Softly Calls the Serengeti (16 page)

Joshua ascended to the hospital's sixth floor in a steel elevator that wobbled alarmingly. He wandered the corridors until he found Kwazi's ward, but he couldn't see his friend. He continued to search, peering into overcrowded rooms and seeing things he really didn't want to see. Suffering was apparent on many of the stricken faces that stared back at him. Joshua had always been appalled by sickness of any kind, for in his experience it usually led to death. Here, in the corridors of Kenyatta National Hospital, death was all too palpable; he could almost smell it.

He returned to the admissions desk, where the nurse confirmed the ward number he'd already been given. He went back and thoroughly checked each bed, including the trundle beds covering much of the floor space. He again failed to find his friend. It was Kwazi who saw Joshua and raised a hand to him.

Kwazi's head and arms were swathed in gauze, much of it smothered with black bloodstains. He smiled at Joshua through swollen, split lips, revealing broken and missing teeth.

‘
Habari
,' he croaked.

‘
Mzuri
,' Joshua mumbled, stunned at the sight of his friend. ‘How are you?'

It was a pathetic effort, but he could think of nothing more constructive to say.

‘Broken nose,' Kwazi said. ‘I've lost some teeth. See?' He pointed the finger of his unbandaged hand towards his mouth. ‘No more pretty smiles for the girls.'

Joshua remained sober-faced.

‘
Haki ya mungu
,' Kwazi said. ‘Will you look at you? Have you forgotten how to laugh at a joke?'

Joshua made a feeble effort at a smile.

‘Doctor said I've got some broken ribs,' Kwazi continued.

Joshua nodded.

‘And a ruptured spleen.'

Joshua nodded again.

‘What's a spleen?' Kwazi asked in a whisper.

‘I don't know. What did the doctor say?'

‘He said if I don't have money for the operation, they can do nothing for me.' The pain showed as he attempted to swallow. ‘He said I can stay for a few days. Maybe the spleen stops bleeding. Then I must go.'

‘Where is this…spleen?'

‘Down there.' He nodded towards his abdomen.

‘Is it your
mbolo
?' Joshua asked in a hushed voice, darting a glance towards Kwazi's crotch.

‘No. Idiot. It's here.' He raised his hand to indicate his ribcage. ‘Somewhere in there. It's painful to touch.'

‘I'm sorry about what happened,' Joshua said after a moment.

‘Stupid fools! What were they doing? Marching along like anybody cared about politics.'

‘But…I'm sorry they beat you up.'

Kwazi said nothing.

Joshua glanced around the ward. A few patients were being fed by their visitors.

‘I'll bring you food,' he said.

‘Why did they attack me?' Kwazi asked.

Joshua considered a moment before answering. ‘They thought you were making bad signs at them. They thought you were against Raila Odinga.'

Kwazi had his eyes closed, but nodded. The answer seemed to satisfy him.

‘You should sleep,' Joshua said. ‘I'll come back with food,' he added, but received no response.

 

On his way down the six flights of stairs—he did not want to risk the elevator again—Joshua tried to rationalise his lie to Kwazi. It was true the marchers may not have been happy that someone on their route did not approve of their message or did not agree that Raila Odinga should be president. But what had worried Joshua, and had made him lie to his friend, was that he had seen many that morning who had indicated their disapproval of the marchers and their sentiments. Some had been far more outspoken than Kwazi. The difference was that none of them had looked like Kwazi.

Joshua had witnessed something that morning that made him feel uncomfortable. He'd glimpsed an ugly side to these people with whom he agreed on many matters; people whom he admired for their courage in supporting Odinga against a brutal administration that was determined to silence them. But now he realised that these people could be brutal themselves. He had seen their brutality turned on Kwazi, and only because he looked so different from them.

Joshua worried that in other circumstances he might also reveal an ugliness such as he'd witnessed that day.

Nicholas Omuga turned off his office lights and walked among the empty desks to the dimly lit corridor. The elevator carried him to the twelfth floor and the office of Gideon Koske—the chief executive officer of one of the largest NGOs assisting the Department of Community Development. As requested by Koske in his phone call, it was exactly seven o'clock.

A solidly built man with a large silver ring in his ear sat at the receptionist's desk. When Omuga approached, he looked up from his newspaper, took his feet off the desk and, without a word, slipped through a door into the adjoining office.

Omuga scanned the office, trying to settle his nerves. It was very well decorated, but a wheeled canvas-lined litter trolley had been left behind by the cleaners, detracting from the fine paintings and fresh flowers.

A few moments later the man returned. ‘Go in,' he grunted.

Omuga swallowed, and tried to smile, but couldn't. Deep in his gut he felt an emptiness caused by his misgivings. He feared the only reason Koske would summon him to his office was because he no longer required his services. The monthly contribution he accepted from Koske to keep his NGO registration from prying eyes helped to put food on his family's table. What if Koske had heard of Omuga's treachery? Omuga had received his five thousand shillings, but what was that if he lost Koske's benefits? Or worse, lost his job?

‘Omuga,' Koske said. ‘Thank you for coming.'

Omuga nodded, smiled nervously. ‘Thank you, Mr Koske. Thank you.'

‘Please, sit. No, not there. This chair is better.'

Omuga sat where he was told, his back to the door. He drummed his fingers on his knees and crossed and uncrossed his legs.

‘I suppose you are wondering why I've asked you to come to my office this evening, Omuga.'

‘Well…yes, Mr Koske, I—'

‘You see, I have a policy of recognising people who are doing a good job. People like you, Omuga, who might not be noticed by their bosses.'

‘Th-thank you, Mr—'

‘So you have been singled out for a little special bonus. Credit where it's due is what I am saying.'

Omuga's face muscles twitched as his smile made an effort to overcome their tension.

‘You have eight children, Omuga.'

It was a statement more than a question. Omuga was amazed at Koske's awareness of the personal details of one of the menial members of the department.

‘They must be very proud of their father—a faithful employee of the Department of Community Development.'

‘Yes, Mr Koske,' Omuga replied, feeling much better. It appeared he had nothing to be nervous about. His secret was safe.

The office door opened behind him and Omuga heard the clatter of the litter trolley. He thought that Koske would be angry that the cleaner had come at such a bad time, but Koske was still smiling.

Suddenly someone grabbed his arms, pulling them painfully around the back of his chair. In surprised panic he tried to free himself, but the man holding him was too strong.

‘Your reward for your good service is a long holiday, Omuga,' said Koske. ‘A very long holiday. It's a shame you won't have time to say farewell to those eight children of yours.'

Koske pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket and untangled a short springy piece of thin wire from it. He smiled
as he took hold of the little wooden handles at the ends of the wire and snapped it tight.

He moved swiftly to the side of Omuga's chair and flipped the garotte over his head, pulling the handles until the wire cut deeply into Omuga's neck.

Omuga kicked and struggled.

The last sound he heard was Koske's demented laugh.

 

Riley left the UNICEF inquiry's hearing room and marched through the Kenyatta Centre's main door, heading to where he'd parked the Land Rover on the far side of River Road. He was running late, and he knew the jam through the city would be bad at that hour of the afternoon. He'd formed the opinion that River Road was something of a boundary between the controlled chaos of the city and the complete anarchy of the squalid area around the Nairobi River. It was also close to the long-distance bus terminal, which attracted swarms of darting
matatus
, each one driven by what appeared to be a homicidal maniac. For both these reasons, Riley seldom parked near River Road, but on this occasion, he'd ignored all his well-founded resolutions and succumbed to the convenience. Time had slipped by and now he was late for his next appointment.

At the cross-street he broke into a trot, hesitating only a moment to glance to his right as he crossed the bus terminal concourse.

A shout. He turned.

A car careened towards him from the wrong side of the road. Riley dodged to the left. The car swerved to meet him. He took a precious moment to judge his next manoeuvre, but now the car was almost upon him and he had few options. He launched himself at the nearest object—a push-cart—landing among a load of sweet potatoes.

The car, a blue Peugeot, clipped the wheel of the cart, ripping it from the axle and dumping Riley and the sweet potatoes onto the road.

 

Riley sat at the Norfolk's Lord Delamere Bar, nursing his bruises and a long cold Tusker beer while reflecting on his near miss. In the moment he'd taken to determine whether the driver was taking evasive action, their eyes had met. Riley could still see the man's dangling silver earring, his fists clamped to the steering wheel, the determined glare. There was no way it was an accident. The driver had meant to run him down. He was on a deliberate mission to kill or maim.

No longer could Riley consider the blue Peugeot's earlier appearance as a coincidence, or Kazlana's warning to take care an overreaction. He had to believe the incident in River Road was connected to his search for the orphaned boy, Jafari, and that someone wanted to stop him discovering what had happened to him.

He felt the stirring of his journo's instincts. A missing child, a vanishing orphanage, corruption, politics, perhaps even a mysterious plane crash in the desert. They were the elements of a classic investigative piece.

The research for his novel had uncovered an increasingly exciting storyline and his desire to complete it was powerful, but here was a story with greater immediacy. The attempt on his life had merely made it more personal. Intensely so.

 

It was Christmas Eve and the
Standard
was pathetically light on news. As Kazlana was flicking through the pages, a photograph caught her eye and made her flip back.

The photograph appeared to be from Omuga's security pass.
It showed him in the ubiquitous dark blue suit of the public service, with a smile that was fading as the photographer snapped after dithering too long with camera adjustments.

Death and Funeral Announcement
, the text below it read.
It is with profound sorrow and acceptance of God's will that we announce the death by misadventure of Nicholas Jeremiah Omuga, Section Head of Non-Government Organisations in the Department of Community Development, on 19 December 2007. Husband to Nellie, father to Elizabeth, Jacob, Elphalet, Rose, Kennedy, Abner, Malath and Milka. Son of the late…

Kazlana stopped reading.
Death by misadventure
. It could mean accidental death, but her suspicions were aroused.

She rang a contact at the
Standard
's crime desk and learnt that Omuga had been found floating in Nairobi dam, his head almost severed and his wallet, watch and personal effects intact. It was not misadventure, but cold-blooded murder.

 

Riley and Charlotte had agreed not to make a big deal out of Christmas Day. They decided to join the merry crowd at the hotel restaurant's buffet and then spend the rest of the afternoon by the pool.

When the waitress appeared at Riley's shoulder and discreetly told him he had a call, he asked Charlotte to excuse him for a moment, leaving her with her tea while he took the call in the hotel lobby.

It was Kazlana.

‘Hi,' he said. ‘Merry Christmas and all that. I was going to ring you later. I forgot to fill you in on my meeting with Omuga. What a guy!'

He laughed as he told her of Omuga's paranoia about being discovered.

‘He told me some weird stuff about the orphanage, but I'm not sure if I can put too much confidence in—'

‘Mark.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Mark, there's been some news about Omuga,' and she told him of the funeral announcement.

After the initial shock, Riley felt bad for being unable to immediately recall Omuga's face, but then a vague image of him came to mind—lumpish, sweating. A crumpled blue suit.

‘How did it happen?' he asked, dreading the answer.

There was a moment's hesitation at the other end of the line. ‘It wasn't an accident, Mark. People who know the details leave me in no doubt. The only reason I'm telling you this is so that you'll take care.'

‘How do you know it wasn't an accident?' he asked.

‘He'd been…Well, I have it on good authority.'

He insisted she tell him everything she knew and, as she recounted the gruesome nature of the crime, he felt the cold clamminess of nausea spread from the pit of his stomach.

‘It's very sad,' she added. ‘Apparently he had quite a sizeable family.'

Eight children and an ailing wife.

‘Mark, people like Omuga are into all manner of dirty dealings. You can't assume that his death had anything to do with you.'

He thanked her and hung up.

In the washroom, he splashed cold water onto his face. The image staring back at him from the mirror was ashen. Regardless of Kazlana's reassurance, Riley felt sure his inducement to reveal confidential information had been the cause of Omuga's death.

Mr Koske is a very dangerous man. Be very careful how you proceed. It could mean your life…and mine.

He patted his cheeks and took a deep breath. He decided to keep the matter from Charlotte; it was pointless to concern her. Anyway, they would soon be gone from the city and out of Koske's reach.