Playing a Dangerous Game

by Patrick Ochieng

I too try to pull an angry gardener face, but it doesn’t come out right because Mose is laughing.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ***

  “THE DAY YOU FOOLS GET killed by ghosts is the day you will know not to joke with evil spirits,” Apondi wags her forefinger at me. “Don’t you know that house is haunted? If you knew the kind of sounds I’ve heard coming from that satanic house you would never go near it. But you idiots have to go there. And at night too. How foolish can you be?”

  I look into Awino’s eyes and she looks away.

  “Who cheated you that we went anywhere near the ghost house? I’d be too scared to go anywhere near it at night,” I pretend, even though I already know who snitched on us. It has to be Mose who told his sister, Ciiru, who then told her friend Awino, who in turn told Apondi. Ciiru and Awino are best friends.

  “Do you know what ghosts do to people who disturb their rest? They enter your mind and scramble it so that you become mad,” Apondi rolls her eyes and twists her mouth. “Do you want to start picking garbage? Well, that is exactly what will happen to you and your stupid friends if you don’t watch out,” Apondi places her forefinger on her head.

  “I know it is Awino who told you all that and it’s a lie.”

  “Told me what? Told me that you are stubborn and an idiot? Awino doesn’t have to tell me anything, I can figure out things for myself. So don’t go blaming your little sister over things she knows nothing about.” Apondi turns to Awino who looks at a spot on the wall, pretending she doesn’t know what we are talking about. “Wait until your mother finds out, then you will be in real trouble,” Apondi storms away.

  “SO YOU HAD TO GO and tell Ciiru about our visit to the ghost house,” I confront Mose later in the day.

  “I never told anyone anything.” He combs the ground with his eyes, draws a map on the ground with his feet.

  “Didn’t you know that Ciiru would tell Awino who would tell Apondi, and then the whole estate would know?”

  Mose stays silent.

  “If Apondi knows, then everyone including my mum will know. Wait until I tell Dado and Odush that you can’t keep your mouth shut.” I look in the direction of Dado, who has just appeared at the edge of Block 6 and is heading in our direction.

  “Please don’t tell Dado. Ciiru promised she wouldn’t tell anyone and I believed her.”

  “So now you admit telling Ciiru?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone anything.”

  “Which is it? Did you tell her or didn’t you?”

  Mose’s eyes shift to Dado, who has reached where we are standing. He doesn’t say another word.

  “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Dado punches Mose on the arm.

  Mose shoots me a pleading look.

  I ignore him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ***

  SIX IN THE MORNING, the railway siren lets out a sad wail. A locomotive’s head rises out from the morning fog. Tidingtadang, tidingtadang, it rhymes. Its steel wheels crunch against the metal tracks. Like a dancer gyrating to rumba music, the train sways this way and that way with silver bogies on its tail. Shortly after, it will resume its dance out of the yard, past Railway Estate and on to the coast in Mombasa.

  The bogies are full of coffee from Uganda. Baba speaks of Uganda with nostalgia. He once worked there, in Jinja, which he says is the source of the Nile. He says they grow lots of coffee in Uganda and people call it “black gold.”

  Kids in the estate never miss out on an opportunity to wave at trains. Running along the metal barriers that fence off the rail tracks, they wave at the goods train as though the goods will come alive and wave back.

  Today is different though. Today is the first Saturday of the month and the sprayers are expected. So most mothers have locked their kids indoors.

  The sun is already peeping in between Mama’s orange blinds, when I finally catch a glimpse of one of the sprayers in green overalls. His back is arched from the weight of the spray tank he carries. A second man joins him and a third. They resemble space invaders about to launch an attack, and anything silly enough to cross their path will die.

  The sprayers fan out to spray the grass, the trees, hedges, and gutters. They open manholes and spray into the sewers below. I slip out to watch them spray under the rusted Zephyr. The short frangipani trees at the back of our block aren’t spared. One of the men clambers onto a garbage bin to spray the sparsely leaved branches. Their mouths and noses are covered with handkerchiefs. Done with the spraying, they melt away just as they came. They’ll be back, the first Saturday of the next month.

  For days after the spraying, the gutters will shimmer with oily color and everything will smell funny. Anything that as much as sips the gutter water will end up dead. Even birds daft enough to drink from it will die and their blue bellies will swell and burst open like ripe pomegranates. Their skinny legs will point skyward.

  “It’s for the mosquitoes and bugs. Those tiny mosquitoes can kill a grown man. They once stood up to the imperialists. Armed only with their malaria they successfully defended some parts of the land from the colonialists. We should have a day set aside in honor of the scrawny mosquitoes for a job well done. We could even honor them on National days, instead of dishing out medals to big-bellied politicians,” Baba guffaws.

  Defenders or not, I hate mosquitoes. They go ndiiiiiiiiiiii, around your ears, and you slap out, pap, but the bloodsuckers are gone. Then the shivering, sweating, and throwing up begins, and Mama gives you foul-tasting Malariaquin tablets with a spindly legged mosquito drawn on the packet, which makes you throw up even more.

  But it’s the itching I hate the most. Once you have swallowed the malaria tablets you itch and scratch like Mwachuma’s mongrel, Tarzan, who is always leashed in his scrapyard.

  Tumbo is next. He barges into our living room without knocking. He is one of the estate overseers and thinks he owns the estate. He is dressed in stiff khaki shorts and over-polished black shoes. He has a clipboard in his hand. A sharpened pencil sticks out from behind his ear. His starched shorts and shirt make him look like an overgrown scout. I can almost picture him snapping his heels, lifting two fingers, and reciting the scout’s code: On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country . . .

  Tumbo’s mission is to confirm that our quarters are maintained in a “liveable” condition, whatever that means. I wonder whether he has ever inspected the haunted house on Desai Street, which is technically also a railway house.

  He places his Vaselined hands against his hips and pushes his big stomach forward. Just looking at him makes me laugh because “Tumbo” means stomach in Kiswahili. He pulls the pencil from behind his ear and uses it to drum on his clipboard. He eyes me, and I look away because kids aren’t supposed to look grown-ups in the eye. At least, that’s what Mama says.

  Apondi is in our courtyard. She is singing and rinsing a huge green blanket. She sticks it between her thighs and twists the other end until you think it can’t twist any more and will snap in two. She wipes her brow with the back of her hands. Soapsuds stick to her face.

  Tumbo is frozen to the spot, his eyes glued on Apondi, who tosses the blanket into a bucket of clear water and turns her attention to the pile of bedsheets at her feet.

  Tumbo has moved to a corner of our courtyard. He uses his pencil to poke at a mattress laid out to air. He sniffs at it the way strays would sniff the hindquarters of Mose’s dog, Fanta, before it drank the gutter water after spraying and died. Tumbo’s eyes light up as he scribbles on his clipboard.

  Sniff. Scribble. Sniff. Scribble.

  Apondi straightens from her washing, pushes past Tumbo, and flips my mattress over.

  Tumbo steps back to scribble something on his board. He throws furtive glances over his shoulders. His machete-stiff, starched shorts stick out like they could slice through anything they come in contact with.

  “Why don’t you get out of here? Go find your hopeless friends near that old car,” Apondi scold
s me.

  I stick out my tongue at her. I know she is saying that so I can get in trouble with Mama. Apondi would be the first one to report to Mama that I went out immediately after the spraying. I retreat to a corner from where I can watch Tumbo.

  TUMBO EDGES CLOSE. He pauses to examine the courtyard wall. He uses his pen to scrape it in places where it has greened with mold. From up close, his hair is brown. He must have dyed it with Kanta. The stuff keeps hair black for a while before it turns copper brown, like the hair of the man who sells bedsheets and pillowcases. Mama always swears not to buy anything from him, but once he roars in on his white Vespa, she can’t help buying one thing or the other. She pays him in installments. Sometimes they get into an argument, when she delays in paying.

  Mama uses Kanta on Baba’s hair. Once a month, she mixes the stuff with water in a metal dish, runs it through Baba’s hair using a toothbrush. Some of it runs down the nape of his neck, leaving a black trail, which she wipes off with a wet cloth. The hair stays jet-black for a week, before coppering.

  Tumbo turns to catch me watching him. He knows it’s his dyed hair I’m staring at. He screws his face, brushes past, heads for the next house.

  He will be back with the sprayers, the next first Saturday of the month, and most activities in the estate will again grind to a halt. Though no one in the estate says it, I think they could do without the sprayers and overseers. At least I’m sure the kids would.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ***

  I FIRST LEARN OF the trip to St. Josephs from Roba, the other boy from Railway Estate. He often avoids me at Hill School, so when he walks up to me after lunch and flashes me a wide smile, I know there is something he wants from me.

  “There is a trip for the debating club to St. Josephs next week, and Bumbles says it would be practical for one of us to lead the group because we were once students there.”

  I’m surprised. I’m not even a member of the debating club. But I’m interested in seeing where this is going, so I play along.

  “That would be fun. But since you have been here longer than me, I propose you lead them,” I smile.

  “I was thinking you should go. You were popular at St. Josephs and would be able to make things work. That’s what I told Bumbles, and he agrees with me,” Roba averts his eyes and cracks his knuckles.

  “So Bumbles also knows I was popular at St. Josephs?”

  “I told him.”

  Did you also tell him that most of the students at St. Josephs think Hill School is full of snobs who think too highly of themselves, I think to myself, but I don’t say it. Instead, I tell Roba that I think he is popular enough to lead the gentlemen of Hill School, and then I walk away.

  BUMBLES ASKS ME to remain behind after last class, and I know exactly why.

  “You’ve settled in pretty well here at Hill School,” he struggles to put on a smile and gestures me to a seat next to him. “The truth is I never thought you would, but you’ve proved me wrong, I must say,” he grins.

  I know where you are going. Just get on with it, I say in my head. But for him, I nod and smile.

  “I admit there were times I was a bit harsh with you, but it was with the best intentions in mind.”

  Best intentions indeed. I don’t consider suspecting me of stealing Kazungu’s money without a shred of evidence to have been well-intentioned, I think but again do not say it. Instead I nod.

  “But all that is behind us and I’m sure going forward, we will have a fruitful relationship,” he sticks out his fleshy hand and places the other over my shoulder.

  I stretch out my hand and it is immediately swallowed in his. Only then does he make his request.

  “You must know by now that the debating club will be visiting your old school. Though you are not a member of the club, I was wondering whether you would agree to come along?” Bumbles lets out his brightest smile yet, and I am wondering how he would react if I said no to his face. But that would be insubordination and it would earn me a demerit on my conduct card.

  So again I nod.

  “Then that’s settled,” his smile vanishes and is replaced by a familiar frown. “We will work out the details at a later date,” he rises and glides away.

  FOR THE FEW DAYS BEFORE the trip to St. Josephs, Bumbles is full of smiles. “You all know that we will be paying a visit to our friends at . . . , what’s the name of your former school, Lumumba?” Bumbles addresses me by name, which is unusual.

  “St. Josephs,” I mumble.

  “Yes, that’s it. On Thursday the debating club will be visiting St. Josephs, and Lumumba has been kind enough to agree to come with us,” Bumbles smiles. “Unfortunately our visit to the same school last year was not very successful. However, this time, with Lumumba around, I know things will be different as he is familiar with the terrain, so to speak,” he says.

  Wow! It’s amazing. In less than a minute, Bumbles has referred to me by name more times than he has done the entire period I have been in Hill School. He always refers to me as you over there. The man really needs this trip to succeed.

  ON THURSDAY, after morning parade, we pile into the school bus and wait for Steven, the driver, to fire its engine.

  Roba chooses to sit next to me in the bus, and attempts to strike up a conversation that doesn’t go well. After a while he stares ahead in silence.

  When we arrive at St. Josephs, Cleophas, the bell ringer and guard, waves our bus past the school’s crooked red gate and on to the dusty drive, then Steven kills the engine.

  “Lumumba will now lead us out,” Bumbles says.

  My heart is racing when I step off the bus. Maybe I should go down on my knees and kiss the ground. But that would be ridiculous. Worse still, I’m sure it would get me in trouble. Imagine me, on my knees, my lips on the dusty ground—Bumbles would think I was a traitor. And if Dado or Mose got to know about it they would have something to laugh about for the remainder of the school term.

  I direct my classmates toward the St. Josephs school hall where the debate is to take place.

  Unlike the airy, neat, wood-tiled hall at Hill School, the St. Josephs hall has cracks in the floor. In some parts it even has holes. The whole place is damp from water seeping into the walls when it rains, and the white paint has turned gray and peeled off in patches. A blend of nostalgia and shame swamps me and I fight the urge to make excuses over the state of things.

  I do not need to look into Bumbles’s eyes or the faces of my classmates to know what they think about my old school. But one thing is clear: my heart is still here at St. Josephs.

  I mount the podium to introduce the students of both schools. I am about to begin when I catch a glance of Mose, Odush, and Dado. None of them are in the debating club, but they’re in the audience. Dado sniggers, but one look from Teacher Focus and he turns his snigger into a cough.

  Next to mount the rickety wooden podium is Njish. She says a short prayer and introduces the topic of debate: Money is the root of all evil.

  Once the debate begins, the smudged walls, broken windows, and dilapidated state of St. Josephs are all forgotten as the debaters try to best each other.

  Hill School’s star debater, Kazungu, opens his mouth to speak but his words get stuck somewhere between his mouth and his bobbing Adam’s apple. Bumbles’s face turns so red, you would think he has a fire burning in his head and any minute there will be smoke spewing out from his ears.

  Teacher Focus smiles. His face brightens with every passing minute.

  Bumbles coughs to clear his throat. He pulls out a white hankie to wipe his face. It is only when Lillian takes to the podium that he flashes a weak smile.

  The frown on Njish’s face when I clap for Lillian’s delivery, done in a crisp clear tone, freezes me. From then on Njish’s eyes dart from Lillian on the podium to me.

  The Hill School side erupts into applause as Lillian descends from the podium.

  Njish dares me with her eyes, so I don’t clap.

  RAILWAY
ESTATE IS just behind St. Josephs. It makes little sense for me to go all the way back to Hill School after the debate, just to walk back down the hill to the estate, so I request to stay behind, but Bumbles will hear none of it.

  “The rule is every student must get back to the school compound. Only then will you be allowed to disperse,” he announces in a curt tone.

  Dusk is setting in when the bus driver fires the engine and we edge out of St. Josephs. The bus slowly claws its way uphill toward Hill School.

  It is already dark when I get back to the estate.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ***

  YESTERDAY WAS THE second time St. Josephs has licked Hill School in a debating competition, and Bumbles is as sore as a boil, ready to be lanced.

  We are in history class, our textbooks out, ready to discuss how the Zulu and Nguni wars caused the Mfecane crushing, but Bumbles has no intention of discussing African history. Not just yet.

  “Allegiance and loyalty are two important traits in life,” Bumbles stares at the ceiling, sticks out two fingers, and says, “You cannot serve two masters.” He steals a glance my way and then shifts his eyes back to the ceiling.

  Where is this going? I think. Clearly, yesterday’s events aren’t over and forgotten.

  “It’s fine to feel attached to old friends and places you have left behind, but one must make a choice whether to move on into the future or to continue hanging on to the past. And trust me, the latter is a bad choice,” Bumbles rambles on, and it’s obvious the man has not put the debate debacle behind him.

  It is true that when the scores were announced I had clapped, which was the right thing to do. After all, we’d been taught lots of times to be good losers and to cheer our opponents when they turned out to be the better ones. And yesterday we were outmatched. It was only Lillian’s individual brilliance that saved us from total embarrassment.

  “It seems we have a Trojan horse here in Hill School,” Bumbles concludes and then moves on to our history lesson.