Street, sawa?’ He was looking at Jeffery as if he were sharing a vital piece of information, too valuable to part with. ‘What did I tell you last time? Women. And muhindi women if you can. Those ones with the fancy sunglasses and lots of jewelry. They’ll give you anything just so you’ll leave them alone.’
‘Why did you take his money?’ Jeffery asked.
‘Pesa ni pesa, no matter how little. Do you think I’m here just to pass time and become poor like you?’
They waited for the next car and as they did, David said to him, ‘Stand up straight. Who will be scared of you when you are like so? Hunched kama a hundred-year-old tortoise.’
He squinted past Jeffery. ‘Stop this one,’ he said, pointing to a navy-blue Range Rover that was speeding in and out of traffic. ‘Tell him that he’s driving too fast, acting like he owns the road, as if the president is his father and we all have to make way for him.’
This time it was easier to raise his arm to signal the car to stop. ‘Open your back door, sir,’ Jeffery shouted in order to be heard through the glass. The driver, a Kenyan boy, still in his late-teens, rolled down the passenger window and pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead.
‘What for?’ he demanded. ‘You think this is a taxi?’
Words formed but were quickly lost, drowned in Jeffery’s timidity. ‘You’re going too fast?’ he said, speaking as if it were a question.
‘So is everyone else on this road. Stop wasting my time, thinking you can intimidate me into giving you some lunch money.’
Jeffery’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. He tried to think only of his mother and not of his own humiliation.
‘ID,’ said David sternly, stepping in and holding out his hand. ‘And driver’s license.’
The driver exhaled noisily through his nose, indicating his annoyance but compliant nonetheless. He handed David the documents while Jeffery watched his fellow officer. He tried to push up his spine and stick out his gut, but unlike David he was missing the paunch. David spent a couple of minutes looking at the documents before sliding the ID card into the license booklet and closing it.
‘All in order?’ the driver smirked.
The documents in hand, David moved around the car leisurely, thumbs hooked into his belt loops. As he approached the windshield he stopped, leaned in closer to read the insurance sticker. The driver squirmed. Satisfied, David pocketed the license.
He came back to Jeffery. ‘Insurance is expired,’ he announced.
‘Not until tomorrow.’
‘Sawa, come have a look for yourself.’
‘I have my new one in the glove compartment.’
&nb
sp; ‘And yet you have not put it up.’ David held up his hand as the driver reached across to open it. ‘Too late, we are going to the police station. Let us in,’ he said, tapping at his breast pocket where he had placed the documents. Reluctantly, the driver opened the door and Jeffery followed his friend meekly, his body burning with humiliation.
As they drove, the young boy seemed to slowly shrink so that, eventually, he appeared more and more like an obnoxious teenager who had bitten off more than he could chew. As they approached Kilimani police station, David instructed him to keep going.
‘Comfortable?’ he said to Jeffery, and then to the boy, ‘Your father will be upset to know that his car is going to be impounded.’
‘What do you want?’
How could it be their fault – how could they be accused of stealing, bribing, when it was offered so easily as that?
‘Since you asked, nipe ten K.’
‘I only have two hundred bob.’
A roar in David’s throat followed by an expressive glance at the lavish watch, the gold-link bracelet. ‘Kijana wacha maneno. Five thousand and we’ll let you go and see your girlfriend. Otherwise, you go to court to face charges – perhaps tomorrow, or the day after. Perhaps after several weeks, who knows?’
The boy swerved onto the side of the road, jerking to a halt. He dug his wallet from his trouser pocket. Jeffery watched as he counted out five thousand shillings, less than half of the wad he had in the case. There it was – the solution sat right in front of him in that fold-up wallet. His mother’s life tangled up in that immature boy’s hands and how easily he parted with it, as if it meant nothing – as if it were only a few pieces of old paper to get rid of an inconvenience. Jeffery was close to snatching the entire pouch but David moved before him, replaced the driver’s documents with the money.
‘Get out, get out, why are you staring?’ David growled at Jeffery, who was finding it impossible to move.
Once the car had gone, David patted his pocket and looked happy. ‘Turning out to be a good day,’ he burped with pleasure. Then glared at Jeffery. ‘See how easy it can be?’
Back to preying on cars, pockets still empty. The sun had traveled to the middle of the sky, a spotlight burning directly downward. Soon it would set and everything would be obscured.
‘Ready for lesson number two?’
Jeffery remained silent. David had refused to give any of the money from the boy to him. ‘Why should I?’ he had asked when Jeffery had requested his share. ‘You did nothing to help. In fact, you only made it harder.’
‘I’m ready,’ Jeffery muttered.
‘Who will listen to you when you speak that way? Quiet and high, like a woman?’
‘I’m ready.’ The shout scratched his throat. Today, he wouldn’t go home empty-handed.
‘You must be on the lookout for any and all opportunities. A driver talking on the phone, a vehicle with tinted windows, speeding – when you stop the driver, always ask for the license first. You see how I did it? I kept everything in my pocket and if he wanted it back, he had to let me into his vehicle, sawa? Much easier to talk when you’re inside the car.’
‘What if he refuses to listen to me?’
‘You go around the car and you look. You check the insurance, you gonga-gonga the tires and tell him that they’re worn out. If all else fails, tell him that it looks like he has a lot of money and that the Kenyan police salary is very, very bad.’ Using his tongue to pry out a two-day-old piece of chicken, David chewed down on it thoughtfully. ‘That one works very well.’
Another car was coming toward them – a sleek, forest-green convertible – behind the wheel an impressively groomed Indian woman adorned in jewelry, shiny pinpoints of light at her ears and fingers.
‘See that one?’ David pointed.
‘Yes.’
‘I told you, you are the one leading, sindiyo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now this lady here.’ David flicked up his eyebrows. ‘Let’s watch her shake, shake. These muhindis really know how to dance.’
17
Tag put his plan into motion following a soccer game. Leena was lying in the shade of a tree, broken rays of sunlight playing behind her eyelids. The muscles in her thighs and shoulders were just beginning to ease and her soles burned – the effort she had used in running gathered at their centers, causing her toes to twitch and spasm pleasantly. Kicking off her sneakers, she used them as a pillow. Jai and Michael were discussing the validity of the last goal in the game – low, serious tones that lent a soothing background to her tired musings.
When the commotion began in one of the houses, an occasional bursting shout followed by a door slamming, she was too drained to think anything of it. It was only when Michael and Jai fell quiet and the voices came closer that she raised herself up and forced her eyes to focus.
‘Hey, kharia!’ Tag marched toward them, followed by a group of boys. ‘I want my money back.’ He was such a skillful actor that for a moment, in her distraction, even Leena believed him.
‘What money?’ Despite the unpleasant shock that Tag’s fury had thrown upon them, Michael’s voice remained calm and steady.
‘I had two hundred shillings in my pocket this morning and now it’s gone.’
‘Have you checked the grass? Maybe it fell out while you were playing.’
‘I don’t have to look. I know you took it.’
‘And how do you know that?’ Jai stood up. He was taller than Tag, bigger too, and he clenched his hands into fists, advancing on the boy.
‘Who else would have taken it?’ Tag gestured to the boys surrounding him.
‘I could have. Why aren’t you accusing me?’
A shadow of irritation crossed Tag’s face. ‘Because nothing has ever been stolen until he got here!’ he said, pointing at Michael and then turning to Leena. ‘You saw him do it, didn’t you?’
She had told him not to include her. She had promised to remain silent – not tell anyone what he was planning – but that she didn’t want a direct part in it. Now, everyone was watching her expectantly, their faces telling her that her answer was far more important than a simple yes or no. It would be a declaration: an act of drawing her line in the hardening mud and choosing a side.
‘I don’t want to get in the middle of anything,’ she mumbled, satisfied with the half-way point she had established.
Tag’s voice rose. ‘Either you saw him or you didn’t.’
Michael came to stand in front of her. He talked slowly, trying to arrange his thoughts. ‘I’m sorry you lost your money but I didn’t take it.’ Being accused in this manner filled Michael with a new kind of resentment – one that was aggressive and all-encompassing, reminiscent of his grandmother’s own bitterness.
Tag sneered. ‘You must feel really bad when you come here, seeing us live the way we do and then having to go back to your mud hut or slum, where you have no electricity and obviously no water, because you stink like proper shit.’ The words hit Michael like a physical assault – squeezing his throat shut. ‘So I understand that you saw some money and took it to buy yourself a soda or something but it’s mine and I want it back.’
And while the group of boys whom he had just played alongside turned against him one by one, sniggering at his expense, all Michael could do was sniff the air around him and glance quickly at Leena, hoping she didn’t feel the same way.
‘Go away, Tag,’ Jai warned, grabbing the boy’s arm and shoving him backward. ‘When you find your money, come back and apologize.’
‘He’s going to give me back my two hundred shillings or else I’ll make sure everyone knows what happened.’ The damage done, Tag relented, receding back to his house.
The three of them stood in a semicircle and watched him go. Leena dug her toe into the dirt and twisted her ankle, creating a hollow. Michael was the first to speak. His voice was stiffer than she had ever heard it.
‘Are you going to ask me if I took it?’
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br /> ‘I know you didn’t,’ Jai replied.
‘What about you?’ Michael turned to Leena.
Her foot refused to stop moving, reaching down to a lost root, she had dug so far in her guilt. Picking sides was not as easy as it used to be and she found herself in an unexpected, messy middle. ‘He stole my marble once,’ she offered, and when the two of them laughed, she did too, pleased to have made them happy.
That evening, Michael and Angela were apprehended at the Kohlis’ doorstep by Tag and his mother. A large woman, she wore a mint-green sari with arabesques in yellow and pearl and a low-cut blouse revealing wrinkled breasts. She moved in quick, conquering strides and glared at them through the ashy darkness.
‘You wait here,’ she ordered, banging on the door with a closed fist. ‘Pooja!’ she called up at the window. ‘It’s me, Harinder. Mane waat karvi che.’
‘Is something the matter?’ Angela stepped hesitantly forward.
‘Keep quiet.’ Harinder spun quickly, shaking her finger. ‘Like you don’t know what your son did.’ As she continued to rap-rap against the door, Angela turned to Michael.
‘What is she talking about?’ She addressed him in Kikuyu.
‘No speaking in your funny language! You think I don’t understand you?’
Michael ignored Harinder and replied to his mother. ‘I didn’t do it.’ But she was unable to ask him what he was referring to because Pooja had already pulled open the door. She saw the furious woman at her doorstep and, startled, stepped back slightly.
‘What’s all the banging for?’
At the ruckus, Jai and Leena slipped past their mother and came to stand outside.
‘You two, wait inside,’ Pooja instructed, but they ignored her. Her daughter had been acting odd all evening. Secretive, unable to sit still, jumping at the slightest noise. Before Raj had left for his karoga he had told his wife that she was overreacting but, at the sight of Harinder, Pooja knew something had happened.
‘Your servant’s boy has stolen Tag’s money,’ Harinder announced loudly.