Softly Calls the Serengeti (8 page)

About fifteen minutes into their journey, the tree-lined streets and neat houses disappeared, to be replaced by corrugated-iron shacks and cheap concrete-block, two-and three-storey buildings with louvred window glass and graffitied walls.

‘Come,' the boy said, alighting. He waited with a bored expression until Simon realised he was expected to pay his fare too.

‘What is this place?' Simon asked as the boy led him through muddy, narrow alleys.

‘This place? Mathare,' the boy said. And again, ‘Mathare.'

Mathare was a place like no other Simon had seen. Although there were many cheaply built shacks in the Nyanza district surrounding his village near Lake Victoria, he'd never seen so many in one confined space. The odours of rotting vegetation and, occasionally, human and animal excrement assaulted his senses and seemed to cling to his skin and clothing. He tried to hold his breath until the stench passed, but soon his chest was about to burst and he was forced to gulp air in huge lungfuls. He would have turned back had he not already invested his thirty shillings in the
matatu
fare.

After ten minutes, the boy climbed two sets of stairs to an outside walkway that led to an open doorway into a room furnished sparsely with a sofa, a table and half a dozen chairs. There were two young men of about nineteen in the room. Without a word, Simon's guide took him through into a bedroom equipped with four double bunks.

‘It's nice, uh?' he said.

Before Simon could answer, he added, ‘Hundred shillings.'

Simon thought he was joking. It was a ridiculous amount. He spoke to one of the boys in the other room, who was a Luo, asking in Dho-Luo if it was true that the rent was a hundred a month.

The youth assured Simon the rent was no joke; in fact, it was a good price for a bed in Nairobi. Simon was left in no doubt that Nairobi was a very different place to his home.

He nodded to his guide, who led him out onto the landing to discuss business. A few minutes later, Simon had handed over his month's rent in advance and the boy had disappeared.

Later that day the agent arrived and Simon learnt his first lesson of his new life: trust nobody. The tout who had led him to the property held no official capacity, which meant the advance rent Simon had paid him had to be paid again. This left him with just two hundred and seventy-five shillings until he found a means of support.

 

Reflecting upon his past, Simon had no doubt that he had passed on his impetuous nature to his son. It was the cause of much of the trouble between them.

He wondered yet again about his decision to run away from home. How much more pain could Sergeant Mutua have inflicted upon him over what had been done since coming to Nairobi? If he had stayed in Kisumu could his suffering be worse than losing his wife and children in a fire, and his only son to misunderstanding and prejudice?

 

Joshua had been wandering the alleys of Kisumu Ndogo for hours, unsure of what to do. He knew he couldn't go back to his father's shack, but the only other person he felt he could impose upon was Kwazi. The problem was, he hadn't seen him since Kwazi had uttered those stinging words a few days ago, causing an open wound in their friendship.

Kwazi's place was a few sheets of iron straddling a ridge pole propped against an incomplete cement-block wall. The remains of Kwazi's cooking fire smouldered under the piece of steel-reinforcing mesh that constituted his kitchen stove, sending foul-smelling smoke drifting into the still night. Someone had
found the resources to commence building but not enough to complete it. Either way, it was to Kwazi's benefit—at least in the short term, until one of Kibera's strong men moved in to claim ownership. Kwazi had lived in this semi-nomadic state for as long as Joshua had known him.

Joshua lifted the corner of the burlap that covered the door opening.

‘I have a
panga
,' said a shrill voice from the darkness within. ‘I'll kill you if you don't get away.'

‘Kwazi, it's me.'

‘
Haki ya mungu
,' Kwazi swore. ‘I could have taken off your head!'

‘Do you really have a
panga
in there?'

Kwazi crawled out through the burlap and peered up at Joshua. ‘Why do I need a
panga
in Kibera, ah? It's not worth the stones.'

He was referring to the squatters' habit of stoning thieves to death if caught.

Joshua took a seat beside the fireplace. Kwazi sat opposite.

‘You're using shit to cook your meals these days?' Joshua asked, indicating the smouldering fire.

‘Ah-ah-ah. It stinks. I know. But what can I do? There was paint on the timber I found.'

Joshua waited, reluctant to be the first to speak. He'd realised after storming off the other day that he'd been thoughtless in using the word ‘ugly' in reference to Kwazi's face. But it was a common expression and Kwazi should have known he would never be so deliberately cruel.

‘I'm sorry about—' Kwazi began.

‘No! It was me. I shouldn't have—'

‘I didn't think about what I was saying and—'

‘I didn't mean it,' Joshua said.

They paused, each a little embarrassed by their emotional rush for forgiveness.

Kwazi was next to speak. ‘Your face…What happened?'

Joshua could never reveal to anyone, not even to Kwazi, what had happened to him at the police headquarters. The shame would be far worse than the pain he had endured. He had heard others speak in hushed and horrified voices of atrocities such as had been forced upon him in that foul little room. He couldn't stand to be ridiculed by those who were not his friends and, worse, to be pitied by those who were. It would forever remain his secret.

He shrugged. ‘The police collected some of us from Ngong Road. They took us down to Harry Thuku Road.'

He knew Kwazi would not press the matter. People taken from Kibera to police headquarters always received a beating and it was considered impolite to ask for details.

‘That is not why you are here at this late hour,' Kwazi said. ‘You have had another argument with your father.'

Joshua nodded, worrying the coals of the fire with a length of fencing wire.

‘I heard you scored three goals against Makina,' Kwazi added.

Joshua nodded again. ‘Wakamba and Kikuyus. They are easily beaten.'

‘Some of those Kamba boys are big. They have a very good defence and the best goalie in the competition.'

Joshua was taken by surprise. Kwazi had a practised uninterest in football. ‘How do you know about all that?' he asked.

Kwazi chuckled. ‘I heard them talking in Makina.'

Joshua smiled, nodding. Kwazi was a reliable collector of Kibera gossip.

‘They also say that the Siafu striker has a chance for national selection,' Kwazi went on.

Joshua shrugged, but didn't respond. It was a dream beyond imagining.

‘Why did you have an argument with your father?' Kwazi asked, returning to the subject.

Joshua tried to recall. Recently, almost everything about his father tended to annoy him.

‘I don't know. Nothing really,' he answered.

But he knew that was not the truth, and Kwazi seemed to sense it for he remained silent, patiently waiting for Joshua to untangle the mass of issues that spun around in his head. There was his father's annoying complacency about the upcoming elections. He wasn't interested in fighting against the Kikuyus and their Meru cousins, who had all the power while the Luo and smaller tribes had none. He thought it shameful that his father would not at least give moral support to the opposition party, which was the voice for change. It was the same attitude of indifference his father showed regarding his Luo heritage, which he refused to pass on to Joshua. As a result, Joshua felt banished from his tribe, and conspicuous among all his peers who, although not necessarily initiated into their respective tribes, at least had the comfort of learning of their roots from their fathers.

Ultimately, though, he could never forgive his father for not taking revenge on the Kikuyu youths who had run amuck that night, causing the death of his mother and sisters in that terrible fire. If his father had at least tried to find those responsible, Joshua could have forgiven him all else.

‘I cannot respect him, Kwazi,' he said at last. ‘He has never been a father to me. What kind of man would not teach his son the ways of his tribe? Your father and mother are gone, but I know your father taught you about Kisii customs before he died.'

Kwazi sucked his teeth. ‘What do I care for Kisii customs? What good has come from knowing that old stuff?'

‘It doesn't matter if there is good to come from it or not. To know it is the important thing. It's who you are.'

‘I am Kwazi. If there is more to know about me, then I can say I am Kenyan. Look at the trouble the tribes are causing us right now. We should forget them. They're not important any more.'

‘Ah!' Joshua spat into the smouldering fire. ‘You sound like my father. There is more to being proud of your tribe than how you should vote. If he were proud to be Luo, he would have found those Kikuyus who burnt our house that night. He would have killed them all.'

Kwazi was pensive. ‘I have never understood why you think they were Kikuyu. Your mother was one of them. Why would they burn your house?'

‘Do you think they knew that? No. They were out to burn Luo houses in Kisumu Ndogo—of course it was a Luo house. They didn't know us. They didn't know my mother was a Kikuyu. Maybe they didn't know there were small children there. But it doesn't change their crime. They should have been punished. But they weren't.' Joshua stabbed his wire into the embers in a flash of temper. ‘I will never stop until I make them pay. All of them!'

Riley was about to leave his hotel room for the National Archives when his mobile phone rang. It was Kazlana.

‘I have the correct address for your Circularian orphanage, Mark.'

‘Great!' He fumbled in his pocket for a pen. ‘Let's have it.'

‘It's Kibera Gardens Road in Kibera.'

‘But I went there. The place is deserted. Not a sign of life.'

There was silence on the end of the line.

‘Hmm…' Kazlana said after some moments. ‘I don't know what to say. I'm confident my information from Community Development is correct.'

It was Riley's turn to ponder the situation. He had no idea where to turn.

‘Kazlana,' he said, ‘I'm obviously out of my depth here. Are you able to help me?'

 

They met in a café near her office. The noise of traffic doing battle at the intersection of Kenyatta Avenue and Kimathi Street drifted to their table at the rear of the shop.

‘I rang Omuga after I spoke to you,' Kazlana said. The waiter brought their coffees and she waited until he'd gone before continuing. ‘He confirmed the address, but didn't want to discuss the orphanage any further. I said all I wanted was the name of the operator and a list of the children's names, but he was very nervous about giving me anything.'

‘Why?'

‘I'm not sure, but it took me a long time to convince him to see you. I'm afraid that means more than the usual bribe.'

‘I expected to pay something. How much does he want?'

‘Five thousand shillings.'

Riley did the mental arithmetic. Eighty dollars Australian. It wasn't a lot to pay for peace of mind. ‘That's manageable…if I must.'

‘He said he will meet with you on Friday if you want to proceed with it.'

‘Good. Why don't we set it up for Starbucks at eleven?'

She told him how to recognise Omuga. ‘That orphan must be important to you,' she added.

‘Aren't all kids important?'

‘Of course they are. Even more so at the moment. UNICEF has set up an inquiry into Kenya's adherence to the Convention on the Rights of the Child.'

Riley nodded. He'd seen a small article in the newspaper the day before. The Convention was intended to prevent the exploitation and abuse of children and to ensure they weren't put at risk while under the care of institutions.

‘What do you think has prompted it?' he asked.

‘My guess is it's political. Someone in the opposition has been feeding information to UNICEF.'

‘I'm getting the impression there's not much happening in Kenya right now that isn't political,' Riley said. ‘Which reminds me, what's the story on these non-government organisations?'

‘Government services in Kenya are pathetic. Health services are almost non-existent. There's no such thing as unemployment benefits, of course. They rely on NGOs to meet even basic needs.'

‘How do people manage?'

‘Family support. It's one of the reasons Kenyans have such large families. Parents rely on their children to support them in their old age. If they have no family, then they're in trouble. There's a thriving cottage industry in local NGOs—briefcase
charities, they're called. Almost anyone can form an organisation, get a piece of paper from Community Development and start collecting funds. How much of the money ever reaches the needy is seldom checked. Foreign NGOs do most of the real work here, and they have to undergo audits so we know the benefits get where they're supposed to.'

‘But perhaps not in the case of the Circularians,' Riley said.

‘That's a question your meeting with Omuga should answer.'

‘Hopefully. And thanks for your help. How much do I owe you?'

‘It was nothing. But you can pay for the coffee.'

‘Well, I appreciate it. Lucky for me your father had the connections. I don't know what I would've done otherwise. How did he get involved with the Department of Community Development?'

‘I'm not sure. When Grandpa Omar died, Papa decided it was time to move away from our traditional role as a trading company to something better able to deal with the modern way of doing business.'

‘By “the modern way” do you mean a legal operation?'

She smiled. ‘Maybe. Anyway, he started a transport and logistics company specialising in areas more difficult or dangerous to access. Papa would fly into places like Rwanda, Somalia and the Congo. I suppose that's how he started doing business with the Department of Community Development—flying aid into those countries. I don't really know. Papa ran that side of the business from Mombasa. I haven't even had the heart to go through his files. It's just too difficult for me.'

‘Were you involved in any part of that business?'

‘Not really. I kept our trading business going here in Nairobi, and sometimes helped Papa as a part-time pilot.'

‘Do you still fly?'

‘I do. It's the most energising experience I know. I simply love it.'

‘Maybe you'll take me flying one day.'

Her eyes twinkled over her coffee cup. ‘Maybe I will.'

She gave him another of her bright smiles before she said goodbye and swung out into the busy street.

 

‘I'm sorry, Charlotte,' Dr Gilanga said, looking over his glasses at her, ‘Professor Hornsby and I are in total agreement on the matter.' They were discussing Charlotte's plans to go up country to continue her research.

‘But, Dr Gilanga,' she pleaded, ‘the trouble is only here in Nairobi. There's nothing like that happening in the Rift Valley.'

‘That's not to say that it won't. In 2002 the Rift Valley was the site of some of the worst political violence of the campaign. And it may happen again. The issues haven't been resolved.'

‘I'll be very careful. Really I will.'

She could see her visit to the Great Rift Valley fading away.

Dr Gilanga was shaking his head. ‘You see, my dear, Professor Hornsby and I had the impression that you would be travelling in Kenya with your fiancé, Mr Wainscote. We might have had quite a different view on the whole matter of the bursary had we known you had changed your plans.'

When Charlotte had applied for the study grant six months ago, she and Bradley had still been together; and when they'd broken up, the last thing on her mind was the effect it might have on her field trip. The whole problem might not have arisen had her tutor and Bradley not met at a recent social function. Professor Hornsby had then contacted Dr Gilanga in a panic. But Charlotte wasn't about to let the mere matter of security interfere with her research for her thesis.

‘Dr Gilanga, I hope you're not implying that I need a
male
to help me get around,' she said, stopping just short of outright indignation.

The old man let a smile creep across his face. ‘We are not in Oxford now, Charlotte. You don't need to lecture me on
political correctness. I'm sure I don't have to remind you that this is Africa. Even without the current political tensions, some parts of our country are not safe. And I'm not talking about the wildlife. So, yes, I am indeed saying that you need a man to accompany you on your field trip.'

‘But Nairobi is the worst danger spot and I've been able to avoid any trouble here.' She pushed aside the memory of almost stumbling into the riot.

Dr Gilanga became pensive. ‘In 2002 my nephew, a very bright young man who worked with us here at the Institute, was driving his family through Gilgil on his way home to Nakuru. It was a time very much like now: there had been a great deal of emotion surrounding the election campaign and the contest between the incumbent Kalenjin president and his Kikuyu opponent. But my nephew had no concerns about travelling across the Rift Valley. There had been no news of any trouble in the area. However, apparently a local Kikuyu farmer had a few days earlier shot a Kalenjin man. There was some doubt about the circumstances—there always is—but one thing led to another and a war of revenge erupted.' His hands had been resting on his desk top, but now he clasped them together, making his knuckles turn white. ‘The police said that my nephew—a Kikuyu, like me—was bound and gagged by the Kalenjin mob and made to watch while they butchered his wife. He was then tied to a tree and beaten to death. His two young daughters were spared their lives, but…'

He broke off and looked at Charlotte with misty eyes. ‘In these uncertain times, Charlotte, avoiding trouble doesn't always save you. Sometimes trouble comes looking for you.'

 

Charlotte tried to get back to her research, but Dr Gilanga's veto on her up-country field trip was foremost in her thoughts. She had three options. One: forget about the field component of
her work and confine her efforts to desk research. She was unsure how Professor Hornsby would view this, but from what he had said when she'd put forward her study plan, she was fairly sure that he put great store in what he called ‘getting involved in the real world'.

Two: she could swallow her pride and ask Bradley to come to Kenya. She felt sure he would agree, but she didn't want to suggest any chance of a reconciliation. Having made the break, she wanted no misunderstandings about what the trip might mean. Poor Brad. He didn't really comprehend the reason for their breakup. He couldn't understand why she wasn't attracted to the idea of being wife to a partner in Stinton, Ashmore and Wainscote. Charlotte had tried to explain that such a life just wouldn't suit her; she wanted to continue her studies and one day work as an anthropologist. At some point, the idea of marrying Bradley had become just plain boring. Not that she could tell him that, of course. She'd put it down to their incompatible aspirations. She shook her head. No, she really didn't want Brad in the picture again.

The third option was her only real choice.

She stole a glance at Mark Riley sitting at the next table to her, huddled over an open collection of loose papers. He looked personable. She imagined some women might even find him attractive. He had a pleasant smile that made his green-grey eyes sparkle. Strong jaw, with designer stubble that quite suited him. He seemed intelligent. A bit of a wit—in his view, at least. Although his manner couldn't be described as refined, he seemed house-trained, if a little crude at times. He'd probably be handy in a tight situation. And once they got out to the Rift Valley, she could do as she pleased.

It might just work. But she'd have to act quickly to overcome a rocky start.

 

Riley couldn't work it out. Only a day or two ago, Charlotte Manning had been the ice maiden.
How dare he suggest she accompany him to the Rift Valley? What sort of woman did he take her for?
Now she was helpful, even congenial. She started by making a polite enquiry about his research, then offered a few suggestions on where he might find some information he needed. She was a practised researcher and knew all the tricks of the trade. She was a whiz on the library's computerised cross-reference system, and knew exactly where to look for those tantalisingly beyond-all-reasonable-reach details.

He was mystified by her change of attitude. What had he done or said that might have brought about this change of mood? He was fairly certain she'd been annoyed with him the first few times their paths had crossed. It got him thinking. She was quite an attractive lady, if a little reserved for his liking. Perhaps there was more to her interest in him than just their shared research? Maybe she wanted to develop their relationship in other ways?

He dismissed the idea. He wasn't at all ready for that kind of thing, and anyway she wasn't his type. What intrigued him—always had—was how a guy could ever hope to understand the intricacies of the female mind. He gave a mental shrug. An unknowable situation, and it was interrupting his concentration when he should be cramming on early British East African history.

‘I'm going out for a cup of tea,' she said mid-afternoon. ‘Would you like one?'

‘Um…' He ran his eyes over the books and folders on his table as if the answer might be found somewhere there. ‘Yes, ah, please. I mean, no. But I wouldn't mind a coffee.'

‘Fine. I'll bring you one.' She headed towards the door, then turned back, catching him staring after her. ‘I've forgotten,' she whispered. ‘Is it white, two sugars?'

‘Black. No sugar.'

‘Of course,' she said, and smiled at him as she closed the door behind her.

He sat there doodling on his writing pad for a while, before tossing his pen onto the table and following her.

She was at the dispensing machine, rummaging in her handbag.

‘Need some change?' he asked.

‘Oh, yes, please. I seem to be out of coins.'

‘Here we go.'

He poured her black, no-sugar tea, then his coffee, and carried both polystyrene cups to one of the tables in the small alcove off the corridor.

‘Thank you,' she said when they'd taken their seats. ‘But I was going to bring it in to you.'

‘Needed a break anyway.'

‘How's the research going?' she asked pleasantly.

‘Interesting. I've been into the archives on the political system here. For a long time it was a single-party democracy. A bit of an oxymoron, don't you think? Anyway, it's all here.'

He went on to explain that his idea was to follow the issue of corruption in politics and the effect that tribal associations had on the political process. Charlotte listened attentively through his whole spiel, sipping her tea in silence.

‘Hmm, I think it's a great story idea. Good luck with it,' she said, picking up her empty cup. ‘Well, I'd better get back to work. Thanks for the tea. It'll keep me going until dinner time.'

‘You're welcome.' He stood as she did.

‘Speaking of dinner,' she said with a small frown. ‘Do you think it's safe to walk about at night?'