Softly Calls the Serengeti (6 page)

‘It seems the Ramanovas were versatile,' Riley said.

‘Business is business,' she replied with a shrug. ‘After the war we moved operations to the new capital of Nairobi, but we still retain some ties with the coast, dealing mainly with regional cargo. Farida can give you a copy of our company description and activities.'

‘Thank you. And perhaps you can help me on a completely
separate matter? I noticed that your company is involved with NGOs. I'm hoping you can direct me to the right government department to help me.'

‘What do you need?'

‘I'm trying to find an orphaned child I've been sponsoring for a few years,' he said. ‘I found the building I was looking for in Kibera, but there was no one there. So I went to the Department of Community Development to get the new address…'

‘…and they refused to help.'

‘Exactly.'

‘They said something like: it's not departmental policy to give out that information?'

‘You've been down this road before?' he said.

‘Have you had any other experience with the Kenyan bureaucracy, Mark?'

He smiled. ‘I know what you're thinking: this guy is going to be taken to the cleaners by petty local corruption.'

‘I know what it's like—even for a local like me. You could waste a lot of time jumping through hoops for no reward.'

‘I've had some experience jumping through hoops in Indonesia.'

‘Then you have an idea of what you're up against. What would you like from me?'

‘Well, I could go back to Mombasa and start again, but I thought you may be able to put me in touch with someone in the department who's cooperative.'

‘Cooperation comes at a price.'

Riley shrugged. ‘I'm prepared to pay a little to save some time.'

‘Are you sure this child is still with the orphanage?'

‘I'm not sure of anything. All I know is the money's still coming out of my account every month.'

‘I do know someone in the Department of Community Development, through my father's side of the business.'

‘Maybe your father can direct me to someone useful?'

‘I'm afraid not,' she said. ‘He passed away late last year.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘It's okay, but thanks.' She smiled a little self-consciously. ‘It's strange, isn't it? It's been almost a year and yet it seems like only a week ago. I still have trouble believing he's not here, running the family business as he always did. So, this fellow in Community Development—his name's Omuga. He'll take your tea money, but you'll probably get what you're looking for.'

‘How do I see him?'

‘I'll make a call and let you know. How shall I contact you?'

Riley took a business card from the coffee table and wrote his mobile phone number on it.

‘I'd take you to see him myself,' said Kazlana, taking the card, ‘but, well, I made life difficult for a few of the senior people in the department when my father died, so if I were to introduce you, it would not be to your advantage.'

‘What did you do?' Riley asked.

She took a moment before responding. ‘When Papa died, I enquired about the circumstances of his death.'

‘And…?'

‘Let's just say they weren't explained to my satisfaction.'

‘How so?'

Again she hesitated. ‘They said he died in a plane crash near Wajir.'

‘I suppose aviation accidents aren't uncommon in those remote places,' Riley said.

‘You're right. But my father was an ace pilot. He wouldn't have made a mistake. And the weather wasn't a factor. I knew they were lying.'

Riley could see that Kazlana was quite a strong, assertive woman, as demonstrated by her admission that she had
made life difficult for people in the department
, but he recognised a sign of grief that he shared. Rather than accept what had happened, she wanted to find someone to blame. After
Melissa's death he'd spent a lot of energy in the same pursuit. ‘I guess there's nothing you can do about it now,' he said.

Kazlana stood up and moved to the door, indicating the interview was over. ‘That's where you're wrong. I intend to find out who was responsible. And when I do, I'll know exactly what to do about it.'

She didn't elaborate, but Riley left her office feeling there was more to Kazlana Ramanova than just a pretty face.

After the last of the men had departed the warehouse in the depths of the industrial area, Gideon Koske stood for a moment beside his car, reflecting upon the meeting. He had called the men together to organise a protest march, designed to cause the authorities to retaliate. The ensuing violence would make front-page news, drawing attention to the government's inability to maintain law and order. The twenty men he had recruited to incite the protesters were all very experienced operators.

He felt a little apprehensive that the police response might be lukewarm, but he had some ideas about leaking information in the right quarters to ensure that they were properly primed to take strong action. His young supporters in Kibera could be relied upon to provide the necessary enthusiasm, ensuring that the authorities felt suitably aggrieved and reacted appropriately.

He opened the car door and slid into the seat beside his driver, allowing himself a smile of self-congratulation. If this march had the desired effect, Kibaki and his supporters could be guaranteed to react vigorously to every future Odinga rally. The retaliations would escalate and the climate would be perfect for his purposes.

Everything was proceeding rather well.

 

Raila Odinga stood in the very heart of Kibera, on a makeshift platform above the bare red earth of Kamukungi and in the full heat of the sun. He was there to address his followers. His voice
fluctuated in strength as he moved the portable megaphone over the many thousands who had crammed into the railway easement to hear him speak.

Joshua was near enough to feel the full volume of Odinga's words as the megaphone swept past him. It made his chest thump and his ears ring, but he was too dazzled by the great man's presence to comprehend a word he said.

Then, quite suddenly, Odinga was gone amid a flurry of personal security guards. A mighty roar of appreciation followed him out. Before the crowd had time to disperse, a man stepped onto the platform and began to address it. Joshua did not recognise him as one of the many Odinga supporters who moved among the Kibera slums promoting their leader as next president, but with his black trousers and crisp white shirt he had an air of authority about him.

His voice boomed through the megaphone in his hand and across the Kamukungi clearing. ‘My friends,' he bellowed in Kiswahili. ‘Do you want our brother Raila Odinga to be president of Kenya?'

‘
Yes!
' the crowd roared.

‘Are you tired of the police and
askaris
harassing you for tea money?'

‘
Yes!
'

‘Is your landlord charging you too much for your tiny plot?'

‘
Yes!
'

‘Do you demand that the government do something about it?'

‘
Yes!
'

‘Then we must march, my friends! We must march to Uhuru Park and tell the government that we have had enough of all these things. We have had enough of the police taking our money. We have had enough of landlords who cheat us. We demand the government do something about it. No more of this talk, talk and nothing happens. We want
action
!'

A general roar of approval erupted.

‘Will you march with me to Uhuru Park, my friends?'

‘
Yes!
' came the reply and, as a body, the crowd surged forward towards the road leading to Uhuru Park—a venue where many political wars had been fought.

 

It was Charlotte's second day of research in the Nairobi National Archives. She was tired and had difficulty concentrating. She'd allowed herself a week for research in Nairobi before heading into the field, but that time was half gone and she had barely scratched the surface. The problem was, she kept getting sidetracked by stories that were interesting, but not essential to her thesis. If she didn't put all those distractions aside, she would never get to the core of her topic.

It had been much easier with her Master's thesis on the Maasai. The Maasai had been a pet anthropological topic for decades and there was a wealth of research material in Oxford's Museum of Natural History. The Luo were another matter. Quite early in their exposure to European influence, they had recognised the benefits of that civilisation and become willing participants and early adopters of a new way of life. Consequently, their cultural heritage wasn't as widely known or documented. She felt she had formulated a good plan for her thesis, but acquiring the raw information was difficult.

An important part of a PhD was the ability to develop efficiently a line of reasoning towards a logical conclusion. She tested the words again, picking them apart and appraising them individually before reassembling them.
An important part of a PhD is the ability to develop efficiently a line of reasoning towards a logical conclusion
. Good. Very good. It reassured her that her head was clear and ready to get back to work. Then she realised they were Professor Hornsby's words, from his pep talk before she left for Kenya.

She dropped her face into her hands and let a small groan escape.

 

Scattered around Riley's desk was the essence of his next novel. He had thought it would be a good story when he'd first read the historical account in Charlotte Manning's book. Now, with a more complete understanding of the historical perspective, he knew it was a great story. As with his first novel, his research in the National Archives was illuminating the details of the saga; like opening the lens of a camera to throw more light on the subject. Now he comprehended the true drama of the Maasai's battle to save their land.

The young woman at the end of his table groaned and Riley glanced at her in annoyance. It wasn't the first time she'd interrupted his train of thought.

He felt his Maasai story had a lot more going for it than the 1992 Mabo native title case had. While Mabo and its legal machinations and consequences had been interesting, it had lacked blood and guts. The formidable Maasai would surely add that component. Riley had found many references to their bloodthirsty reputation. Even the Arab slave traders had avoided the fierce warriors of Maasailand for years. Somewhere, buried in the history, there would surely be accounts of fierce and bloody resistance to the British encroachment into Maasailand, perhaps even an old-fashioned massacre or two to add dramatic highlights to his story.

But he had to get a grip. History was a mine of information. A very big mine. If he were to make this story what it could be, he needed time to find the nuggets. In the meantime, he had to earn enough money to sustain him in Kenya while completing the research for his novel. He thought about the business article he was researching. It was a little dry for his taste. The political tensions in Nairobi were palpable. Perhaps there was a bigger
story—an essay on politics, tribalism and corruption—that he could sell. There wasn't a lot of interest in Africa overseas at that moment, but perhaps the election would change that.

The woman at the end of his table arose, noisily scraping her chair on the parquetry floor. She seemed vaguely familiar, but he put his head down and returned to the correspondence files from the early twentieth century.

A half-hour later he collided with her in the Dewey 300–320 aisle. ‘Oops. Sorry,' he said.

‘I beg your pardon,' she replied.

He smiled. Then it dawned on him. She looked familiar because she was Charlotte Manning!

Here was the solution to his shortage of time and money to complete his research. Charlotte Manning, expert in all matters Maasai, could point him towards the most appropriate source documents in a trice. He could have the research component of his book in the bag and be home in a couple of weeks, ready to hit the computer. He had to find a way to pick her brains.

‘African research?' he asked pleasantly.

Her glance wasn't encouraging. ‘What do you mean?' she said coolly.

He smiled, innocence personified—or so he hoped—and pointed to the sign above the bookshelves:
316—General Statistics. Africa
.

She mumbled something unintelligible, gathered her armful of books and returned to her table.

Damn!
Riley thought. He was losing his touch. That response wasn't at all what he'd hoped for. Now she thought him some kind of stalker.

He took a moment to collect his thoughts. He would return to his desk and write a polite note explaining the situation, which he would place on her notepad. But by the time he returned to his desk, Charlotte Manning was heading for the door.

 

The mob poured onto Ngong Road. It had been swelled by Kibera residents, mostly young unemployed men who had not attended the rally but jumped at the opportunity to escape their boredom. Joshua was in the leading group, carrying a placard that had been thrust into his hands. It was around 5 pm and the traffic, already barely moving in the usual peak-hour crawl, came to a complete standstill. Joshua used his placard to club a Volvo station wagon, while others in his group did likewise to the cars nearest them.

The
matatus
—the ubiquitous minibuses that, so conventional wisdom suggested, were all owned by Kikuyu politicians—were given particularly harsh attention. Some had their windscreens smashed; and one, whose passengers had fled, was rocked energetically until it was overturned. The crowd responded with a roar of delight.

When the leading group reached the Nairobi Club on the hill overlooking Uhuru Park, they found the police waiting for them. The hated Special Response Unit was present in numbers—a formidable force in riot gear.

The speaker with the portable megaphone screamed almost hysterically for the marchers to push on. ‘We will not be denied our rights!' he began to chant. The crowd joined him and, after an initial hesitancy, surged forward.

Above the roar, Joshua heard the pop of a teargas canister. Then another. Almost immediately the acrid smoke attacked his lungs. At the same time a whistle blew and a score of helmeted, shield-carrying riot police charged the leading group.

Joshua used his placard to fend off the nearest policeman—a bull of a man in a gas mask, swinging his long riot stick like a sword. He managed to avoid the first two strikes, but his vision was blurred by the gas and the next caught him a glancing blow on the side of his head.

Joshua fell like a poleaxed steer.

 

A kilometre away, on the other side of Uhuru Park, Riley collected his backpack at the security desk and hurried out into busy Moi Avenue. Charlotte Manning was nowhere in sight, but he took a punt and turned right, thinking she might be headed to the university. After a block he caught sight of what he thought was her pink and white blouse bobbing among the crowd about a hundred metres away. He dodged in and out of the heavy pedestrian traffic. Most of the shoppers had stopped, and all faces were turned in the direction of the university, their heads cocked, listening.

Riley noticed there were few cars on the normally chaotic Moi Avenue.

Then he heard it too. It rumbled like a distant storm, resembling the muted sound of a football crowd at half-time—unfocused, but able to erupt without warning. He'd heard that sound once before, in Indonesia, and it had nearly cost him his life.

The rumbling drew closer. Now he could hear the jangle of metal, and a bass drum pounding a marching beat.

Up ahead, Charlotte took the opportunity of the sudden break in traffic to cross Moi Avenue.

Riley broke into a run. He intercepted her as the mob swung out of University Way, only a block from them. He grabbed her and dragged her by the arm back to the footpath.

‘
You!
' she gasped, trying to regain her breath.

‘Quick! In here,' he said, and dragged her again, this time towards a café where the owner was hastily erecting boards over the windows.

‘What are you
doing
?' she said as she shrugged him from her elbow. ‘You're the…the
person
from the library.'

‘I am. Look,' he said, pointing to the approaching mob. ‘This is going to get ugly any minute and we have to get off the street.'

‘Do we now?' Her eyes were blazing. ‘Well, I can tell you, I've been in my share of demonstrations. It's just a simple student protest.'

‘Maybe. But the riot police are most likely on their way, so it's going to get a lot uglier before it gets better.'

As if to prove his point, sirens sounded in the distance.

The shopkeeper was at his door, about to slam it. Riley lifted Charlotte into his arms and pushed past him into the café. When they were barely inside, the owner locked the door.

‘
Oh!
' Charlotte spluttered, and pushed him away from her as soon as he put her down. ‘What sort of Neanderthal are you?'

‘Listen,' he said, pointing in the direction of the street. The shouting and accompanying cacophony of metal instruments were drowned by the screech of police whistles and wailing sirens. ‘The riot police have arrived.'

‘That's no reason to go dragging people off the street, is it?' she said, straightening her crumpled blouse. ‘They're just students.'

‘You're not at Oxford now, Ms Manning. These guys aren't just protesting for equal rights, you know. They mean business. So do the riot police. Believe me, I've seen it in Indonesia. You don't want to get caught in the middle of one of these things.'

The mob began to howl as the police and riot squad converged upon them. The sound of smashing glass came from nearby.

‘I don't see what all the fuss—'

The
pom, pom
of exploding teargas grenades interrupted her. She went to the window where the hand holes in the wooden covers allowed a view of the street. Whatever she saw, it caused her to turn back to him, mollified.

‘Well…Anyway, how do you know my name?' she said.

‘How do I know your…' He took a deep breath and let it escape with a loud sigh. ‘God, I'd kill for a cigarette. Let's take a seat back here, shall we? It'll be a while until the teargas clears.'