Softly Calls the Serengeti
To the people of Kibera,
whose courage, determination and
compassion for their fellow citizens were
the inspiration for this book, and to the
many legitimate and dedicated charities
who bring hope to them.
It is hot and still for an October day.
Joshua Otieng was narrow of hip and chest, but heâ¦
Simon Otieng sat at the simple bench he and hisâ¦
This Bus Runs on the Blood of Jesus! said theâ¦
Flight BA65 crept along the Heathrow access runway, throwing aâ¦
Simon Otieng had spent the morning hanging on the gateâ¦
Riley parked the Land Rover in the security car parkâ¦
The security guard took little notice of the tall, blackâ¦
After the last of the men had departed the warehouseâ¦
Joshua awoke among a tangle of bodies with the soundâ¦
Riley was about to leave his hotel room for theâ¦
Mayasa had little interest in football, but occasionally on herâ¦
Gideon Koske hardened his resolve. Around him in the antechamberâ¦
In the silence of the reading room of the Nationalâ¦
The chairman heading the inquiry into Kenya's compliance with theâ¦
Simon sighed as he lowered himself to the broken cementâ¦
Joshua had slept poorly and felt vaguely troubled all morning.
âWhat time was he supposed to be here?' Mark asked.
Nicholas Omuga turned off his office lights and walked amongâ¦
âYou will be at Kasarani on Friday night, Otieng,' Koskeâ¦
Simon sat surrounded by ecstatic Limuru Leopards' fans. He wasâ¦
Kazlana kept the nose of her Cessna pointed at theâ¦
The crudely painted sign, Vantage PointâRefreshments, gave Riley the opportunityâ¦
It wasn't Joshua's wish to succumb to sleep, but heâ¦
It was around nine when Charlotte passed the reception deskâ¦
Koske waited for his call in the courtyard outside theâ¦
A light rain was falling on Lake Nakuru at dawn;â¦
The afternoon dragged on. After tea and too much chocolateâ¦
Mark was waiting at the junction of the pathways toâ¦
âAnd now for some late breaking news on the electionâ¦
In the morning hours of Sunday, 30 December, the peopleâ¦
âCharlotte,' Mark said, before she climbed from the Land Rover,â¦
Joshua took Charlotte to a high point called Kamukungi toâ¦
Acrid smoke mixed with the morning mist as Charlotte followedâ¦
It was late afternoon by the time Riley parked theâ¦
Koske sat alone, contemplating the virtue of patience. He knewâ¦
Mayasa had overcome her initial paralysing fear, but whenever oneâ¦
Joshua slept badly. Early the next morning, he thumbed theâ¦
Joshua unbolted the door and Kwazi entered, merely nodding toâ¦
Kazlana returned to her bedroom and sank onto the bed.
Riley was having a bad day. After spending most ofâ¦
Charlotte's knees turned to rubber when she climbed out ofâ¦
Immediately he'd seen Charlotte and the two young Kenyans safelyâ¦
Hamood sat resolutely still in the front passenger seat asâ¦
âOtiengâ¦' Joshua heard his name whispered by those he passedâ¦
âIsn't this great?' Riley's publicist whispered as he entered London'sâ¦
N
AIROBI
âO
CTOBER
2002
It is hot and still for an October day.
A boy hurries through the alleys of Kibera. There is a storm in the air. He stops, checks the sky. Red smoke hangs above the rusted iron rooftops. Far away there is a rumble of thunder. A black kite shrieks a warning call and there is an answer from beyond the walls of rusty iron and rough-sawn timber that fashion his neighbourhood.
Urgent voices come from somewhere beyond the twists and turns of the narrow alleys. The boy squeezes into a gap as a group of young men dash past, muttering in breathy gasps.
The shriek comes again, but now it is not that of a black kite. Perhaps it never was.
An old woman, the gossip of the neighbourhood, comes scuttling towards the boy. He catches her eye. She sees him, but says nothing as she hurries by.
The scream againânot of fear this time, but of horror.
The boy starts to run. He knows these putrid narrow paths; he has played in them since he could walk. Still, he misjudges his leap across the stinking open sewer in the alley, and slimy mud and shit splash his bare legs. He crashes into a rusty wall on the other side and a protruding nail tears into his forearm. He stifles a whimper and runs on.
A cloud of acrid smoke swirls through a cross-alley. It makes his eyes smart as he plunges through it.
Another scream. A scream to halt his heart. A scream for help.
No longer can he hold to the idea of the kite. It is an inhuman sound, but he knows it's a woman's voice. He slams shut the vision that comes to mind, but the scream occurs again and the door is flung open. He knows whose voice makes those heartbreaking sounds. He knows whose throat gave flight to them.
He runs faster down the stinking path. Another cross-alley.
Flames licking through the smoke.
He stands in the mud. The screams are gone but his ears are ringing with their memory.
The grimy alleys are silent.
Thunder rolls across the blackened sky.
Flames rise and colour his stricken face.
He stares with eyes of ice at the burning remains of his home.
N
OVEMBER
2007
Joshua Otieng was narrow of hip and chest, but he had an athlete's bearing and the swagger of a young
takataka
man who had made his first sale on the streets when he was about seven years old. Back then, those sales had earned him a pittance, but it had been an important contribution to a family struggling to avoid hunger, especially when his father failed to find work as a casual labourer.
Now, ten years on, Joshua seldom failed to clinch a deal once his unerring radar had detected a mark among the stream of cars crawling towards the Kenyatta Avenue roundabout. He would engage his quarry with his compelling dark eyes and winning smile before the persuasion began in earnest. The haggling and the deal were complete and the mark's money in his bag before the traffic lights changed.
The boy had the lanky build of his Luo father and the sharp commercial mind of his Kikuyu mother. He could get by in Kiswahili, Somali and English as well as the Kikuyu and Dho-Luo of his parents. Among his many gifts was the ability to guess the mother tongue of his prospective client and use it to charm open the purse or wallet of all but the most obstinate. He had learnt his languages and also his street savvy in the alleys of Kibera, the squatter settlement situated a mere twenty minutes' walk from Nairobi's central business district.
In the mornings he sold newspapers, and later in the day it would be anything at allâusually cheap junk,
takataka
, imported from China. That afternoon he was selling little paper
butterflies whose gaudy wings were set frantically flapping by means of an elastic band. A dozen butterflies were cocooned in a thin plastic shopping bag hanging from his waist.
Kwazi was working the lane nearest the road divider. With his twisted spine and stiff leg, he couldn't escape to safety fast enough when the traffic column suddenly lurched into motion. Joshua didn't mind Kwazi hogging the right-hand lane. In spite of the age difference of some four years, he had been a friend for as long as Joshua had worked the Kenyatta Avenue roundabout. It was Kwazi who had loaned his younger friend the stock to make a start. And after the car accident that had crippled Kwazi a year later, at age twelve, Joshua had shared his takings with his friend until Kwazi was back on the street again.
A car had dragged Kwazi two hundred metres down Uhuru Highway, breaking bones, tearing muscle and ligaments and leaving his face distorted into a grotesque leer. Now, Kwazi sold a more basic commodityâguilt. People were prepared to pay to assuage the relief they felt that neither they nor their loved ones were disfigured like the poor crippled boy begging at the Kenyatta Avenue roundabout.
Kwazi's real name was Gabriel.
Just like the angel
, his deceased parents used to say proudly to friends. But after the accident it didn't seem to fit. The nickname came from a Frenchman who had been one of Kwazi's regular customers for the morning papers.
âWhat 'appened to you, Gabriel, uh?' he asked in his thick accent when Kwazi finally returned to his usual place. âI didn't recognise you.'
Kwazi mumbled a brief reply about the car accident.
â
Merde
,' the French
mzungu
muttered. âQuasimodo,
non
?'
The name appealed to Kwazi. Shortened, it had an African ring to it, so it stuck.
âHey, Kwazi!' Joshua called now from his line. âYou want to finish?'
Kwazi pulled a handful of coins and small notes from his pocket. â
Ndiyo
,' he said. âLet's go.'
Kwazi kept his battered wheelchair hidden among the shrubbery in nearby Uhuru Park. Joshua had found the chair years before in the mountain of rubbish he and his mother used to quarry in search of items she could sell to Kibera residents from her little stall on the main entry to the settlement. He and Kwazi had restored it using cannibalised bicycle parts, although they'd never quite mastered the wheels, one of which had an alarming wobble. But the pain-free mobility that the machine offered Kwazi made his life a little more bearable.
Joshua pulled the wheelchair from its camouflage and slipped his unsold butterflies into the carry bag hanging from the handles. He retrieved his mobile phone from his pocket and deftly thumbed through his text messages, reading some and quickly responding to others as Kwazi rolled along the pavement beside him. When they reached the incline on Haile Selassie Avenue, Joshua gave Kwazi a helping hand until their route again eased downward towards Kibera.
The Kibera squatters' settlement was the largest slum outside South Africa's Soweto, but, technically, the place didn't exist. There were no title deeds to the land. Kibera was therefore a vast collection of illegal dwellings. The situation suited the authorities. As it was an illegal settlement, they had no responsibility to provide essential services such as water, schools, sanitation, garbage collection, roads and health services. Private dealers provided water standpipes, charging twice the water utility rate in legal housing developments. Landlords felt no obligation to maintain houses in Kibera, many of which were built in dangerous or unhealthy locations amid sewers and garbage dumps. Typhoid, worm infestations and skin diseases were prevalent among the settlement's residents.
The police were rarely seen in Kibera, and never after dark. Vigilante groups brought thieves to justice, for a price.
âHave you got football training, Josh?' Kwazi asked.
âMaybe.' As usual, Joshua felt vaguely guilty about leaving his friend behind in order to attend his practice session. âMichael texted me to say he can't make it, and he usually brings the ball.'
âYou should go. Someone will bring a ball. And you need to practise every day. Next year, you'll see. The national selections. Practise hard, my friend.'
âAh, that is for dreaming, Kwazi. Who will come to Kibera to find a football player? The selectors will be out at Nyayo Stadium or Moi International.'
âThen you will go to Nyayo.'
Joshua made no reply. They'd had the same conversation many times. He didn't dare buy into Kwazi's fantasy about a stadium brimming with ecstatic screaming fans as Joshua dashed downfield, the goalmouth beckoning. The reality of Kibera football was a generally shoeless contest, with a worn soccer ball, no referee, and with teams differentiated between âshirts' and âskins'. The games often ended in an inter-tribal brawl or were broken up by the administration police as an illegal gathering.
Joshua's team was lucky to have a training pitchâthe one remaining open field in Kibera, which it shared with dozens of other groups. Local chiefs and greedy businessmen had progressively sold all the other sporting fields in Kibera for housing plots and
duka
shacks. Realistically, Joshua held little hope of being considered to try out for, let alone be selected to play in, a real soccer team. He was the best striker in Kibera's informal league, but he knew this would count for nothing among the elitist national selectors.
At the laneway leading to Kwazi's hut, Joshua bade his friend goodbye. When Kwazi was out of sight, Joshua began to jog down Kibera Drive towards the football ground. By the time he reached the clearing, he was running at full pace and, while his team-mates laughed and joked and kicked a ball to each other in a circle, Joshua continued to run laps, the sweat streaming from his body.
Once he joined the field of play, Joshua kicked and passed, cut and intercepted, covering all points on the pitch. At one moment he was defending; at another, he was in the forefront of the attack, using his famous curving strike to drive home a goal.
His dedication no longer elicited the ribald comments it once had. His team-mates had accepted it was just Josh being Joshâdriven by his strange compulsion to be fitter, stronger and faster than anyone else who came along to kick the tattered football around the dusty field.
Â
Two hours later, and thirty minutes after the last of his team-mates had deserted the field, Joshua headed for home, tired but full of the energy the game imparted to him. As he crossed the road towards Kibera he heard someone call his name. It was Gideon Koske.
âHey, Otieng,' he said. âDo you not know your friends these days?'
Koske was a businessman from the Kalenjin tribe, and Joshua's occasional benefactor, offering him odd jobs, usually of dubious legality.
â
Habari
, Mr Koske,' Joshua said, a little abashed. He returned to the kerb where Koske sat at a small roadside stall or
duka
, sipping tea. The
duka
proprietor eyed Joshua, then went on with his work of washing cups.
â
Jumbo
,' Joshua said as he reached Koske's table.
â
Mzuri
, my friend. Come, sit.'
Joshua sat on the offered wooden crate. âI was thinking about something and I didn't see you,' he said.
Koske ignored the comment and took a sip of his tea.
Everyone in Kibera knew Gideon Koske, either personally or by reputation. He was a big man with large protruding eyes, and a callous opportunist who had initially made his money by
claiming ownership of any disputed land in Kibera. Since titles were a rarity in the illegal settlement, he was able to intimidate or harass other claimants until they retreated from the ownership contest. This enabled him to sell the sites to the many desperate people clamouring for space upon which to erect a simple shelter. He then extracted further payments from the new owners to keep the new dwelling safe. His thugs were despised and feared throughout the settlement.
Joshua had heard Koske had used the wealth he accumulated from his illegal land dealings to buy influence in the ruling political party. There were rumours that he was backing the opposition in the upcoming elections. Joshua disliked Koske, but opportunities to earn extra cash overrode the whim of personal preference.
Koske noisily slurped his tea while Joshua waited patiently for him to speak. Joshua had noted before that Koske seemed to enjoy the power his protracted silences conferred.
âSo, my friend,' he eventually said, âI hear you are doing well in your football team. Captain! Well done.'
â
Asante
, Mr Koske. Thank you. But it's nothing.'
Joshua's false modesty concealed his pride. He had been a driving force in the team's establishment, but believed that his appointment as captain was due to his skill rather than to his organisational ability.
âNo, no. I hear that you are the best striker in the competition.'
Joshua was again surprised at Koske's knowledge of the details of life in Kibera.
â
Sasa
,' Koske continued. âI also hear that many of your team players are in need of boots. Football boots. Even you. How can you play with no boots, uh?'
Joshua shrugged. âI can kick without boots. Others have found cheap boots in the markets.'
âOld boots. Second-hand rubbish!' Koske sneered. âYou need boots if you want to beat those fellows out by Nairobi dam.
Si ndiyo?
'
Joshua nodded.
âHere, my friend,' Koske said, producing a plastic shopping bag. Inside was a shiny new pair of football boots.
Joshua's mouth opened and closed. He was unable to make a sound. When he recovered from his excitement, he jabbered a string of thanks before Koske lifted his hand to stifle them.
âEnough, Otieng. You will find I can be very generous to my friends. I have some surprises for you. Soon. But I also may need a big favour one day, you understand?'
Joshua nodded.
âEven now, I have a little job. It's nothing, but you will help me. You and your team.'
âWe will be happy to help you in any way, Mr Koske.'
âYes. And if you do a nice job, I may be able to help with boots for your whole team.'
Joshua's eyebrows lifted in interest.
âBoots for the team, and perhaps something else for you.'
Joshua waited.
Again Koske allowed the suspense to build unbearably.
âI mean, you are a Luo,
si ndiyo
?' The question was rhetorical. âAnd your man Odinga is a Luo who is standing for president.' Koske slowly stirred his tea.
Joshua could bear it no longer. âYou said bootsâ¦and maybe something else for me?'
âBoots, possibly. And surely a Luo boy such as yourself would be prepared to do something special for Mr Odinga? I mean, to help him succeed on election day.'
Joshua nodded, unsure where Koske was leading him.
âGood.' Koske replaced his spoon on the table. âThat is all I need to know at the moment.'
He raised his teacup to his mouth, concealing his widening grin. Joshua was reminded of a hyena he'd once seen on a poster in the travel agent's window.