Nairobi Noir

by Peter Kimani

  “Tell me about Raage.”

  “What is there to say? He was a Somali refugee. Grew up in Mogadishu and then fled with his family to Kenya in 1992. His father was killed in Mogadishu at the start of the civil war. His mother raised four children by herself. He was the oldest. He ran away from the Dadaab refugee camp to Nairobi. We met through my work with the refugee agency. A self-made, proud man. Died of asthma partly because no hospital in Nairobi would admit a Somali man without an ID.”

  “Do you blame yourself for his death?”

  The question took Anamika by surprise. “No. What do you mean?”

  “I mean here you are working for a refugee agency, and you could not do anything for this particular refugee. Perhaps you feel guilty?”

  “He didn’t want to be helped. He was too proud. He wanted to live in Kenya, but Kenya does not issue citizenship to Somali refugees. So what could I do?”

  “Did Raage ever ask for your help?”

  “No, and I don’t know where you are going with this line of questioning.”

  “It is clear to me that Raage’s death was a turning point for you. I am just trying to see if there is any connection between his death and . . .” she paused, “your—your own feelings of . . . worthlessness.”

  The clock on the wall behind Dr. Manji’s desk seemed to be ticking louder. Anamika wondered what she had said that made the good doctor believe that she felt worthless.

  “I do not feel worthless,” she stated firmly. “I’m just having a rough time right now dealing with Raage’s death.”

  Then, quite unexpectedly, tears begun soaking Anamika’s cheeks. She reached for the Velvex, feeling slightly embarrassed about crying in front of a near stranger. Her sobs sounded like a strangled wail.

  Dr. Manji noticed that the teardrops were drenching Anamika’s neck and soaking her white silk shirt.

  Then, the Eureka! moment. In psychotherapy, they call it a breakthrough. It occurred to Dr. Manji that Anamika was not mourning Raage as much as she was mourning her own demise, many years ago in Parklands, where talk of food had replaced meaningful conversation, and where trapped fireflies and tadpoles came to die. She was grieving the loss of home, just like Raage, a home whose memories now lay buried in the foundation of a sterile office block in Parklands and in a heap of blood-soaked rubble in Mogadishu.

  The clock announced that it was five p.m. The session had ended. Dr. Manji closed her notebook, looked up at Anamika, and smiled.

  PART III

  The Herders

  BELONGING

  by J.E. Sibi-Okumu

  Westlands

  If the robbery involving the Haywoods had been an inside job, the common analysis in such circumstances, then the two prime suspects lacked motives. Both were insiders, as they lived on the Haywood compound, in the secured domestic servants’ quarters. These comprised two separate rooms, each with space enough to fit a bed, a gas cooker, and a few other personal belongings, stacked up to make movement possible. As for amenities, the occupants shared a long-drop toilet as well as a space to have a cold shower. In the enclosed yard, there was a concrete sink for washing laundry by hand.

  In one of the rooms lived Hannah, the house help. That was the politically correct term, which had replaced house servant and house maid. Hannah was a family institution, having been with the Haywoods from two years after they got married; long enough to have played a significant part in raising their son and two daughters, now adults and parents themselves. Hannah had grown-up children of her own but her husband had died.

  In the other room lived Dixon, the gardener, a young man of twenty-three, who had taken over the job from his own father after his retirement.

  There were two regular outsiders. One was Muthoni the vegetable lady, or “Mama Mboga,” who came by once a week to offer a choice of cabbages, onions, tomatoes, and especially sukuma wiki, the kale that did, indeed, “push the week along” when money was tight. She carried her offerings in a heavy bundle strapped to her forehead and supported on her back. The other was Enock, the night watchman. He had been the mainstay on the compound for the last four years, only relieved during weekends, every fortnight. Should the need arise he could call for unarmed reinforcement from his firm by pressing one of two panic buttons strategically positioned at opposite corners of the main house, after which a support vehicle was guaranteed to arrive within minutes. The Haywoods had two buttons inside the house as well. Security was an issue.

  The Haywoods lived in Westlands, described alongside Muthaiga, Karen, Langata, and Lavington as one of Nairobi’s earliest upmarket and multiracial, “leafy” suburbs.

  Westlands rarely drew attention to itself. Every once in a while, an incident worthy of public interest did occur there. Sometimes there was agitation within Deep Sea, the slum or “informal settlement,” on its periphery. Either accident or arson would set its highly flammable dwellings and kiosks ablaze, with vermilion flames visible from a distance and thick smoke billowing up to the sky. But Deep Sea had a capacity to rebuild itself within months.

  Sometimes there was a concerted push to get rid of chokoras, who were ruining the look of the area through their unkemptness, their glue-sniffing, and their begging.

  Sometimes there would be gridlocked traffic jams because major arteries had been sealed off to accommodate the arrival or departure of a visiting head of state.

  The name Westlands could bring back disturbing memories of Professor Wangari Maathai’s fight to save the Karura Forest, also on its periphery. Or it could call to mind Westgate, Kenya’s own 9/11-style experience when, in September 2013, a late-morning raid on a shopping mall of that name had left more than sixty people dead.

  Richard and Felicity Haywood were Kenya Cowboys, or KCs, that is to say Kenyans of mainly British origin. They still worked as partners in their own accounting firm in central Westlands and had a reputation for philanthropy. They made it clear to every guard who was posted to them that they were against the idea of their home being some sort of no-entry military zone. Everyone was welcome, they insisted, without protracted interrogation. That was how human beings were meant to live, they believed. And that was why they did not consider the added expense of taking on a day guard. In the daytime, their main metal gate remained open.

  On the night in question, a Wednesday, Enock was on duty. The Haywoods were always reassured by his trusty presence. Enock, a married man in his late thirties whose young family lived away from him in a village in Ukambani, rented a tiny mud-walled room in Deep Sea. He would walk to work every evening, to begin around six. It took him about half an hour to get to the Haywoods’. For the past year or so, a bypass under construction had cut right through Deep Sea, branching off from the Limuru Road to merge into Ring Road, Westlands, there from colonial days, which was now to be expanded into a dual carriageway. Just past the Shiv Temple, Enock would turn right onto Eldama Raveen Road, signposted ahead of him by a city council painter who had not known how to spell ravine properly. He would go past the Mystique Restaurant, famous for its koroga or self-cooking option for patrons. On either side of him would be the homes of well-to-do local and expatriate Africans, Asians, and Europeans. It had not always been thus, for in pre-Independence times, Westlands had been a segregated whites-only section of Nairobi. The Haywoods lived a short distance from the West Wood Hotel and the About Thyme Restaurant, both toward the end of the road. Enock always carried his uniform with him and changed in the DSQ (domestic servants’ quarters) shower room. Without it, he held no menace, being of very slight build. But once he put it on, he looked very much the part.

  At around seven thirty, Enock registered headlights at the gate. He let himself out through a side opening. The car was a white four-wheel drive. Two men were sitting in front.

  “Habari? Can I assist you?” Enock asked.

  “Yes. We have come to see Mr. and Mrs. Haywood,” the driver explained. He spoke in a deep baritone.

  “You are from where? You have not been here
before,” Enock challenged.

  “Yes, we have,” the driver answered. “You were not here. Mr. Haywood used to be our teacher. We have come to take him and Mama out for dinner. Mr. Juma is my name. And this is Mr. Kizito. You can tell them that.”

  Kizito leaned over to be more visible, smiled at Enock, and cupped his hands together as if in supplication, a sign of humble greeting.

  “That’s okay, sah!” Enock accepted. He went back to open the whole gate. Normally, he would have thought twice about letting the two men in without first going to seek confirmation, because the various races usually kept to themselves when it came to socializing. But the Haywoods were different. All sorts of people came to visit them regularly. And from the way Juma spoke English it was evident that he was a very high-class man. And he had identified himself and his companion, very openly.

  Enock let the car drive in and closed the gate after it. The car continued along the cobblestones then made several turns to face the gate before stopping. The two men got out. They were dressed in dark suits and red and blue ties. Juma was the much taller of the two. He looked like a bouncer. Kizito was not as huge.

  Enock walked up to the car. “You know the way?”

  “Ndio!” Juma declared. Up to this point, Kizito had said nothing.

  “Sawa,” Enock said, and walked back to his shelter beside the main gate.

  * * *

  Juma and Kizito were glad that things were going so well. There was an alternative plan if the guard behaved differently. Juma went ahead of Kizito.

  The Haywoods’ house was built on one acre of land whose lower boundary was marked by the Mathare River, once notable for its clear waters but nowadays more for the plastic containers that bobbed along it. The Haywoods’ property was on an incline. The DSQ and garage were at the driveway level but to get to the Haywoods’ house and its surrounding garden, Juma and Kizito had to walk down a series of steps, introduced by a wooden barrier. Once they had gone past it, Caesar, a black Labrador and one of the household pets, ran up to them. He let out a growl, followed by some squeaky barks, then came up to smell them and leap at their trousers. Juma kicked Caesar out of the way and the dog yelped. The two men walked confidently to the front door, which was behind a padlocked grille. Juma rang the bell. Once, only. About half a minute later, a key turned.

  Haywood opened the door and found himself face to face with two unfamiliar men. The taller one was pointing a handgun at him.

  Juma sized him up. Haywood looked taller than he actually was because he stood so upright. He had the physique of a young man and only his graying hair and beard revealed his age.

  “Mr. Richard Haywood, I presume,” Juma said knowingly. “Open!”

  Haywood did as he was told. Taking another key, he first opened the padlock, then the security grille, and stepped back diffidently to let the two men in.

  “Give me the keys!” Juma ordered. He locked up and kept the keys.

  * * *

  Felicity Haywood showed surprise when her husband came in with two unfamiliar African men. She was sitting on a scarlet-red sofa reading a novel, but she stood up immediately, as if to acknowledge the entry of superiors. Bach’s cello suites, interpreted by Casals, were playing soothingly but unobtrusively from a CD. Felicity had auburn hair that was tied in a bun and she was wearing dark-rimmed spectacles. Dido, the cat, was a silent onlooker, lying in a basket on a drinks cabinet.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Haywood,” Juma said. “I have a gun.” The weapon was not visible in its belt holster covered by his coat. “And my friend has one too. Don’t do anything stupid. Sasa, hand over your cell phones.”

  Haywood’s mobile was in his pocket. His wife’s was in her handbag, on a side table. Juma gave them to Kizito, who switched them off before placing them in the side pocket of his suit.

  “May we sit down, madam?” Kizito asked, speaking for the first time.

  “Yes. Do sit down.” Felicity was trying hard to hide her fear, calling to mind what she had often heard: that in these situations it was best to keep the other people talking and get them to relax.

  “Thank you,” said Kizito. “Do join us!”

  Soon they were all seated, Richard and Felicity beside each other on the sofa and the two strangers in armchairs, opposite them.

  “Very good. They call me Juma. And this is Kizito.”

  “And you, Mr. and Mrs. Haywood, are fellow Kenyans,” interjected Kizito. “That makes me very happy. So rest assured: we will not hurt you. Unless, of course, you make us.” His voice was higher-pitched than Juma’s and he spoke very deliberately, like a politician addressing gullible wananchi. “When did you become Kenyans?” he asked.

  “We were both born here,” Haywood responded. “My wife and I are third-generation.”

  “Ah! The children of our colonial masters?” Kizito said.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “And where did you go to school?”

  “The Prince of Wales, now Nairobi School,” Haywood answered.

  “What a privilege,” Kizito said. “But our past is past. We are now in the same boat. Except that those whose grandfathers served the wishes of your forebears have now taken over. But they are worse than the white man. Now, it is the turn of the sons and daughters of home guards to oppress the sons and daughters of freedom fighters. We must not forget our history. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Haywood?”

  “I have no great interest in politics.”

  “Oh, but you must! You must! Everything in life is political,” Kizito rejoined.

  “Kizito!” Juma cut in. “That’s enough! Wacha maneno!”

  “Don’t worry,” Kizito countered, “there’s nothing wrong with getting to know each other a little better.”

  Juma looked quickly at his watch.

  “Mrs. Haywood . . . Felicity, if I may,” Kizito went on, “you haven’t said a word. Where did you go to school?”

  “My parents were farmers,” Felicity proffered. “So, I first went to the Hill School, Eldoret, and then I boarded at Kenya High.”

  “Ah! The Boma! The enclosure for beautiful females like yourself. What a privilege for you too, Felicity!” Kizito said. “Unlike you, the two of us went to maize-and-beans schools. But I hope that our roots do not betray us?”

  “No, not at all,” Felicity quickly replied. “You both speak very good English.”

  “Count me out!” Juma protested. “I am a secondary school dropout!”

  “Do you speak Kiswahili?” Kizito asked.

  “Not as well as we should,” Haywood said. “We were never taught it at school.”

  “What about you?” Kizito asked Felicity.

  “Kidogo,” she answered.

  “Kidogo? A little is not enough,” Kizito scolded. “Look at the effort I have made to try to master your language. I have a degree in English literature. But it has done nothing to help me to find a job. Or at least a proper job, which could allow me to live like you. In a house like yours, one day. So, much against my will, in order to survive, I have ended up in your living room. Anyway, like I said, there’s nothing wrong with getting to know each other a bit. It would be nice to have a cup of tea and continue chatting. In fact, I would love to look through some of the books in your wonderful library—”

  “Enough!” Juma snapped.

  “Sawa,” Kizito conceded.

  Haywood was trying his best to put on a brave face but every cell in his body was filled with fright. He was trembling slightly. He looked across to his wife, who had cupped her hands in front of her mouth and was holding back tears. He had never had to act courageous in front of her before.

  “Take what you want. But please don’t hurt us,” Felicity entreated.

  “I am sure it won’t come to that,” Kizito reassured her. “You can trust me.” He walked up to her and kissed the palm of her hand.

  “Kizito, stop fooling around! There is no time to waste!”

  For all their bravado, Juma and Kizito seemed equ
ally agitated. Kizito kept pacing around, picking up ornaments and then putting them down again. And Juma kept glancing at his watch.

  Husband and wife stood up. It was at this point that Felicity made an unexpected request, all the more so because she made it in Kiswahili.

  “Wacheni pete zetu ya harusi, tafadhali,” she said.

  “How interesting,” Kizito remarked, “that someone who can say, Leave us our wedding rings, please, in such perfect Kiswahili professes to speak the language only kidogo? Is this a case of false humility?”

  “I get by,” Felicity replied.

  “Ah! The English love of understatement!” Kizito said.

  “No. Quite seriously,” Felicity said, making another attempt to ease the tension. “My husband and I appreciate that, however regrettable your intrusion, this whole matter could take on quite a different tone were it not for your understanding. We thank you for promising not to hurt us. Take what you want. But just leave us our wedding rings. That’s all I ask.”

  Kizito smiled and said nothing.

  “These wazungus are very funny peepo,” Juma noted. “Everything is so lovey-dovey to them. Sorry, though. We will take the rings!” He glanced at his watch again.

  Haywood reached across to help his wife remove her ring. Then he removed his own and meekly gave both to Juma.

  “Sasa, any money in cash? And bring out your ATM cards. Write down the PIN numbers!” Juma instructed.

  Haywood handed over his wallet and Felicity her purse. Haywood wrote down his own PIN number and passed the piece of paper and ballpoint pen he had used to his wife.

  “The correct information,” Juma said. “Remember, any nyoko nyoko and I’ll cut off this man’s penis and make him smoke it like a cigar. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Haywood replied.

  “We understand. Please don’t hurt us,” Felicity said.

  “No,” Juma said. “With you, Mrs. Haywood, we can have some fun together.”

  Kizito held up the keys and motioned everyone out. He took out his gun but concealed it under his coat.