Softly Calls the Serengeti (7 page)

She reluctantly followed him to a table near the rear of the café and took a seat opposite him.

‘I wanted to talk to you about something anyway,' he said.

‘You haven't answered my question. How do you know my name?'

‘I'm a—' He was interrupted by a shrieking whistle from outside. Heavy boots pounded past the window.

‘I'm a researcher, just like you,' he went on.

She looked unconvinced.

‘Come to think of it, I'm a fan. I've read your book on the Maasai. It got me interested in the whole field of anthropology.' It was quite a leap, but he hoped a little flattery might ease the situation.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘It did?'

‘Absolutely. I'm a journo by profession, and it just, like, really grabbed me. You know what I mean?'

‘Well, I must say there have been researchers who have inspired me—'

‘Exactly. Look, let's start again. I'll buy you a coffee.' Without waiting for her reply, he called to the owner, ‘Two coffees, please.'

‘Tea. Black,' she said.

‘Sorry, one black tea and one black coffee, no sugar.'

Fifteen minutes later, he had explained how he had recognised her from the photo in her book, and that it was an understandable coincidence that they had crossed paths as they were both researching the Maasai.

‘It's karma,' he concluded.

‘Hmm…Australian?' she said. Her tone suggested that, if confirmed, it would fulfil her worst fears.

He nodded. ‘Accent?'

She shook her head. ‘Suntan.'

‘African.'

‘You?'

‘No, the suntan, of course.'

‘Of course. But there's certainly a little of that nasally twang. So you're an Australian who's come to Africa to research a novel and a series of articles. Is that any reason to stalk a person in a library?'

‘Now, hang on a moment. Sitting in a library is hardly a capital offence. I just wanted to do some research. Like you.'

‘Why are you researching the Maasai?' she asked. ‘You're an Australian, for goodness sake.'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Can't you do something about the Aborigines? They're your lot.'

‘I've done the bloody Aborigines,' he said, becoming frustrated with the way the conversation was going. ‘Now I'm onto something else.'

‘What do you mean, you've
done the Aborigines
?'

‘My first novel was based on the Mabo native title court case. The Maasai's land situation seems to be something of a parallel.'

‘The Mabo—I'm fairly familiar with it. And you're right, there is a parallel.'

‘That's what I thought.'

His confidence and enthusiasm were reignited. Even finding out a stuffed shirt like Charlotte Manning was interested in his concept helped prove his story had the legs he'd hoped for.

‘Where will you start?' she asked. ‘I mean, the land has been central to the Maasai psyche for centuries. Millennia.'

‘Hell, this is a novel, not a thesis. I reckon I'll start around the beginning of the twentieth century, when the commissioner first started giving out leases in the Great Rift Valley.'

‘Is that it?'

‘Eh?'

‘Is that all you plan to research?'

He sensed a touch of haughty derision in her tone—the straight-A history buff smugly polishing her gold medal.

‘No. In fact, when I finish my research here, I plan to go up country to gather more grass-roots information.'

Grass-roots information? What the hell is that?
he wondered, and prepared to defend it, but it went unchallenged.

‘Interesting,' she said unconvincingly.

‘That's what I wanted to talk to you about.'

She raised a shaped eyebrow.

‘About research, I mean. Since we're both studying the Maasai—although admittedly from totally different perspectives—there's probably a lot of common ground we need to cover.'

Her expression gave nothing away, which encouraged him to continue.

‘So I was thinking, why not combine our efforts? We could, you know, help each other from our respective backgrounds. You're an expert on the Maasai and I could maybe use the odd piece of advice you might offer on their history and customs. And I'm an author, so you could probably use some help in framing your thesis. We could share expenses in the process.'

She raised a clear-lacquered fingernail, tapping it gently against a row of straight, white teeth, before reaching for her shoulder bag. ‘Mr…?'

‘Riley. Mark.'

‘Mr Riley. Two things. Firstly, I'm not studying the Maasai. As you so eloquently put it yourself:
I've done that
. I'm now studying another tribe—the Luo. And secondly, I don't need your help to frame my thesis. I have a double degree—the second in English literature.'

She stood to leave.

‘Oh, one other thing. What sort of person do you think I am to agree to…how did you put it?
Share expenses
with a total stranger? I'm afraid your pick-up line needs refinement.'

At the door she looked out briefly, then slipped through it to join the crowds once again filling Moi Avenue.

Joshua awoke among a tangle of bodies with the sound of sirens ringing in his ears and a dull ache in his head. He gingerly touched the sensitive part of his scalp and his finger found a patch of thickening blood.

Above him was a small, reinforced-glass window. The cabin—for now he realised he was in the back of a police truck—rocked and bounced as the vehicle sped around corners, no doubt on its way to the retaining cells. His heart sank. He'd heard what happened to people who were scooped up by the riot police. Around him, his fellow detainees wore sick and sorry looks. They too had no illusions about what awaited them.

 

He stood naked and shivering in the cool night air, fearful of what might next happen. Taunts came from behind the strong floodlights of the police headquarters' quadrangle. He knew enough Kikuyu to know they were joking about his uncircumcised penis—the cultural legacy of his Luo birth.

Icy water slammed into his bare body like the blow of a cold, steel sledgehammer and Joshua was knocked to the ground. He curled into the foetal position against the stone wall.

He became aware of the coarse concrete tearing at the unprotected skin of his back as he was dragged from the courtyard. The pain was mercifully subdued by the lingering fogginess of his mind.

The two men who had dragged him into the cell flung him face down over a high wooden bench and tied his wrists to the
thick legs. Joshua jerked at the ropes and struggled, his throat constricting as his fear rose. He was very aware of his nakedness.

Someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head so he was looking into the pock-marked face of a uniformed man he hadn't seen before. Joshua searched the cold, bloodshot eyes and found not a trace of humanity there. The man was brutish, unshaven and had foul breath. When he smiled, Joshua noted a white-gold tooth glinting between thick, bluish lips.

‘Ah, the sleeping beauty awakes,' the man said, before sitting back in the chair placed in line with Joshua's vision. ‘And now we will have a little talk, you and I.' He lifted his belly and slid a long, black truncheon from the loop on his belt. He stroked it then began to slap it gently into the palm of his hand. It was almost a caress. The smile continued and he nodded for emphasis. ‘You will tell me who your friends are. You will tell me who pays you for breaking the law.'

Joshua said nothing.

The truncheon slammed into his kidney region. He gasped in pain.

‘The names. You will tell me and there will be no charges laid.'

‘I don't know who was there. I am marching with many others. How can I know all their names?'

The truncheon rapped Joshua's back again.

The questions continued as the policeman repeated the
slap, slap
with the truncheon on his palm. ‘I will have the name of the man who pays you to make trouble,' he said.

‘So you can go to him demanding your tea money?' Joshua snapped, without a thought for the consequences.

The man's face darkened. Joshua braced for the assault and shut his eyes.

The blow didn't come. Instead, the man stood and smiled as he ran his hand up and down the truncheon.

‘Now I see it,' he said, and nodded to his accomplice on Joshua's blind side.

Almost immediately Joshua felt a leather belt flung over his
back. Before he could fight it, his waist was clamped to the wooden bench and the belt made painfully tight. He could scarcely breathe.

‘You are what we call a convert,' the man with the truncheon said. ‘A convert, just like in a church. Someone who stupidly follows a man who says he can solve all the problems of the world; or even just those of Kibera. Food for everyone.' He laughed. ‘Fools, all of you.'

As he spoke, he walked slowly towards the foot of the bench. Joshua followed him with his eyes, until his position made it impossible to see further. Not knowing what was in store made the situation more frightening. He gritted his teeth, determined to resist any response that would give the thug satisfaction.

‘I could make you talk, there is no doubt,' the man said. ‘But why waste my strength, ah? There are plenty more who will squeak as soon as I put them in the trap. So I will let you go. But you will remember this day before you take to the streets again, my little friend.'

Joshua instinctively tensed his buttocks at the first touch of the truncheon. Then pain seared through him and, in spite of his determination to remain silent, a sound escaped his lips that was so foreign it was impossible it had come from his own mouth.

 

Simon was hanging fragments of scavenged tinsel along the rough-cut shelf above the wash bench when his son finally arrived home.

‘What happened to you?' he demanded.

Joshua kept his face turned away from the harsh light of the electric bulb above the kitchen table. ‘Nothing,' he said.

‘You were in the riot on Ngong Road,' Simon insisted.

‘I fell from a
matatu
.'

Simon moved into the light. ‘Let me look at you.'

Joshua remained outside the throw of the globe.

‘I said, come over here and let me see you.'

‘Leave me alone. I just want to sleep.'

Simon wanted to shake his son. Instead, he put a hand to his mouth and pressed it tight so he could say none of the many angry words that came to mind. He took a deep breath and let his shoulders relax. It did no good to push the boy too far.

‘The police have done this to you,' he said.

‘I told you, I fell.'

Simon slumped onto his chair. He clasped his hands together on the table and stared at them. ‘What has happened to us?' he asked, almost inaudibly.

Joshua said nothing. He remained in the shadows, leaning against the bench near the door.

‘If your mother were alive, we wouldn't be like this,' Simon added.

He looked to his son, hoping for some sign of acknowledgement if not agreement, but Joshua's expression was sullen and closed.

‘Do you blame me for the fire?' he asked.

His son shook his head.

‘Then why can we not support each other? We two of the six that were our family?'

‘I don't blame you for what happened to our family,' Joshua said. ‘But I blame you for not avenging them.'

‘But how could I? Like you, I wasn't at home.'

‘I am talking of their memory. You refused to avenge their deaths. You have allowed those who killed them to laugh at you, and at me, because we haven't fought back.'

‘Would finding the killers bring your mother and sisters back?'

‘No, but it would prove to the Kikuyu that taking Luo lives has its consequences.'

‘Oh, Joshua, Joshua. This hate will destroy you. You must let it go. You will have no rest unless you can let the innocents lie in peace.'

‘That is where you are wrong, my father. It is my hate that makes me strong. Although you refuse to let me live the Jo-Luo life, you cannot deny my revenge on our enemies.'

Even in the half-light Simon could see the passion in his son's eyes. It had gone too far. Joshua must be told, regardless of the consequences.

‘Son, you don't understand. On that night—'

‘No! It is
you
who don't understand. Because of your cowardice, you can't see why I want my family's death to be put right. There is a tribal war coming, Luo against Kikuyu. And while you may hide from it, I will not.' He turned to the door.

‘Wait! Joshua, I need to talk to you. Where are you going?'

His son paused at the open door. ‘Away. Any place away from you.' He almost spat the words. ‘I can't live in a house with a man with so little…courage.'

Simon sank to his chair, the sound of the slamming door still ringing in his ears. He realised he had lost any influence he'd had on Joshua. He had been stubborn, refusing the boy's requests to hear about his Luo family history, and now Joshua was rebelling.

Simon recalled that he'd been a rebellious boy himself. His actions after the death of his best friend, Nicholas Odhiambo, had challenged authority in a much more serious manner.

 

‘But, Grandfather, if you arrange a cleansing ceremony for me, Sergeant Mutua will know about it and he will arrest me.'

‘You have nothing to fear from Mutua,' his grandfather said. He had come to the village the instant he had heard of Odhiambo's death. ‘It was just a terrible accident. You are a child. Nothing can be gained by charging you with the boy's death. I have spoken to the council of elders; they will speak on your behalf.'

Simon had kept the he-goat prank a secret from his grandfather. It would shock and shame him if he knew of his grandson's mischief. He also didn't know how Odhiambo had gained the injuries that had cost him his front teeth. Simon had told him Odhiambo had fallen off the train in Kisumu. Now he had no option but to tough it out, denying all and hoping he could convince his grandfather not to draw Odhiambo's death to the attention of the authorities. If he did, Mutua could legitimately bring him in for questioning. And who knew what accidents might befall a spirited young Luo boy while trying to escape custody?

‘It is a greater concern that you are not yet cleansed,' his grandfather said. ‘Already you have put yourself, your mother, me and everyone in the village in peril. We must act quickly.'

Simon refused.

The old man warned him that if he didn't complete the cleansing, he would be cursed with bad luck all his life. It was hard for Simon to disobey his grandfather, but again he refused.

The council of elders became involved. They asked Simon why he would not follow the tested Luo procedure to protect himself and all those close to him from the evils of an uncleansed death.

Simon couldn't answer.

The debate raged among the Luo and Sergeant Mutua heard of it. He came to Simon's house while he was absent. His grandfather told him of the sergeant's visit when Simon arrived home.

‘Now, see what has happened,' he said. ‘The government people know about it already. Now we will proceed. I will call on the medicine man tomorrow to perform the cleansing. We will have it as soon as possible.'

He could not be dissuaded. Simon went to stay with his mother, but when her new husband heard that Simon had refused the cleansing, he chased him out.

For two weeks, he hid in the forest, stealing or begging food
from friends and relatives, until they too became concerned about the bad luck they would incur by continuing to aid him.

In desperation he went to his grandfather and confessed to his part in Mutua's disgrace.

‘You cannot let Mutua come for me,' he pleaded. ‘If he takes me away, he will beat me.'

His grandfather looked sad, but he could not ignore the customs. ‘It is what must be done.'

Simon then told him about the ferocious beating Mutua had given Odhiambo. ‘I fear he may do worse to me. Maybe he will kill me.'

Now his grandfather wrung his hands with worry. ‘I must think carefully about this,' he said, but there was no doubt he was sorely troubled.

Within days the old man was ailing. It tortured Simon to be the cause of his grandfather's failing health. He felt his only option was to leave.

Within three days he was on an express bus to Nairobi. He greatly regretted leaving, but now he was on his way, he became excited by the adventure. Everyone knew the big city far to the east was full of opportunities.

 

Blaring horns and a cacophony of traffic noises awoke Simon shortly after dawn. The Nairobi terminal was in turmoil as he stepped down from the bus. His fellow passengers were frantically calling to the turn-boy to toss their bags from the roof. When he did, they threw themselves into the human maelstrom and disappeared like sticks in a flooded stream. They were obviously more aware than Simon of what was creating the surrounding panic. As people jostled around him, he clutched his
kikapu
to his chest, awaiting whatever disaster may be about to befall them. All his worldly belongings were in that simple straw basket.

After several minutes, he realised there was no panic. People were merely getting on with their day, although in a very different and much noisier manner than he was accustomed to in the lake province.

A boy pulling a push-cart full of
viazi tamu
bustled past him. Seeing the sweet potatoes that were widely grown around Lake Victoria gave Simon a twinge of homesickness. He thrust it from his mind as he realised he had absolutely no idea what to do next. The bus and roof rack of luggage were now empty. The passengers had scattered into the throng and another bus edged towards Simon, tooting its demand for the space he was occupying. He retreated to the sidelines, where a long row of food vendors were noisily hawking their wares.

‘
Bhang?
' a voice at his shoulder asked.

‘What?'

‘
Bhang?
You want
bhang
? Very fresh.'

The youth, perhaps a year or two older than Simon, waved a plastic bag filled with dried leaves under his nose while nervously turning his own head from left to right.

‘No,' Simon said, unsure if the boy was offering to give it to him or sell it. He wasn't even sure he'd understood the question as the boy spoke Kiswahili with a very strong accent.

The plastic bag and its contents disappeared into the front of the boy's shirt. ‘Where you from? Where you from?' he demanded.

‘Kisumu.'

‘Jo-Luo, uh? You need a room? You need a place to stay?'

The repeated questions gave Simon the chance to decipher his odd accent.

‘Um, yes,' he replied.

‘Come,' the boy said, taking a few steps away. ‘Come,' he repeated when Simon remained rooted to the spot.

He led Simon to a
matatu
, which the driver raced through the congested streets like a man possessed, throwing Simon about like a cork in a flood.