Softly Calls the Serengeti (10 page)

Riley strolled towards the bar entrance, enjoying the softness of the night air. He wondered if he'd ever work out what was going on in Charlotte Manning's head. He was going to have plenty of time with her over the next few weeks to find out.

Mayasa had little interest in football, but occasionally on her homeward journey from her job at the Adams Arcade supermarket, she would sit on the bench at the side of the field and watch the local boys play. One of them, a tall Luo boy, was quite good. She knew from the calls across the pitch that his name was Joshua, but she also recognised him from his occasional visits to the supermarket. He never bought anything of value and she suspected he was stealing other items. Many of the Kibera boys did, and many were caught and given a severe beating by the security guards. Joshua was never caught. She suspected there was more to him than his cheeky grin.

The game ended, and before she realised it, Joshua was striding towards her, his bare chest heaving as he used his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.

‘Thank you for being my
askari
,' he said as he took a seat beside her on the bench.

‘What?' she asked.

‘They're not worth much but they're the only ones I have.'

She followed his gesture to the sandals under the bench. ‘Oh, I see. But I wasn't really—'

He grinned at her. ‘It was a joke.'

‘I know that,' she said, embarrassed by her naïvety.

He chuckled. It was good-natured and she forgave him for teasing her. She searched for something witty to say to redeem herself, but her mind remained a blank.

‘I was just going anyway,' she added lamely.

His back muscles rippled as he bent to unlace his boots. ‘You're not waiting for your friend?'

‘My…friend?'

‘Your boyfriend,' he said, straightening up to look at her.

‘I don't have a boyfriend. I'm new in Kibera.' Why did she feel the need to explain?

‘Since when?'

‘Since…well, it's been a couple of years.'

‘A couple of years. And no boyfriend.'

He made it sound like a felony.

‘I work. At Adams Arcade supermarket.'

‘Oh-ho, so boyfriends are not permitted for girls at the Adams Arcade supermarket?' He was grinning at her again.

‘Don't be silly. It makes no difference.'

He obviously didn't recognise her and she felt disappointed that she'd made no impression upon him.

‘It's okay,' he said, obviously sensing her annoyance. ‘Most of the boys have girlfriends.' He nodded towards the knot of players and their female supporters. ‘Where are you from?'

‘Kibera.'

‘No, before that.'

Again she felt dim-witted. ‘Kisumu,' she said brusquely.

‘You're not Luo,' he said.

It was a statement, but one with a degree of uncertainty. She'd had many Luo friends in Kisumu and knew she could be mistaken for one of them.

‘No, I'm Sukuma. From Musoma.'

‘I see.'

He lifted his boots onto his lap and began to even out the length of loops through the eyes. Then he teased the laces straight before tying the boots together with a neat bow. ‘Where's Musoma?' he asked, as he strung the boots around his neck and stood.

‘Tanzania. Near the Serengeti.'

‘The Serengeti?' He hesitated, then resumed his seat. ‘The Serengeti National Reserve?'

‘Actually, it's the Serengeti National Park. The Masai Mara is a national reserve.'

‘You know the Serengeti National Park?'

‘Well…yes.'

‘How? How do you know it? Have you been there? Isn't it too far?'

She began with a brief account of her father's job in Musoma, where he'd been a driver for the Tanzanian railways. She then described how, after her mother died, her father took her to work with him during school holidays. Sometimes they drove into the national park to eat their lunch.

The more she told him, the more he demanded to know.

She told him that her father had taken her and her three older sisters to Kisumu when he was sacked from the railway, but the job he had with the Lake Victoria Ferry Service lasted only a year or so, and they had eventually come to Kibera. Her sisters had married or moved out and she now lived alone with her father in the Kianda section of Kibera.

‘You look familiar,' Joshua said. ‘Have we met at the pitch before?'

‘No.'

He suggested they walk together as he also lived with a friend in Kianda.

‘Tell me about your visits to the national park,' he said.

‘I've already told you. Papa would drive the old Bedford into the park—he knew the rangers and we didn't need to pay—and we'd park under a tree for a little while. Papa would turn the radio on, but most days it was too scratchy to hear anything.'

‘But what did you see there?'

‘In the park? Oh, there were always gazelle and wildebeest. Many zebra. Once we saw a huge flock of ostriches. And there were—'

‘Lions? Did you see lions?'

She smiled. His enthusiasm was touching. She told him about the time her father had parked under their usual tree, but as she was about to open her door to climb the rocks they used as seats, her father had shouted and grabbed her by the arm. He'd then
pointed to the lions among the rocks that neither of them had seen as he'd driven in. She laughed as she recounted the story, but it wasn't amusing at the time. She remembered her distress at her father's raised voice, his painful grip on her arm and her tears.

When they arrived at the shack Joshua called his home, he was still engrossed in their conversation. She was surprised at how basic his dwelling was. The house where she and her father lived was nothing more than an enclosed space divided into two rooms by a curtain; but, as far as she could see, Joshua had nothing but a piece of clear plastic spread on the ground under a few sheets of rusty iron.

‘I live here with Kwazi,' he said, pointing to the person bent over a section of reinforcing mesh that straddled a small fire. ‘Kwazi! Meet Mayasa.'

‘
Habari
,' Kwazi said without enthusiasm.

It was impossible to say how old he was, and his face was so disfigured she couldn't read his features or expression.

‘
Sijambo
,' she answered without thought.

Kwazi raised his eyebrows. Mayasa felt she could just bite her tongue. She had inadvertently used the more correct reply of
I'm fine
, instead of the more casual Kenyan Kiswahili
mzuri
, meaning
nice
. It was a small matter, but when she used what Tanzanians called pure Kiswahili, it tended to mark her as something of a snob in some Kenyans' eyes.

‘I've seen you around,' she said in English, trying to move on from her gaffe.

‘Most people have no trouble remembering me.' Kwazi's smile twisted his face and it was again impossible to read the expression behind his disfigurement.

Mayasa almost winced. She felt she was doing nothing to improve the impression he might have of her, and it seemed important that he like her since he was Joshua's friend.

Joshua came to her rescue. ‘Mayasa knows the Serengeti National Park,' he said, as if announcing she were a personal friend of the president.

‘
Mzuri
,' Kwazi said with perhaps just a trace of sarcasm.

‘Well, I'd better go,' Mayasa said. ‘I have to cook for my father.'

‘Okay. Maybe we'll meet at the pitch again soon?'

‘Maybe.'

They said their goodbyes, and she made a point of including Kwazi in them.

On the way home, her spirits were higher than they had been for some time. Mayasa had found it difficult to find her niche in Kibera. Many thought her too highbrow with her pure Tanzanian Kiswahili and educated ways. Apart from one or two of the girls at work, she'd made few friends. All of a sudden, and for no other reason than a few visits to the Serengeti as a child, she felt she'd made a lasting impression on the very handsome Joshua Otieng.

 

The Department of Community Development clerk was a short, slightly paunchy, middle-aged black man with an ill-fitting suit and anxious eyes. Riley spotted him from Kazlana's description as soon as he entered the coffee shop. When he'd taken his seat, Riley joined him.

‘Mark Riley,' he said.

The man quickly scanned the restaurant. ‘I am David Omuga,' he said, nervously wetting his lips.

‘Thanks for coming, Mr Omuga. We can talk in confidence here.'

Riley had no idea if that were true, but it seemed Omuga needed some reassuring.

Omuga nodded, appearing not at all convinced.

Riley was unsure of the protocol, but took the envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table to Omuga, who glanced around the coffee shop and slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket.

‘I believe you're worried about giving me information about the orphanage,' Riley said.

‘The Circularian orphanage is very different, Mr Riley.'

‘You mean there are irregularities in the way it works?'

‘There are irregularities everywhere. But there is more to this orphanage than others. I want this funny business brought out. For the sake of the children. Things must change in Kenya.'

‘Is that why you've come to me? To change the system?'

‘You could go to the newspapers when you find out about this orphanage.'

‘You've got the wrong man. I'm not a crusader. All I want is some information on the orphanage.'

‘But you could help.'

Riley studied the man again. There was nothing exceptional about him. He appeared to be a typical public servant—quiet, conservatively dressed in a dark blue suit, well-spoken. He certainly didn't look like an idealistic whistle-blower.

‘Why have you done this, Mr Omuga?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean, I've only asked for information; information that your office could have given me in the first place. Now I have to pay you five thousand shillings
and
fight your battles.'

‘Mr Riley,' Omuga said, ‘I am a Luo. As you may be aware, there is an election in a week's time and there is a Luo candidate standing against President Kibaki, a Kikuyu. Kibaki promised to stop all this corruption, but he has failed. Everyone is affected by it. People continue to be cheated by parking officers and the police. The road contractors get the job to fix the roads, but the money goes into someone else's pockets. We are sick of it. Raila Odinga will fix all this. He will end the corruption. I can't get a telephone connected, or find a postal parcel that supposedly has been lost, without giving a little something. Money—it is always money. A little here, a little there. I have been in the department for twenty-seven years. The pay is steady, but for a man who is of the wrong tribe and not well-
educated, it is not so good, and the prospects for advancement are very limited. I have eight children and an ailing wife.' He shrugged.

Riley knew exactly what the shrug meant. Just like the corrupt road contractors, Omuga wanted something for his trouble.

Riley was torn between feelings of disgust and pity. Omuga was a fraud. He claimed to hate corruption, but not enough to refuse it when offered. Conversely, he felt sorry for him, a menial, unable to avoid paying his share of the endemic petty graft, but without the power to change the system. Omuga knew, like everyone else, that change had to come from the top, and there was very little chance of that happening. He was stuck in the corruption trap like millions of others.

‘It is not only the money,' Omuga said. ‘This is why I have agreed to speak to you.' He pulled a wrinkled page from his pocket. ‘This is the information you want.'

Riley glanced at it. It was a long list of names. ‘Are these the children at the Circularian orphanage?'

‘They are the ones that have passed through in the last few years. I don't know how many remain.'

Riley ran his eye down the list. Jafari's name was there.

‘Where are these children now?'

‘I don't know, but it is not only people in America or Europe who love children, Mr Riley. People who have no children will do anything to have them. The children come to Nairobi, and then…' he flung a hand in the air, ‘suddenly they are gone to their new place.'

‘Where I come from we also have people desperate to adopt a child,' Riley responded. ‘But it takes a long time for them to find a match. Boy or girl, age, so many different wishes.'

Omuga made a crooked attempt at a smile. ‘Perhaps you didn't look carefully at the names I gave you. Was there nothing special about them?'

Riley shook his head. He'd only checked for Jafari's name.

‘They are all Swahili boys.'

‘All boys?'

‘Swahili boys. I think the clients are from the Middle East, looking for a son and heir. They want a child who looks like them. Not black like me, but brown like them.'

It took Riley a moment to comprehend Omuga's theory. The Swahili were descended from the Omanis who first conquered, then engaged in trade with the coastal people centuries ago. Over time many moved to the East Africa coast. In the process they intermarried. The descendants of those unions became the Swahili people of the Coast Province whose features retain similarities to those of the Middle East.

‘I think they are fortunate, these children,' Omuga continued. ‘They receive everything that money can offer. Education. A good home. In time their fathers will provide them a very good wife and, after all that, they will inherit their father's wealth.'

Omuga spread his hands as if to rest his case. ‘Why do you worry about them?'

‘Does the organisation in Mombasa know of this…this trade?'

Omuga shrugged. ‘Again, I don't know.'

The shrug made Riley suspicious. It was quite likely that Omuga was the inside man in the department, ticking the necessary boxes to allow the kids to be smuggled out of the country—no questions asked.

‘Let's say I forget about the official paths,' Riley asked. ‘How could I find a child that has been at the orphanage?'