Softly Calls the Serengeti (12 page)

She hung an illegal right turn into Valley Road and a left down Nyerere, where she drove on the wrong side of the double lines until she reached the university roundabout, and headed for the market.

 

The Nairobi City Market in Muindi Mbingu Street reeked with the sickly sweet odour of decaying produce. Men wearing long colourful
kanzus
or plain white
dhotis
bustled down the crowded aisles carrying heavy shopping bags or sacks of vegetables. There were many sari-adorned Indian women with gold-studded nostrils, Swahili women in floral
kangas
, and others with eyes darting within black purdahs. Among the traditionally garbed women, chic office workers hurried to buy ingredients for the evening meal.

The stall-owners hollered prices, implored shoppers to stop, to try, to buy their produce. Boys scurried between the stalls and car park, carrying cardboard boxes for the tips. Beggars in tattered rags chose more direct methods, thrusting their grubby hands at well-dressed shoppers but seldom receiving more than a harsh word.

Kazlana, immaculately dressed in blue suit pants and a white cotton top, was not shopping. She was looking for Ahmed, one of the small band who sold information rather than goods. Ahmed's specialty was simple observation. He would follow a
client's target and report on their movements. It paid to know who was doing what to whom in the shady world in which Kazlana operated.

She found him at his ‘office'—beside a dumpster at the rear of the market.

‘
Habari
, mama,' he greeted her.

‘
Mzuri. Habari yako?
'

‘I'm very fine,' he answered. ‘I have what you want. You ask me to know about this fellow Koske. There are many here who know this man. He has many friends also, but not in this place.' He inclined his head to indicate the market. ‘Many friends in suits. They stay in KICC building, but not interesting to you, I think. But one man, I know him. This one you maybe find interesting. I know him from the streets.' His eyes flitted about like a nervous cat. ‘He is bad. Dangerous bad.'

‘What has he been doing that is of interest to me?' she asked.

‘I see him one day come to old Bank India building. He stays at his car, waiting, waiting. Then he watches this
mzungu
man, sometimes he has
mzungu
lady too. He follow them. Where, I do not know. I cannot follow. But one time I see them go up Valley Road.' He shrugged. ‘That is all I can see.'

Kazlana would not have normally been interested in some thug stalking a rich tourist, but Ahmed's reference to the old Bank of India building piqued her interest. The building was now the National Archives and she knew Mark Riley was often there.

‘What did these
wazungu
look like?'

‘
Mzungu
man. Tall. Wearing blue jeans, not suit. Beard like
mbega
monkey.'

Kazlana couldn't help but smile. Ahmed's likening of the colobus monkey's short black chin-hair to the three-day growth that Riley wore was quite astute.

‘And the lady?'

‘Pretty like you. Same height,' he answered. ‘You know them?'

Kazlana nodded. ‘I think so.'

‘
Tsk tsk
,' he said, shaking his head and sucking his teeth. ‘You maybe tell them watch out. This bad one he follow them. Kill many people already.'

 

Sitting in the midday traffic jam, with six lines of vehicles attempting to cram into three lanes, Riley had time to reflect on Kazlana's phone call. The message was simple enough: they needed to talk, she said. But it was the way she said it, in her lilting, accented voice, that made it so irresistible.

Arriving at her office building twenty minutes later, he strode past the security desk to the elevators, his sneakers squeaking on the highly polished vinyl floor tiles. As he watched the indicator climb slowly to ten, he recalled their recent meeting. He'd felt vaguely aware of her interest in him then, but had been frequently wrong on such matters in the past. It was a long time since he'd been with a woman and he was out of practice. Nevertheless, a woman like Kazlana had all the hallmarks of trouble.

She received him in her office and went immediately to the matter she wanted to discuss with him. ‘We're in the same line of business, you and I.'

‘We are?' he said, watching her arrange herself gracefully in the chair next to his at the low coffee table.

‘You are researching a newspaper article, and I am researching a crime.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘There's another thing we have in common,' she said, following her thoughts. ‘Our searches are leading us to the same person.'

‘Now I'm definitely confused. I'm looking for a child in an orphanage.'

‘I know what you're doing, Mark. I also know something about the person who runs that orphanage—Gideon Koske.
I have my suspicions about him, and you need to be aware of the risks if you go further with your investigation of the orphanage.'

He was about to speak, but she put her finger on his lips. ‘It's not important for you to know how I know about him. It is the nature of my business to know such things. Our company has often operated on the edge of the law. Many times my father crossed that boundary and, as a consequence, became involved with crooked characters. I don't know the reason he flew to Wajir, but when I find the answer to that question I will have found the reason for his death—and the person who killed him. I'm suspicious that he died because of his involvement with Koske's orphanage, but I can't be sure at present.'

She was silent for a moment before continuing. ‘Koske is watching you, Mark. I'm not sure why, but I imagine he suspects you are getting too close to finding out something about his orphanage. Something he does not want known.'

Mark shook his head. ‘It's too bad if he's upset. I've decided to write an article on dodgy operations like the Circularian orphanage. If I can get a tie-in with the UNICEF hearing, all the better. By the way, I was wondering if you might be able to get me a press pass into the hearings?'

‘Okay, I'll help you get your pass,' she said. ‘Maybe we'll be able to help each other. But remember what I said about Koske. I've heard that the man he's hired to keep a watch on you has a reputation for violence, possibly even murder.'

In the silence of the reading room of the National Archives, Riley tried to concentrate on his research papers, without much success. The conversation he'd had with Kazlana in her office worried him in spite of his bravado.

He'd been surprised to learn that she'd gone to Mombasa to check on her father's files there and to speak to Domingues. She'd said she'd found nothing to connect the Circularians to her father's death. Riley thought it odd that she'd even considered it a possibility.

He found Charlotte and suggested they take a lunch break.

‘How's the research going?' he asked once they were seated with their food.

‘At this early stage, I'm pleased,' she said. ‘Luo oral history is so rich. Even today, their customs have a great effect on their political and social lives. For instance, many Luos won't join the military or the police. They fear that if they kill someone and are unable to be cleansed within the required time, they'll be damned for life.'

‘Even in self-defence?'

‘Not necessarily. The Luos were very aggressive and successful warriors—there was no dishonour in defending someone or something personal. But a wanton attack causing death is an abomination. The killer can't return to his home until he's been cleansed. If he does, the curse of the dead will be on him and his whole family for generations.'

‘What does this cleansing consist of?' Mark asked, glad to be distracted from his own concerns.

‘A medicine man can provide an antidote—a
manyasi
—but it doesn't work unless the person admits he was at fault.'

‘Something like a Catholic's confessional?'

‘Exactly.'

‘And this is what you want to study while we're up country?'

‘Yes, but I really need someone who's familiar with the Luo people—a guide. Preferably a Luo with connections in the Luo homeland around Kisumu.'

Riley nodded, but he had returned to thinking about his conversation with Kazlana, which had been playing on his mind.

He knew nothing about Koske, nor the power he could wield should he seriously want to prevent Riley from carrying out his research into the Circularian orphanage.

He found it hard to gauge what credence he could put in Kazlana's opinion that he was in danger as she was obviously convinced her father's death was no accident and possibly obsessed with finding those responsible. The situation could have affected her judgement but, unlike him, she was familiar with the shadier side of business dealings in the country.

From his experience in Indonesia he understood that law and order in a developing country could be quite different from what it was in places like Australia. In Kenya he simply had his gut instinct to follow, and after Kazlana's warning it was on high alert.

 

Charlotte drummed her fingers on her knee. Three lines of traffic stretched ahead of her down Kenyatta Avenue to the roundabout at Uhuru Highway. Periodically the whole mass of shimmering metal edged forward. It would be twenty minutes before her taxi reached the city; another twenty before she was at her next appointment on Dr Gilanga's list. She wound down the window to catch whatever breeze stirred among the traffic lanes.

The taxi driver twiddled the car radio tuner.

‘…
In other news, the leader of the Orange Democratic
Movement, Mr Raila Odinga, said in Kisumu yesterday that his supporters would man all polling booths in the country to ensure that the vote rigging that has been a part of recent Kenyan elections would not—
'

He twiddled the tuner again to a station playing music that Charlotte found indescribable. She tried to ignore it, instead focusing on the young vendors wending their way through the stationary traffic with newspapers and magazines. The young man in her lane was tall and slender and wore his peaked cap at an angle. She thought she saw a similarity to the Luos she'd interviewed so far on Dr Gilanga's list.

The traffic shuffled forward and he gave her a most engaging smile as she passed. A moment later he was at her window.

‘Good morning to you,' he said in a cheery voice.

Charlotte nodded. ‘Morning.'

‘
Daily Nation? Standard?
'

‘No, thanks.'

‘
HQ
magazine?
Women's Health? Professional Woman?
'

‘No. Thank you.'

‘English, right?'

She raised an eyebrow. How could he know where she was from after so few words had been spoken? She didn't want to encourage him and refrained from commenting.

‘
New Statesman? Hello!
magazine?'

‘I really don't want anything to read. Thank you.'

The traffic jam moved forward thirty metres.

He was back at her elbow again. ‘That's Bamboo. Great hip-hop group. You like hip-hop?'

She guessed he was referring to the noise on the radio. ‘No.'

‘Why you not rent a car yourself? This taxi stinks,' he said, ignoring the driver who gave him a look. ‘I can get you a very good car through my friend. Save money. You English ladies need a good car. Something safe and reliable.'

She couldn't help but smile. They were the exact words Dr Gilanga had used in his email before she'd left Oxford.

‘That's right,' the boy said. ‘English tourists need a good car. I know you an English lady. Right? Yes, I know.'

In spite of herself, she was enjoying the diversion from the boredom of the traffic jam. ‘And I know you're a Luo. Right?'

She was pleased to see her guess stopped his prattle.

The line of cars moved forward and he trotted beside the taxi until it came to rest again.

‘You want culture tour?' he said. ‘I can fix everything for you. Bomas of Kenya. First-class show. My friend can get a minibus for you. Not far.'

A thought came to her. She looked carefully at the young man for the first time since he'd arrived at her window. He seemed friendly. Not the usual tout with an overwhelming and threatening physical presence. Good English. Clean.

‘Yes, I think I might like a culture tour,' she said.

‘You would?' The smile spread across his face.

‘Today. Meet me at Lemon Tree Café. Three o'clock.'

‘Very good. I bring my friend.'

‘No. I just want to talk to you about what it means to be a Luo.'

‘Me? You want to talk to me?'

‘Yes, just a short chat. I can pay a little for your time.'

The line of traffic was moving again. It appeared likely that the taxi would make the roundabout and be gone.

The young man ran alongside the car. ‘You pay to talk to me about being a Luo?' he asked.

‘Yes. Three o'clock. Lemon Tree.'

The taxi swept into the roundabout, dodged a jaywalker, and accelerated to beat the cars encroaching into the intersection against the red light.

 

Joshua found Kwazi sitting on the steps of the memorial in Uhuru Park.

‘Hey, Kwazi! Did you see that
mzungu
lady I was talking to?'

‘No.'

‘The one in the silver taxi.'

‘I saw no
mzungu
lady. Not even one in a silver taxi.'

‘
Haki ya mungu!
You should have seen her.'

Kwazi concentrated on his Wimpy burger with cheese.

‘She was beautiful, I tell you.'

‘So?' Kwazi sucked the sauce from his fingers one by one.

‘She wants me to meet her at Lemon Tree Café.'

Kwazi paused in his search for a fallen piece of tomato. ‘
Wewe wacha
,' he said, giving Joshua a sceptical look. ‘You think I'm stupid or what?'

‘I swear.'

‘Ha!'

‘I was talking to her. Nicely. She said she didn't want newspaper. No magazine. And she knew I was a Luo.'

‘Everyone can see that, my friend.'

‘But she's a
mzungu
. A tourist.'

‘A tourist?'

‘
Ndiyo
. So when she said she knew I was a Luo, I said I can find a minibus to take her to Bomas, but she said, “No, I want to talk about you. About being a Luo.”'

‘
Haki ya mungu!
' It was Kwazi's turn to swear.

Joshua grinned. ‘It's very good, yes?'

‘Yes.' Kwazi's reply was tentative; he'd clearly never heard of such a thing. ‘What do you think she really wants?'

‘To know about the Luo.'

‘That is very strange. I wonder if…' Kwazi grinned, then burst into laughter.

Joshua stared. It was rare to see his friend laugh. Ever since his accident and his disfigurement, Kwazi was reluctant to distort his face further, even in humour.

‘What are you laughing at?' he said, annoyed.

‘Do you think…' Kwazi spluttered. ‘Do you think she wants to jiggy-jig with you?'

The expression on Joshua's face showed he found the idea preposterous. Still, Kwazi laughed and laughed, until his eyes ran.

‘I don't know why you think it's so funny,' Joshua said.

‘You and a
mzungu
lady!' And Kwazi started to laugh all over again.

Ignoring him, Joshua speculated aloud on what he should charge her for his time.

‘She wants to pay you?' Kwazi asked incredulously.

Joshua felt vindicated. ‘Of course.'

‘Oh, oh, oh. Now we have to get serious,
bwana
. But what are you going to tell her? You know nothing about being Luo.'

Joshua shrugged. ‘I'll find something. She's a tourist. How will she know I know nothing?'

 

Charlotte had finished her tea and was about to call for the bill when she saw the Luo boy standing indecisively at the door of the Lemon Tree Café. The owner was about to see him off, but he pointed to Charlotte, who waved him to her table. The proprietor simply shrugged and went on with his work.

‘You're late,' she said. ‘Take a seat.'

He sat opposite her, casting a glance around the café.

Charlotte was expecting an explanation or an apology, but he just grinned at her as he waited for her to begin. She introduced herself, and discovered that his name was Joshua Otieng.

‘I suppose we should start by agreeing a price for your time,' she said.

‘Yes.'

‘What do you think is a fair price for maybe an hour?'

‘Five hundred shillings,' he said promptly.

He'd obviously given the matter more thought than she had. Her rough calculation estimated it was less than five pounds, but she'd learnt enough about bargaining to know how to play the game.

‘I think fifty is closer to a fair payment,' she countered.

‘Okay. Three hundred.'

‘A hundred. And another hundred if you have anything worthwhile for me.'

She held up her hand to show it was her last price, and pulled a hundred-shilling note from her purse and slid it under her empty teacup.

Joshua nodded solemnly.

‘Now, to begin,' she said, opening her notebook. ‘You're a Luo. And your parents are both Luo?'

‘Of course.'

She made a note. ‘And where were you born?'

‘Serengeti.'

‘The national park?'

‘Um, quite near.'

‘Curious,' she said, making another note. ‘Where was your home?'

‘Oh, it is such a small village.'

‘Yes, but it must have a name.'

‘A very small village.'

She waited, her pen poised.

A persistent fly buzzed around him and he swatted at it. ‘It's called Lwang'ni Fuyo,' he said, spelling it for her.

‘Lwang'ni Fuyo,' she wrote. ‘And how old were you when you and your parents came to Nairobi?'

‘I was, um…fourteen.'

‘Fourteen? So you must remember your early life in Lwang'ni Fuyo quite well. I'm interested to know how your life in Nairobi differs from your childhood in Kisumu.'

He stared at her for some time.

Charlotte wondered if he'd understood. Perhaps he was reluctant to give out personal details.

‘What I'm saying is, you must have been closer to Luo customs and traditions in Kisumu than in Nairobi, in which case, what has changed the most?'

He fumbled with the tattered cuff of his shirt and said nothing.

‘For instance, social gatherings. How was your music there?'

‘Oh, yes, music.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘Yes. Plenty of music.'

‘What instruments did the Luo people have?'

‘We had the, um…the thing with the strings.'

‘Its name?'

‘We called it the
kum dudu
.'

‘The
kum dudu
.' She made a note. ‘And any drums?'

‘Yes, we had the
mbongo
.'

‘Anything like a flute?'

‘Oh, yes. We had the
wafluti
.'

Charlotte then engaged him in a wide-ranging conversation about life in the small village of Lwang'ni Fuyo. She learnt that Joshua had been very active in his childhood. Much of his time was spent hunting with his father and uncles. Their quarry included lions, which they hunted to protect their cattle and sheep, and game—warthogs and zebra. He also recalled hunting antelope, but became confused when she asked him what species of antelope.

The village sounded idyllic. It was built on the banks of a swiftly flowing stream where fish abounded. Joshua was given the task of catching fish for the family of six. He was generally successful. On the hills behind the village was a thick forest where most of their hunting was done. Above the forest, at the very top of the hills, was a clearing and in the distance was a large lake.

‘Lake Victoria?' she asked.

Joshua agreed.

She learnt that Joshua and his many friends in Lwang'ni Fuyo had enjoyed sport, particularly football.

‘Do you still play football here in Nairobi?' she asked.