Softly Calls the Serengeti (33 page)

‘No. I saw them running away.'

‘Then why were you standing there? Why didn't you chase them?'

‘I didn't chase them, no. Instead, I tried to get into the house—'

‘You didn't chase them! What kind of man are you? My mother, my sisters—burnt to death by those Kikuyu cockroaches. And you didn't want to chase them.'

‘Joshua. Stop.' Simon held up his hand. ‘Listen to me.' He took a deep breath. ‘The looters were not Kikuyu.'

Joshua stared at his father. ‘What are you saying? Of course they were Kikuyu. You have always said they were Kikuyu. Who else would burn down a Luo house?'

‘Did I ever say they were Kikuyu? No. But I let you think what you would, because it was easier to let you, a young boy, believe they were the enemy.'

‘Then if it wasn't the Kikuyu, who burnt our house?' Joshua demanded.

The tension in his father's face fell away. He suddenly aged in the dim light of the naked globe.

‘We thought we were safe in Kisumu Ndogo,' he said. ‘Your mother was a Kikuyu, but everyone in Kisumu Ndogo knew she was my wife and they respected that. But these Luo boys came from outside Kisumu Ndogo. They were headed to Laini Saba to loot the Kikuyu
dukas.
They saw your mother. They chased her. She ran into the house. They locked her and the girls in.'

Joshua's heart thumped in his chest. He didn't want to voice the terrible words that flew into his head. ‘Are you saying…?'

‘I didn't chase them. There was no need. The Luo boys came forward days later when they realised their terrible mistake.'

Joshua thought of a dozen questions. Who were these Luos? What were their names? Why did they do it? Where are they now? But he realised nothing—no information, no punishment, no answer—would change the terrible facts. He only had one question for his father.

‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘The Luo were your champions. I couldn't make your sadness worse by telling you the truth. We don't have much in Kibera and I could see how important it was for you to believe there was a Luo homeland where everything was perfect. You even imagined your home was in the Serengeti, which to you was the perfect place for your perfect homeland. I wish I had been a part of your dream. I foolishly fought against it instead of joining you in it. When I was a boy, I had a dream about being a warrior. When I lost that dream, I gave up. I've been afraid to dream ever since.'

His father stood and put a hand on Joshua's shoulder.

‘Joshua, why not go to the Serengeti? See it. Stay there if you can. If it's not the place you want it to be, you can come back to Kibera.'

Mayasa had overcome her initial paralysing fear, but whenever one or more of her captors came close to her in the first few hours of her confinement, she had difficulty breathing.

The one she'd named the Lieutenant was of medium height and build and wore a large silver ring in his left ear. He had a soft, clipped voice and his eyes bored into Mayasa. She felt sure he could read her every thought. In Koske's absence he was obviously in charge.

The second was heavyset and had a wide, open face. She called him Bull, not because of his size and physical menace, but because of his placid brown eyes. When he was guarding her, she had few concerns.

The third, who seemed to be responsible for bringing food and drink, was a lanky, acned youth of about twenty with broken front teeth. He was slow of speech and unkempt, and he couldn't meet her eye each time she caught him smiling or, more correctly, leering at her. Mayasa named him the Jackal, and feared him the most.

The two older men passed the time teasing the Jackal with terrible stories of the demons that still inhabited Kibera. They said they were the ghosts of long-dead Nubian soldiers who had been horribly disfigured during World War I, their faces melted by noxious gases. Anyone who saw them was driven mad with terror, they said. They were merciless, particularly the Lieutenant, who whispered his frightful descriptions into the Jackal's ear until he was gibbering with fear.

The orphanage door was bolted and the windows had curtains that closed out the daylight. A TV set in an alcove adjoining the small kitchen droned on regardless of the time of
day or night. Mayasa would have found it difficult to keep track of time without it, although she was occasionally able to catch a glimpse of daylight when the Jackal was sent out or returned from an errand.

When Bull was left in charge, Mayasa tried to elicit information from him. He was wary of answering her questions, but she soon concluded he knew very little about why she was there.

After becoming more accustomed to the situation, Mayasa only truly felt uncomfortable when the Jackal found too many opportunities to be near her. When occasionally he brushed against her, she felt her flesh crawl.

 

A hundred and ten heavily armed police wearing flak jackets and helmets piled out of trucks on the outskirts of Kibera in the morning hours. The alleys thundered with the sound of their boots as they jogged towards Kamukungi to fulfil the government's promise to restore railway services on the Mombasa–Kampala line.

Word quickly spread by mobile phone calls and texts. The gangs poured from the settlements and congregated along the policemen's path, to harass and throw stones at these representatives of authority.

The officer in charge despatched a squad of policemen to scatter the troublemakers who kept up a running battle in the surrounding alleys. Residents fled indoors as the sounds of combat drew nearer, slamming and locking doors behind them.

In the closely confined alleys, the crack of a crude home-made handgun panicked a member of the police squad, who released a burst of AK-47 bullets in the direction of the shot. The main police contingent, now on the high ground at Kamukungi, responded. As the panic spread, they indiscriminately fired high-velocity ammunition into the
neighbouring Kibera dwellings, penetrating layers of timber-clad walls and thin corrugated-iron roofs.

 

Dede, the cobbler, squatted at his last with a mouthful of tacks, tapping at his customer's red high-heeled shoe. The shoe's owner, Linda, sat on a cement block, watching him work. Her parents had been customers for years and, like many clients, she had been having her shoes repaired by the grasshopper for almost all her young life.

Dede lifted his head when he heard the first crack of rifle fire. It took some time to realise what it was, but when Linda stood, hopping on one foot to see what was causing the commotion, Dede warned her to keep low.

Another sharp report sent a bullet twanging off the iron roof of his
duka
. The next passed straight through Linda, leaving a hole his fist could fill as it exited. Dede leapt from his stool to catch her as she fell. He bent over her as she lay in the mud beside the path outside his little shop, her lifeless eyes staring at him.

Dede wrung his hands in anguish and danced about from one foot to another.

Another weapon snarled.

‘No! No!' he shouted, coming from under his corrugated-iron awning and brandishing a fist at the police on Kamukungi hill. ‘Stop! You are killing us!'

The next shot hit him in the thigh, shattering his femur and cutting the femoral artery. Ten minutes later, his cowering neighbours found his dead body lying in a pool of blood and mud beside Linda, his sixteen-year-old customer.

 

A knock at night on a Kibera door was a sound seldom welcomed. It could mean a neighbour in trouble, or a friend or
family member struck down by a dangerous illness. It could be a disaster or a death.

After a day in which Simon had seen his innocent neighbours harassed and beaten, people's houses burnt, and had heard on national radio unbelievable stories of people hacked down for no other reason than that they were of the wrong tribe, the knock on his door stopped all conversation.

Simon searched his son's face for a sign that the caller was expected, but found no such consolation. Nobody would be about on such a night.

The knock came again. More insistently.

Simon stood and walked slowly to the door. He opened it a peep and, in the dim light coming from the bare electric globe behind him, he recognised Gideon Koske. There was another, larger shape in the background. For a few moments he couldn't speak; could scarcely breathe.

‘
Nini nataka hapa?
' he asked. ‘What do you want here?'

Koske said he would speak to Joshua.

‘He's not here,' Simon lied. ‘I haven't seen my son in weeks.'

‘I said I will speak to him.'

The voice was menacing. The figure in the background moved forward so he could be more clearly seen in the light.

Joshua placed a hand on his father's shoulder. ‘I'm here,' he said.

Koske gave Simon a withering look and jerked his head to indicate that Joshua should step outside.

Simon put a hand on his son's arm, an unconscious gesture born of fear. If Gideon Koske wanted to speak to his son—indeed, wanted to do as he liked to him—there was nothing, no law, no power in all of Kibera, that could stop him.

Joshua eased past his father and stepped into the darkness.

 

Joshua followed Koske's slow and deliberate steps as the man avoided splashing the slush over his beige suit. The other man,
twice the size of Joshua, followed a pace behind. They stopped not far from Simon's house, where the moon cast some light at the crossing of two alleys.

Koske turned to Joshua. ‘You know something, my young friend,' he said, stroking his chin and smiling, ‘you have made me very unhappy. No…Let me say you've made me very…disappointed.'

Joshua tried not to swallow. The spit accumulated in his mouth until he was forced to gulp.

‘Haven't I been your friend?' The edge had crept back into Koske's tone. His jaw tightened under a knot of sinew. ‘Haven't I helped you so many times?'

Joshua wondered if it were worthwhile apologising, then abandoned the idea. He knew Koske's soft hand of friendship concealed an iron fist. He would know his fate soon enough, regardless of anything he might do.

‘And…the football match. My, my. Such a good goal. Oh-oh-oh. Yes, it was such a good goal I thought it should be your last. You see, I had in mind to end your football career soon after your big game at Moi International. Knee injuries are so painful. But I couldn't find you. Where did you go, my friend? Not even a word goodbye.' His coal-black eyes glared at Joshua from under his heavy brow. ‘And in time I became soft. I know, it is a bad habit in business, but what can you do?' He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. ‘No matter. You're here now. But I saw the good work you were doing in the protest march and the rallies—those young men of yours are very good—and I thought, why not give the boy one more chance?' He scrubbed his nose with the handkerchief and stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘I have another important task for you. And this time you will not fail me.
Si ndiyo?
You are still a supporter of Raila, ah?'

Joshua wasn't sure any more. Yes, he supported Raila Odinga, and yes, he felt Odinga had been cheated out of his presidency, but he was now not so sure about the tactics being
used by some to secure his victory. Perhaps the news commentators were right. Maybe the result could be tested in the courts? He'd seen too much violence already. Innocent people were being hurt.

‘Yes, of course I support Raila. He should be our president.'

‘Good. Then this is what I want. You will get your people together for another strong protest. I will get you
chang'a
and
bhang
, whatever they need to get them in the right mood. I want to see you and your men in the KICC. You know how to get around the police. I want to make a big problem for the police in there.'

This was the first time Koske had offered to supply the illegally distilled spirits and marijuana to Joshua's group. He wondered why they were needed now.

‘When?' he said.

‘Tomorrow night.'

He knew the parliament would be sitting in a special session the following evening to pass the motion for vice-president. From all accounts, it would not be Odinga. Security would be intense and any protest would be met with a savage resolve to prove that the government could still enforce law and order.

‘How many others will be there?'

‘I only want you and your team.'

Now Joshua understood the reason for the drugs and alcohol. It would be suicide to attempt such a protest with only the hundred or so whose support he could call upon.

‘It is not a march,' Koske added. ‘I will arrange to have a van parked outside during the day. It will look like it is owned by the security company, but it will not have security people in it. It will have fuel—something to show the parliament that we are very serious about our claim for Odinga. Your team-mates will distract the police. You will go to the van, you will unlock it and you will light the fuel.'

Joshua stared at him.

‘Yes, it will be a difficult day,' Koske said. ‘But it will be a big message.'

It wasn't the message that Joshua feared, but the backlash from the police.

‘You can do it. Your followers will go wherever you lead them.' Koske replaced his hat and brushed an invisible speck from his beige sleeve. ‘If you do this well, I may feel better about letting you keep your knees. And I may consider letting your girlfriend go home again. She is such a sweet young thing,
si ndiyo
?'

A steel band tightened around Joshua's heart. He looked into the cold black eyes and knew that Koske was deadly serious. He was lucky to still be alive after what he'd done to this man who controlled so many lives in the slums. And he had no doubt Koske would kill him and Mayasa if he failed to do exactly as he was told.