Nairobi Noir

by Peter Kimani

  They had been close friends growing up, even though Ahmed was five years younger than Fawzia. He was born on the road between Liboi, a town on the Kenya-Somalia border and the Dadaab refugee camp. A Médecins Sans Frontières doctor assisted in his delivery. The doctor was part of a refugee rescue mission after a resurgence of conflict in Somalia in July 2006. Ethiopian troops, sponsored by the United States, had entered Somalia to buttress the Transitional Federal Government (TFG) in Baidoa. Sheik Hassan Dahir Aweys, then leader of the Islamic Courts Union (ICU), declared war against Ethiopia and forced civilians to join the bloody conflict. Thousands fled to neighboring countries, especially Kenya, which was already hosting over four hundred thousand refugees at the time. Fawzia’s family was among the hundreds of refugees that arrived at Dadaab on July 29 of that year.

  They had grown up in the camp, playing shax and Layli Goobalay. Sometimes people thought they were twins as they were always together. As teenagers, they discovered they had different dreams: Fawzia wanted to be an entrepreneur and Ahmed wanted to be a doctor. Fawzia did not like history and often quoted Thomas Jeffeson: “I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past.” She was not proud of her conflict-ridden nation’s history, or her people’s. Ahmed, on the other hand, believed like Marcus Garvey that “a people without the knowledge of their past history, origin, and culture is like a tree without roots.” So he read about Somalia, the land of his fathers, and about Kenya, his adopted motherland. It is not a wonder then that when Fawzia invited him to Eastleigh, he—the history buff—wrote to her in response:

  My dear walaashaa,

  You say that you don’t like the past, yet you are living in a place that reflects where our fathers came from. Eastleigh is referred to as “Little Mogadishu” because 90% of the people who live there are Somalis. And doesn’t that place remind you of the stories that mother used to tell us? Of mosques, of bazaars, of women dressed in hijabs, of orange-bearded men spitting on the streets during Ramadan? Doesn’t the call to prayer, doesn’t the gathering of faithfuls for salat, remind you of home—the home we may never see?

  I know you don’t like history lessons, but I have to share this. When you invited me, I decided to research the place I would be moving to. Guess what I learned? It was not always called Eastleigh. In the late 1900s, it was divided into Nairobi East and Egerton Estate demarcated as a “whites only” zone. The original owners were European and South African investors who made very limited developments in the area. Egerton was blandly structured, with streets named after important colonial personalities such as the first Nairobi superintendent, James Ainsworth. Nairobi East was also unexcitingly organized in a grid with streets intersecting numbered avenues. Those are the same vibrant streets you see today.

  It was not until 1921 that the colonial government integrated the two suburbs into one. Having realized that few Europeans wanted to settle in the area, the colonial government opened it up to Asians. When Allidina Visram, a rich Indian trader, moved into the area, he made substantial investments that spruced it up, and before long Eastleigh began to be referred to as “Little India,” evidenced by still-existing street names like Moghul Lane and Saurashtra and Ganges roads. You thought we were the first ones there, eh?

  Soon after Independence, Asians began to leave and Kenyans—most of whom had been living in the area unofficially despite the segregation—began to buy plots and sections in Eastleigh. Most European and Indian street names were removed. Now we, the Somalis, are the kings of Eastleigh. From the look of things, we are here to stay and to expand. Soon, Father’s shop will be a full-blown mall. And you, with your business acumen, will run things after he is gone.

  So, would I like to come to Eastleigh? Hell yes! I can’t wait to walk on those dirty streets and to jump over the potholes. I can’t wait to hear the businessmen and women calling the customers: Yimaadaan oo iibsadaan! It will give me a sense of home, of how Mogadishu, the real Mogadishu, used to be, or I dream will be.

  See you next month!

  Your favorite walaalkiis,

  Ahmed

  O Ahmed! She cried at the memory of him. Of how fun it was to have him living with her as he attended Eastleigh High School and later the University of Nairobi. Of his impromptu history lessons. Of his innocence and playfulness. It was just her now. And her father. She grieved for him, for his fragile heart that had lost a wife and three sons. Two had died in a tragic car accident on the Garissa-Nairobi highway. The last born had just been murdered by the Kenyan police. Somalis generally believe that life and death are in the hands of Allah and therefore the cause of Ahmed’s death was “by God’s will,” but Marian refused to accept it as such. Ahmed’s death was by human hands and she vowed to avenge him.

  * * *

  When Fawzia heard that a news van had been spotted near Madina Mall, she took a boda boda from Abdiwalla’s food kiosk where she had been getting information from Fartun on Ahmed’s death and instructed the driver to drive like the wind. None of the few passersby were willing to be interviewed so Fawzia volunteered on condition that her face would be blurred on TV. The minute the camera was pointed at her, she started like a magpie. She did not even wait for a prompt from the reporter. She had already prepared what to say.

  “You want to know about what’s going on? I will tell you. After the Kenyan government ordered the UNHCR to stop registering urban refugees and asylum seekers and for all urban refugees to move to the Dadaab and Kakuma refugee camps, the harassment of Somali refugees intensified. Even when some human rights groups fought for refugees, even after the court blocked the government strategy—albeit temporarily—it did not stop the police from harassing us, especially those living here in Eastleigh.”

  “Are all refugees being harassed or it is just Somalis?” asked the reporter.

  “Mostly Somalis. In this day and age, being Somali is a crime. They ask you for your ID, but even if you have the necessary documents, they still arrest you. They pack you into the police vehicles and take you to Pangani where they grill you for hours, calling you a terrorist. If you are a businessperson, they call you an al-Shabaab financier. If you don’t bribe them, they bring you to Kasarani for three days for further screening. Some people disappear, especially young men, or reappear dead, with torture marks.”

  “Are you claiming that the police are brutalizing young men?”

  “Jijazie! Must I cook and chew the food for you?”

  The reporter looked like he wanted to crawl and hide under the camera. But then he just smiled and went on: “What happens if one doesn’t have an ID?”

  “If you don’t have an ID, and you claim that you are a refugee, they force you to go to Dadaab. Have you ever been to the camp?”

  The whole crew shook their heads. The interviewee had become the interviewer.

  “Uuumm . . .” the reporter started, trying to regain control.

  “Let me tell you, Dadaab is a hellhole. It is already overcrowded and yet they want refugees living in towns to go there and congest it further. It is like adding stew to an overflowing pot.”

  “Are you a refugee yourself?” asked the reporter.

  Fawzia looked at him with contempt. “Kwa nini? Do you ask so that you can arrest me too? So I look like a Somali, eh? You people from bara, you see a woman in a hijab, and immediately you assume they are from Somalia. Ptttt!” She spat on the ground. “You are just like the police. This interview is over!” She turned to go.

  “One more thing, madam,” the reporter appealed. “How do you think all this will affect the economy of Eastleigh?”

  “Look around. How many businesses are open right now? How many people do you see out shopping?”

  The camera panned around to show the empty streets.

  “People are withdrawing money from the banks, closing their businesses, going back to Somalia, or to Britain for those who have relatives there. People are leaving.”

  And indeed, the Eastleigh buzz and vibrancy which were usually cr
eated by the thousands of customers who come from all over East Africa and the Middle East crisscrossing the narrow dirty streets to buy clothes, curtains, carpets, electronics, and jewelry in the huge malls and wholesale shops nuzzled between colossal hotels and lodges were now greatly dimmed.

  * * *

  Ahmed was dead, but Eastleigh’s avenues and streets were full of his steps.

  See! That is Muratina Street, formerly called Ainsworth. Remember I e-mailed you about it? Did you know that muratina is home brew? The Kikuyu used to believe it was medicinal. He would point at every street and give its history. Everywhere she went, Fawzia heard him. The air echoed his voice and laughter over the heckling of the remnant merchants and the chaotic traffic. She did not know whether to be glad or sad about seeing and hearing him everywhere.

  A week after Ahmed’s burial, Fawzia was at the halal market when she bumped into a young man.

  “Waan ka xumahay! I am very sorry,” she said. The man crouched to pick up the mangoes that had fallen when they’d collided.

  “No problem, Madam Fawzia.”

  “Do I know you?” She squinted her eyes to look at him more closely. She had definitely seen him somewhere. Not once but twice. Near Amina’s kiosk where she bought her spinach and sukumawiki, and at the Pumwani bus station.

  “I cannot tell you my name. But I am here to help you.”

  “I don’t understand. Help me how? And why?”

  The young man finished gathering the mangoes and stood up.

  “I raaca.” Follow me. He whispered, “We must avenge Ahmed.”

  To follow or not to follow? Her instincts said run, but curiosity won. She walked behind him, watching his nonchalant steps with unmasked interest. He didn’t glance back to see if she was coming or not, but when they approached the Olympic shopping center, he stopped and waited for her to catch up and walked beside her. Fawzia was glad that not many people knew her here; otherwise they would have wondered who it was she was walking with. To anyone who didn’t know her, the stranger beside her would look like her protective brother. They stopped at a food kiosk and he ordered soda for both of them.

  “A Fanta Orange for my sister and a Sprite for me. Anything else for you, abaayo?”

  She shook her head.

  They sipped their drinks in silence. Finally, she could no longer take it and the questions came out in bursts: “Who are you? How do you know Ahmed? Why do you want to help me avenge him? And how do you intend to do that—what’s in it for you?”

  He was not at all uneasy with the barrage of questions. He continued to sip his soda while he observed the passersby. “I am a soldier. I am a gaajo. A sword. I pierce the heart of the Kafir.”

  Fawzia felt dizzy with fear and terror. She clutched the cold soda bottle so tightly that her fingers went numb. Right in front of her was an al-Shabaab soldier, the most feared terrorist group in East Africa. And he was offering to avenge Ahmed. Why? Was Ahmed part of them? Were the police correct in calling her sweet, nonconniving brother a terrorist?

  “No, he was not. Your brother was not one of us.”

  He can read my mind! she thought to herself.

  “Let me expain. Why are we here? While our main objective is to overthrow the Western-backed government in Somalia and make our motherland an Islamic state, and to be recognized as having made significant contributions toward revitalizing the global Islamic caliphate, we also want to punish the Kafir. We have watched for a while now as our people are ill-treated in this land. And while we are grateful that many have found a home here, we are also infuriated that they want us to pay with our blood. Don’t you think that kindness should be extended without punishment? Why do you think our rights are being violated by the very people who should be safeguarding them? Because Kenyan politics and general worldview are viciously controlled by a Christian—a Kafir philosophy—that is antagonistic to Islam, the true religion. And Kenya is a ripe ground for our wrath. They have agitated us and our people, but above all, corruption has paved the way for us to establish ourselves and spread our roots.

  “About Ahmed, we had not yet approached him, but he was a perfect candidate for our hijra recruitment because of his medical training, though I suspect he would have hesitated. He was too fascinated with this nation—its history and future—for our liking. Yet we still want to avenge his death. You don’t have to be part of us for us to support you. You have the motive, we have the means.

  “You don’t have to answer now. Go home, think about it. If you decide not to utilize us, no problem. You will never see us again, or anyone affiliated with us. However, you will be in our good books if you say yes. What do say you? Will you go home and think about it?”

  She nodded, not in agreement, but in fear.

  “I will contact you in a week.”

  “How?”

  “I will find you. I am trained to find you.”

  * * *

  On the massage table was Nairobi County Deputy Police Commandant Humphrey Ambayo. He had been delivered to her by a beautiful woman who Fawzia had never met. The woman’s head was not covered and she was dressed provocatively. She must be one of them, Fawzia thought. Only four months after the initial contact with the young man, the object of her bitterness and hate was on her table, lured there by a stranger who the commandant knew as Malaika, a “masseuse” in Fawzia’s spa.

  “Mkubwa, boss, just relax . . .” Malaika cooed at the big-bellied man.

  “You know, I am not in the business of being touched by hands other than my wife’s,” Commandant Ambayo responded with a nervous laugh.

  “So you are a massage virgin?” she asked in feigned pleasantness.

  “Yeah.” He laughed again. “But I am glad to be breaking that virginity with you. In fact, I would not mind breaking your real virginity.” The commandant rose from the table and sat upright, his belly folds cascading like a judge’s wig.

  “We will see, sweetheart. It depends on many things. Like how fat your wallet is, and how willing you are to share its contents with a poor girl like me.”

  “My wallet will be as fat as you want it to be.” He spread his body again on the table, facing down, and waited for her soft hands.

  “This will be a one-hour massage. I will start with a pinda routine which involves the use of heated plant pouches, sort of bean bags to relax you.”

  “Hope you are not planning to burn my nice skin.”

  “Nope. Actually, there will be no skin irritation. The bags will defuse any negative energy that is often the cause of health issues. Your stress levels will go down. The plant scents will not only cleanse you through the skin but the nose as well.”

  “Great! Let’s do this.”

  “I will also light a candle that will melt and turn into a scented oil that I will apply on your body, and then give you a massage inspired by Swahili techniques. I will finish with a face massage.”

  “Quit talking and just do it! I can’t wait any longer.”

  “Okay, big boss.” She draped the warm towel over his derriere, dimmed the lights, and began the massage. Over the soft music, Malaika whispered: “You are still tense. Maybe we should have a conversation as I do this so that you can relax your muscles.”

  “Okay. We can talk about a clande visit to Naivasha, just me and you.”

  “Or we could just talk about your work. I saw you on Citizen News talking about the antiterror swoop in Eastleigh. You look so handsome, so confident, on TV.”

  Commandant Ambayo blushed at the compliments.

  “These Somalis are all terrorists! They should be killed or deported,” she added with contrived annoyance.

  “Aki! As the head of this operation, I show no mercy. My troops have been working day and night to flush out these animals.”

  “How do you know which ones are innocent and which are not?”

  “All of them are guilty. If they are not terrorists, they are sympathizers or financiers.”

  “What about refugees and Somali-Kenyans?”<
br />
  “If someone is a refugee, they should be at a refugee camp. Those insisting on living in the city have money. That is why I ensure they pay for their stay. I collect rent from them every week. Even Kenyans of Somali origin. Have you been to Eastleigh? They own such huge malls. These Somalis have lots of money and we all know they don’t pay taxes. I just want a share. I am Nairobi’s landlord, I am their Caesar.” He chuckled at his own brilliance.

  “Good for you! You deserve that share.”

  “You are my kind of girl. You understand how this country works. People say we are corrupt, but in essence, we are just taking what should be ours.”

  She wanted to snap his neck and kill him right then. Instead, she rubbed her fingers to control the anger and massaged the small of his neck. She had to be patient. She was instructed not to kill him—that was not her task.

  “This feels really good.”

  “Perfect. That’s what I want to hear. Your muscles have relaxed. No more talking now. If you can, try to sleep”

  After that, she did not break contact with his body, not even to change position or get more oil from the candles. Keeping a steady rhythm was important. She wanted to create a hypnotic effect, and this worked before long. The commandant was soon snoring serenely.

  * * *

  When he awoke, the commandant was tied to a metal chair with nylon ropes. He was completely naked, as he had been on the massage table. Was this part of lovemaking? He had heard of erotic practices which involved dominance, submission, bondage, and even sadomasochism. He was willing to explore this new frontier, so long as it was with Malaika. Just thinking of her lips, of her musical voice, of her hair which flowed like a mami wata’s, of her curvy hips, made him shake with anticipation.