Nairobi Noir

by Peter Kimani

  The mention of desert triggered a revelation in Solomon.

  "Like the prophets of old?" he said.

  "That was what he told me."

  "Are you sure?" Solomon asked.

  "And he told me not to let anybody know about it."

  "Except me, his preacher," Solomon said.

  Salome and Solomon kneeled down and prayed for Kanage. They hoped he would receive great revelations in the desert; he must not forget the Church of Elijah.

  Solomon helped her write a press statement denying the rumors of Kanage's death. But it did not say anything about his being in the desert: they did not want the reporters to flock there and interfere with Kanage's conversations with God.

  But the statement only intensified the rumors! Who does she think we are! She claims he is not dead and yet she won't tell us where he is!

  I must say that even I did hear rumors of murder and witches and ominous talks of what to do with witches that disappeared their husbands. The witches had started with their beloved teacher; they would soon overwhelm the village and the region. Nip it all in the bud, some said, hinting that the woman had always behaved strangely.

  The intensity of the backlash alarmed Salome. She did not even consult Solomon, and early one morning she was back in the wilderness confronting Kanage.

  She threatened to divorce him if he did not free her from the helmet madness. He had to appear in public to end all the rumors about her having murdered him and satisfy everyone's curiosity. She was tired of being looked at as a witch, and he knew very well the fate meted to witches, real or imagined: arson. What would happen to their children without a roof over their heads? And being teased everywhere as children of witches? And you know the saying, Mtoto wa nyoka ni nyoka? The offspring of a snake is still a snake? Do you want your own children to be called snakes, just like the one that deceived Adam and Eve long ago and brought sin to the world?

  Kanage loved his wife and children. He agreed to appear in public and end the rumors which now threatened the very existence of his family. Salome went back to Solomon. It was then announced that Kanage had been in the desert to find himself.

  And so the day was announced when the Hermit in the Helmet, as some press now called Kanage, would appear in public. He would appear on a Sunday on the grounds of the Church of Elijah.

  Newspapers had a field day with screaming headlines: THE HERMIT IN THE HELMET FOUND IN THE WILDERNESS. THE HERMIT IN THE HELMET TO APPEAR AT THE CHURCH OF ELIJAH.

  Even I, the teller of this tale, got to the church very early, and, speaking nothing but the truth, I have never seen a crowd that big. The entire region had congregated there to hear what God had told Kanage. Even members of the other churches abandoned theirs and flocked to the Church of Elijah. This did not particularly bring joy to the leaders of these churches, but even they were forced by curiosity to flock there. Yet what seemed to anger their hearts was the sight of so many reporters with cameras. The Church of Elijah would outshine theirs. Still, all were united in the questions: Where is Kanage? How does he look like?

  And then we saw something like a big mushroom; no, like the conical roof of a rondavel; no, like a big umbrella—fact is, I don't know how to describe it—but I saw it walk toward us, Salome leading it or seeming to pull it with the straps of the helmet, almost like a rider and her horse.

  Well, wonders will never cease. It was Kanage, but the mushroom helmet had swallowed his entire body, except for the two tiny feet that carried it. Not a sound from the crowd. Lost for words, we just waited, then gave way as the mushroom wobbled through, till it stood amid us. Not able to see his mouth, the reporters thrust microphones under the mushroom. Some of us did not even believe that there was really a mouth down under the mushroom, except when, after the words testing, one, two, we heard some sort of English sounds coming from his nose. Our beloved Kanage was indeed the Kanage under the mushroom.

  He had hardly begun to speak when came a breeze. Some said it was the spirit trying to speak out, but others said it was the demons, like those that once escaped into the belly of a pig in the times of Jesus. But there were no pigs around. Which created a little panic among some who feared that, not seeing any pigs to enter, the bad spirits might enter people's bodies. Then the breeze turned into a gale and then a whirlwind, really big winds that carried everything into the sky. And then marvel of marvels! The wind blew the mushroom helmet into the sky. We saw it rise and rise, and now, underneath the mushroom, could be seen Kanage's feet, like those of a man parachuting up and up and up, till he became a silhouette against the clouds.

  Salome jumped up and down as if she wanted to follow her Kanage to heaven. "Don't leave me, don't leave me behind!" she cried out, and then fainted. Solomon fanned her with a Bible, until she finally came back to life. In gratitude, Salome burst into a hymn and others joined in:

  I will fly from the Earth

  Floating above it I will witness

  Wonders never before seen

  Being done on the Earth.

  People raised their arms heavenward, jumping up and down as if they also wanted to follow Kanage. Some repented openly for having harbored thoughts of Salome bewitching her husband to death. She was a woman truly blessed, and if she should follow her husband to heaven, they hoped she would not forget them during any conversations with God.

  Solomon was all for encouraging people to sing and dance, and then he begged for silence.

  "God works in mysterious ways," he said. "His wonders to perform; He can use the winds even, to bear His message. Now the same good Lord had chosen the Church of Elijah as the grounds on which to strike a miracle, with all the eyes of newspapers and the radio present." And then he opened the Bible and once again read a few lines from scriptures concerning Elijah's own flight to heaven: "And it came to pass, as they still went on, and talked, that, behold, there appeared a chariot of fire, and horses of fire, and parted them both asunder; and Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven."

  People kneeled down to pray in gratitude at the miracle of their teacher going to heaven in clear daylight. They did not close their eyes for they hoped to see him enter the gates. But the clouds swallowed him.

  Exactly the way Kanage used to tell us, some said, recalling the disagreement that had plagued the church about the manner of Elijah's ascendancy to heaven, but conveniently forgetting that Kanage had been on the side of horses of fiery flames. Others claimed victory: He has used Kanage to prove we were right all the time; that Elijah went to heaven the way he was, driven by the wind only.

  "You saw it all with your eyes," Solomon said. "Kanage's flight to heaven, and Salome, his wife, coming back from the dead. I have always told you that our church is the one truly blessed by the Lord. Since our own Sir Gofear Carnagey was given the holy helmet by the Maker of Living Stones, I always knew that it was a sign that he was the chosen vehicle for God to show His power and to show that our church is the one truly blessed. So, now, let us all behold St. Peter opening the gates of heaven for Gofear Carnagey to enter."

  Samuel Solomon broke into another hymn. The open-air congregation joined him, their eyes still fixed heavenward.

  They pray to the Lord

  They pray to the Lord

  May I come to you?

  May I come to you?

  Yes, Come in

  I am waiting for you.

  And then the wind subsided, the clouds moved. And we saw the mushroom descend, slowly, parachuting down. Who? What? What's this all about? Had St. Peter denied him entry into heaven? Was Peter showing his Catholic bias against Protestant churches? Maybe blinded by all the incense burned in Catholic churches? And those of Catholic faith protested: Stop maligning the true church. St. Peter was anointed by Jesus Himself to be the founding rock of the universal church—us, Catholic!

  All the same, despite the conflicting claims, it was still a sight to see. Our eyes were glued to the mushroom, as it descended slowly. With people pointing at it, children jumping up and dow
n, we waited for the wonder unwinding before our very eyes, and all in the light of day.

  Some recalled the words of the Maker of Living Stones: that he flew himself there. Kanage was doing exactly as the white man had done. And then we remembered that the Maker of Living Stones had come in car, a Ford Model T. But others were able to explain this! The white man had flown down with his car, and so to each their own opinion.

  And then the wind broke out again, and blew off leaves, and forced trees to bend. We saw the mushroom turn this way and that as if dancing, or displaying acrobatic aerial maneuvers.

  Just as it turned upside down so that the conical top now faced the earth, the wind suddenly stopped blowing, the mushroom umbrella hurtling down through the air, toward where we stood, the cone crashing into the ground. Kanage's scream almost split all our ears. Clutching his Bible, Solomon ran to the place, all of us following him. He bent down over the helmet. All we could hear was Kanage's voice pleading: "Please take me out! Please take me out!"

  Solomon whispered in his ear and told him it was his sins that had barred him from entry to heaven; but he would absolve him of whatever sin he might have, then would pray so that the doors of heaven would open for him as they did for Elijah. He should be prepared to return to heaven.

  "No, no, I want nothing to do with heaven," Kanage said in panic.

  "Please don't bring shame to your church! Fulfill God's will! Like Elijah! Look what the Lord has done for you. He got you a free helmet, like a crown. Then He led you into the wilderness like John the Baptist. Please go back to heaven," Solomon urged, and blessed him with the Bible several times, just to remove any remnants of sin from his soul, including the sin of refusing to return to heaven.

  "No! No!"

  And just at that moment yet another gust of strong winds came and blew the mushroomed helmet back into the air, Kanage screaming out, "No! No!" till his voice faded into silence. And once again we watched him, until, like before, the clouds covered him.

  Solomon turned to the crowd: "This time around, the gates will open. Be patient!"

  We waited, as before.

  And then the wind subsided, and out of the clouds we saw the mushroom reemerge, returning to earth.

  It looks as if Kanage has been rejected, murmured someone in the crowd. Well, at least he will be able to tell us how the doors of heaven look. Gold, diamond, silver, or a mixture of all?

  And just as we were trying to speculate where he might land, there blew a little extra wind. So instead of landing where we were, the mushroom was caught by the church steeple. For a moment it hung from the spire, with Kanage still crying: "Free me! Free me! Our people, please!"

  And that was when another miracle happened. Kanage managed to disentangle himself from the helmet; he jumped out and landed on the ground on his butt. The helmet remained hanging from the steeple. And when a moment later he stood to speak, he said one sentence only: "Thank God, He has given me back my own head."

  And up to this day, people still argue and often disagree about what he could have meant by given me back my own head. Some claim that Kanage was talking about his good luck, because the way he had hit the ground with his head the first time could have broken his skull into pieces. And the second time, the steeple saved him: he fell on his butt, without a scratch. Others said he meant the proverb: Borrowed jewelry burdens the borrower's neck. Others said no, he meant another proverb: Don't lose your old garment for a borrowed one, however shiny.

  But no matter what pressure the curious brought to bear upon him, Kanage would not dispute or say anything about what he saw at the gates of heaven. In church, he never turned his eyes to the steeple where the helmet still hung. The leaders of the other rival churches told unflattering stories about Kanage and the Church of Elijah, claiming that what made Kanage run away from heaven and refuse to return was the fact that what he was actually shown were the gates of hell, where those who worshipped in fake churches would burn forever. That's pure envy, the adherents of the Church of Elijah countered.

  Many people claim that sometimes the helmet moves from the steeple to other centers of worship. At various times, it has been seen on the roofs of Catholic cathedrals, Jewish synagogues, Buddhist temples, Muslim mosques, and Sikh gurdwaras, but eventually it returns to its base: the Gothic steeple. Even today, if you go the Church of Elijah when the helmet is not on its wanderings, you can still see it hanging from the steeple.

  TURN ON THE LIGHTS

  by Stanley Gazemba

  Kangemi

  A cool breeze blew over the market and stirred the dry polythene sheets strapped down on the deserted stalls lining the road. On the breeze was the strong smell of yesterday’s cabbage and potatoes the market traders had left on the huge dump spilling into the road for the city council to collect in the night. There was no one about at that predawn hour and the breeze had a ghostly ring to it as it whistled over the tattered strings of polythene trailing from the sides of the sagging stalls. And like a twine rope that peters to the thin end, the putrid smell gathered momentum and passed under the bridge. And then the task, seemingly complete, promptly lost steam and fanned out into the heavy dawn air. The band of street boys curled up in their dirty long coats under the bridge hardly stirred as the wind echoed through the enclosed place. Instead they dug in even closer, a glue-smudged nose tucking into the warmth of a fecund anus here and a corny toe into a gaping mouth there, just like a litter of abandoned puppies, gracefully indifferent.

  The drone that had sounded in the distance drew closer and soon twin light beams stabbed the whorls of mist drifting from the Limuru direction and swept toward the little roadside settlement. The night country bus swung to a stop and the door opened, the cabin lights coming on.

  “Kangemi, haraka!” called the sleepy conductor hugging himself in a warm pull-neck sweater worn over his brown, Michuki-issue road uniform. He reached behind the door where he hung his key-boot on the frame of the back of the forward seat and raced around to the rear of the bus. As he struggled with the bent metal rod and swung up the boot door he glanced casually about the seemingly deserted stage. Where were the damn chang’aa mamas? He was not about to be delayed here waiting after he had completed his part of the business. In any case, he was going to tell the driver it was getting too dangerous. Just the other day he had heard a rumor while he was hanging out with the boys at the downtown country bus station that they were marked, that the police were onto this bus, waiting to pounce. All the same, he could not deny that it had been a lucrative side business.

  The two bundles of rags that had been squatting in the shadows a little distance from the curb came to life when he started offloading the luggage. Hardly a word of greeting was exchanged as the two elderly women stacked the gunnysacks together, counting them off carefully. A shadow loomed in the window above the boot as a passenger who had sprung awake pressed his face to the misted glass pane. Seeing that it was not his luggage being taken off the bus, he promptly lost interest and went back to sleep, tucking into the raised collar of his night jacket.

  Having ascertained that everything was in order, the shorter of the two women reached into the folds of her worn lesso and pulled out a knotted end of the cloth which she pried open with her teeth. Inside was a bundle of notes that were pressed into a tight ball. The conductor snatched up the little fistful and ran back onto the bus, hardly stopping to count. Like a coconspirator taking his share of the spoils of a shady night business, he seemed impatient to shut the door and shouted at the driver to speed off.

  “Pato, hao wamasa wanalia je? Ama wanaleta kujua kaa jana?” asked the driver, stifling a yawn in a cupped hand.

  “Zii. Wako poa,” said his conductor, snuggling back into his seat.

  “Sawa.” The driver slammed his foot down on the accelerator as the bus groaned in protest.

  Soon after it zoomed off, the lone passenger who had disembarked took up his bag and clutched it to his side. As if full of indecision now that the bus had left, he g
lanced briefly at the two women and then ran across the road, eyes wide, ears cocked for muggers waiting in the sagging market stalls. At that hour Kangemi was as still as a tomb, with hardly a hint of the bustle that erupted during the day. In the far distance, like a bright eye glowering over the sleepy slum, towered a yellow light hoisted up on a tall mast. The council had started erecting the masts to light up the slum’s alleys. From that direction, too, sounded the faint rumble of the early goods train, steam horn blasting a faint toot-toot as it approached Ndonyo.

  Working with surprisingly supple hands for their age, the two women soon had the luggage nicely crammed into two bigger gunnysacks which they hoisted onto their backs, placing the broad band sewn into the custom-made bags over their foreheads in the manner of the Kikuyu mboga women. Adjusting the knots of their lessos, they took off at a labored trudge in the direction of the bridge, hanging onto the taut bands to steady the swinging jerricans in the bundles. One of the snoring street children stirred when the women went past and opened one eye, yawning lazily. He eyed the women for a while as if debating whether to make a solo go at an early catch. On second thought he gave another indifferent yawn into his hand and then, sucking the goo-spattered glue bottle back into its customary place under his upper lip, he snorted and went back to sleep.

  The two women made their way slowly along the

  drizzle-slicked highway until they came to a point where a narrow path cut through the bushy grasses up the slope to the rusty mabati shops lining the highway in that part of the slum known as Sodi. They steadied themselves by holding onto the knee-length grass on the side of the path that reeked of the urine the busaa drinkers, returning from the countless shebeens lining the road, had splashed there the evening before. It was a steep climb that sapped the breath out of them, but still the two didn’t stop to rest. It was as they crossed the marram road running along the line of shops and entered a darkened alley that the faint beam of a low-battery spotlight played briefly across their way and then snapped out. Shortly after, two figures in long dark coats detached themselves from the shadows with a familiar cough.