For the rest of the day, my mind is on this “Trojan horse.” I try to figure out what a horse could possibly have to do with yesterday’s debate.
AT HOME IN the evening I’m still puzzling over it.
“Deno, what’s a Trojan horse?” I ask.
“How am I supposed to know?”
BABA COMES HOME LATE, so I’m unable to pick his brain over the mysterious horse until the next evening.
“Baba, is there such a thing as a Trojan horse?”
“It’s a fable about a town called Troy, whose secure walls had never been breached until a huge wooden horse was given to them as a present.” Baba’s face lights up as he explains. “At night, enemy soldiers who had been hiding in the horse emerged and attacked the town and destroyed it.”
So, according to Bumbles, I was the St. Josephs’ Trojan horse, planted in Hill School to destroy it.
Does that even make sense?
BUMBLE’S DISLIKE FOR ME has heightened. He now looks for all manner of excuses to put me down.
It’s Wednesday afternoon, time for prep, when everyone should be minding their own business. But I have become Bumbles’s sole business since we visited St. Josephs.
He clears his throat. “I’m sure you all know the story of Androcles and the lion?” He looks my way, and there are smiles all around like everyone except me knows what he is talking about.
Me, I don’t smile. I just stare ahead.
“Lumumba here will tell us the story of Androcles,” Bumbles says and eyes me from above the rim of his glasses.
Now the whole class is waiting for me to make a fool of myself, which is exactly what Bumbles intends for me to do. How could someone like me know about stuff like that?
But what they don’t know is I know the story. Actually, I learned it at my not-so-stupid old school. So I rise from my seat and clear my throat like important people do before speaking. Then I tell them about this crazy guy who pulled a thorn out of a lion’s paw, after which the two became friends and the lion wouldn’t eat him when it was supposed to.
Kazungu gives me a pitiful look and waits for Bumbles to put me in my place.
When Bumbles skips to another topic, everyone realizes I’m right. Rush gives me a thumbs-up from where he is sitting by the window, while Kazungu spends the rest of the lesson glaring my way.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
***
“CHONGOLO MAPIPA! CHONGOLO MAPIPA!” kids in the estate shout at the top of their voices. It’s a Thursday, the last day of the midterm break. It isn’t even midmorning, yet the sun is already making its intentions clear.
The garbage collectors are around. I smell the thick stench even before I see their huge green truck inch in from the main road. Two men in green overalls follow behind. They snatch metal garbage bins lined outside the houses. They hoist them over their shoulders and empty the contents into their moving truck.
One of the men is squat with drooping bulldog jowls. The other is lanky and has a ready smile. Unlike his mate who tosses bins high in the air and makes rude gestures, the squat guy is gentle. He empties his bins and places them down like they were made of glass and might break. I follow and watch from a distance.
Bulldog Jowls glances over his shoulder, like he needs to confirm I’m still there. The truck is about to nose back onto the tarmac when he rushes to the front, jerks the cabin door open, hops in, and emerges with a black-and-white football.
“What’s your name?” He gestures me forward.
“Lumush.”
“That’s short for Lumumba?”
Everyone knows that, I say to myself in my mind.
He rubs his palm against the top of my head like Baba often does. I allow him to because I want the football he is carrying. He presses it into my hands and smiles for the first time. His smile is gentle though sad. Maybe it’s his face that makes everything about him sad.
“I had a son just about your age. You remind me of him.” He turns, waves, and is gone.
I stand there wondering what could have happened to the man’s son. Maybe he ran away from home or even died. Could be the reason the man looks so sad.
I toss the ball up and down. It’s as good as new. They probably picked it out of the management people’s garbage. I’d never throw out such a new ball. Not even now that Baba is a manager.
I’m bouncing my ball up and down when my sixth sense tells me that someone is watching. That’s the sense animals rely on that warns them of things they can’t see, hear, touch, smell, or taste.
I look over my shoulder and, sure enough, Zgwembe is there. His red eyes are fixed on my ball. He leans against the Zephyr, tossing stuff into the gutter and pretending to mind his own business, when me, I know it’s my ball that is his immediate business. He lives with his father, Rasta, in a dirty kiosk under a cluster of flame trees at the north end of the estate.
I try to act as normal as possible, but my heart is beating like a drum. I continue to bounce my ball, but my focus is on Zgwembe. He digs a finger deep into his nose, twirls it. Two big, dirty toes stick out from his canvas shoes. He scratches his head then lifts an arm to scratch under his armpits. He shoves his hand into his shorts to scratch in there too.
I sense Zgwembe is about to make his move. My heart is now hammering so loud Zgwembe surely hears it.
I’m about to bolt off when Dado, Odush, and Mose arrive, standing by my side.
Zgwembe kicks out at the dusty ground to register his frustration and saunters off.
The drumming in my chest subsides.
“Nice ball you have there!” Dado says.
“I got it from the garbage collectors,” I say. I don’t often lie to Dado. The guy can always tell when you are lying.
“Those management people are crazy. Why would you throw away something that’s almost new? Some people have all the luck in the world, yet they throw it away,” Dado says and then goes silent.
“Not all management people are like that,” I say.
“Oh! I forgot your father is now a manager.”
I shrug. “Still, I’d never throw away something as new as this.”
“So, when are you people moving to those huge houses up the hill? Maybe you should start by moving into the ghost house. Then in a couple of days you would all be ghosts—awooooooooooo,” Odush slaps his palm on his mouth.
“There is no way I’m moving out of the estate. It’s hard enough being in that lousy school,” I say, as if I have a choice. I’ve been praying Baba does not get a house up the hill.
“Cool ball, yah?” Mose turns to Odush and bounces my ball up and down.
Odush stands to one side like he doesn’t want to be part of the game. It’s what the cut has done to him. It’s made him think he is all grown up, yet he still wants to hang out with us.
Dado’s eyes are fixed on my ball like he sees something we don’t. “One day I will join Railways and be a manager,” he says. He peers into the sky as though there is proof of what he’ll be written in the clouds.
“See who wants to be a manager!” Odush rolls his eyes.
“I’ll be that and maybe more. I could even be a super-manager,” Dado says, making us all gaze about in wonder.
“And what do super-managers do? Where do they live?”
“They issue orders to the other managers and live at the highest point on the hill,” Dado says.
“Must be somewhere in heaven,” Odush says.
“Dado is right. I’ve heard my father say that Railways has a top manager called the managing director. All other managers work under him,” I say.
“You are always siding with Dado even when you know he is lying,” Odush eyes me from under bunched brows. “Now you are trying to cheat us that there is one super-manager, who controls all the other managers.”
“Once I’m a super-manager, I’ll lock up all the managers who steal coffee from the bogies and also those who steal medicine from the dispensaries. My mum says there are no medicines in the dispensary
because the managers keep stealing them,” Dado continues.
“And what makes you think they’ll let you do that?” Mose says. “They’ll gang up against you and throw you out.”
“Not all the managers steal,” I say.
“Now that your father is a manager, he will soon be like the rest of them,” Odush waves his hand dismissively.
I remember Baba’s story about people who a few years back had nothing but tattered pants and broken shoes, but now have tons of money to burn. Baba says that some of them have so much, if it were all laid out in ten-shilling notes on the ground, it would stretch all the way from Mombasa to Kisumu and back. I don’t even think there is that much money in the whole world. Not even the management people from up the hill, with their gated compounds, cars, and garages, can have that kind of money, even if they stole. But maybe it’s just a story. Baba keeps changing it, so that sometimes the money the thieves have is enough to boil ten huge metal barrels of water, if it were stacked up and lit into a bonfire. Other times it’s enough to cover the entire grass on ten football pitches. I once asked him where they stashed it all, and he said they had carted it abroad. Is it even possible to carry so much money out of the country? I think Baba just makes up these stories.
“Who cares if people steal coffee from the bogies or medicine from the dispensaries? They can go ahead and close all the dispensaries, for all I care,” Odush snaps me back to the present. “All they do in those dispensaries is stick needles into people’s backsides.”
“Where would you go if you had malaria and the dispensaries were closed?” Mose asks.
“He would probably call those Riswa guys in white robes,” Dado laughs. “My mum says they are just con men looking for money. How do you expect to get healed by some crazy guy beating a drum and screaming at the top of his voice?”
“When my sister Anjie was sick she didn’t need any dispensary,” Odush says. “Those Riswa people just beat their drums until she was well.”
“You should have had your Riswa people beat drums and dance for Lumush when he broke his arm. Then, Sim sala bim, his arm would be healed,” Dado says and, except for Odush, we all laugh.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
***
“HEY! COME SEE THIS,” Odush shouts out but we ignore him.
We are already at our favorite spot behind the estate. I’m juggling my ball. I tap it up with my foot, keeping it in the air while counting. I’m at forty-seven; three taps away from the fifty Mose managed.
“You people better come and see this,” Odush persists. He has a black-and-white photograph in his right hand and a brown diary in his left. The photo has two white men standing next to a smiling white woman with a baby in her arms. The baby has long straight hair and looks like the dolls Mama buys Awino. Behind them is a Bedford lorry.
“That lorry looks like the one in Mwachuma’s yard,” Mose says and reaches for the photo, but Odush steps away and shoves it into his pocket before Mose can grab it.
Me, my mind is racing. The second man in the picture has a striking resemblance to my teacher, Bumbles.
“Where did you find the picture?” I ask.
“In between the springs of the Zephyr’s torn back seat.”
“Are sure you found it in the car?” Mose wants to know.
“No, I pulled it out from a magic hat,” Odush sneers and allows us to peer at the photo again.
The words “Cynthia, Anna, my bro, Eric, and I, with the new lorry,” are scrawled on the back in red.
“Can I take a closer look at the second man in the picture?” My hand reaches out, but Odush snatches the picture away from me.
“Just because there is a Bedford lorry in the photo doesn’t mean it is the same one that’s in Mwachuma’s yard,” Dado argues, but my eyes are glued to the shorter of the two men in the picture. The pinched lips, the mustache, the ears pressed back against the sides of his head, the angle he has tilted his head away, convince me it is Bumbles.
“The one to the left in the photo is my class teacher, Bumbles,” I blurt out, and then we are all scrambling for the picture again and the more we pore over it the more I’m convinced it’s Bumbles.
“How sure are you?” Dado manages to snatch the photo from Odush.
“That’s Bumbles alright, no doubt about it. I’m in his class every single day and can’t mistake him.”
“If it’s your teacher in the photo, then he has to be ‘Eric,’ ” Dado hands me the photo.
I again stare at it, I turn it around to study the words written in red. “What if it was Bumbles who wrote on the back? Then it would mean Eric is Mr. Swiney and Bumbles is his brother,” I say.
“You should find out from your father if Swiney’s name was Eric. If not, then it’s Bumbles who is Eric.” Dado hands me the picture and I focus on the lorry.
“Only the letter ‘K’ and the number ‘2’ are visible on the registration plate of the lorry in the picture,” I say.
“Can anyone remember the numbers on Mwachuma’s lorry?” Dado asks.
“There certainly is a ‘K,’” Odush beams.
“All cars in the country have the letter ‘K’ on the plate number. It stands for Kenya,” Dado says, and Odush is no longer beaming. “We’d have to get past Mwachuma’s mongrel if we’re to confirm if it is the same lorry. And even if it is, it could be that Swiney sold it to Mwachuma before he died.”
“Could we also take a look at the diary?” I reach out for the brown diary Odush is still holding, and suddenly all attention is on it.
When Odush spreads it on the hood of the Zephyr, the first thing we notice is that the name Eric Swiney appears on the first page. We then pore over the entries scrawled in the writer’s slanting hand:
4th May
A tall man came to my office and threatened me. He wanted a consignment of coffee the police had detained together with a lorry released. He said the police had informed him they would only release them if I authorized it. Told him it was stolen property and only a court order would cause its release.
8th May
Cynthia informed me there were strangers outside our gate at dusk when I was away. They never knocked nor asked to be allowed in. Half an hour later someone tossed a rock and shattered our living room window. Cynthia was scared as hell.
9th May
Reported the incident at the railway police station. The officers laughed and said I was being paranoid and that it was most probably a bunch of naughty kids who broke the window.
16th May
The tall man paid me another visit. This time he came with a man who had a black eye patch. The one-eyed man coughed most of the time and did not say a word. He left all the talking to the tall one. I told him nothing had changed and my stance was still the same. I later discovered that the man with the black eye patch owns a metal scrapyard. Seemed like a shifty character.
2nd June
This morning I found a note slipped under my office door, with the words YOU HAVE A LOVELY FAMILY. PITY IF SOMETHING HAPPENED TO THEM.
Very scary, but not budging. This coffee theft must stop.
Odush’s jaw is hanging loose. Mose’s eyes are so wide open his eyeballs could fall out of their sockets. I’m not certain how I look.
“Wow!” I turn to Dado, who shakes his head as though from a dream.
“We should turn this over to the police,” Odush pulls the diary away.
“I think we should try and get to the bottom of this,” Dado looks my way for support.
I nod, though I’m not sure why.
“You people are crazy,” Odush taps his forefinger to his head. “If the man did not commit suicide, as it seems from his diary, then he was killed. We would also be in danger.”
“Let’s turn the diary over to the police, get it out of our hands,” Odush says.
“If the suicide man . . . no, let’s call him Mr. Swiney. If Mr. Swiney reported to the police about his smashed window and they laughed it off as the actions of some naughty
kids, what makes you think they will take us seriously?” Dado asks. “What is in the diary is not proof of any wrongdoing.”
“But they threatened his family in the note he found under his office door,” Odush says.
“He doesn’t say he knew who wrote it,” Dado argues.
“So what do we do with this stuff?” Odush pulls the diary from his pocket.
“Just as I said, we keep it until we are sure of what happened,” Dado says.
“I’m not going home with these things,” Odush hands the diary and photo to Dado. “You keep them.”
“Why don’t we hide them exactly where you found them,” Dado suggests, and it seems like a good idea, so that’s what we do.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
***
ODUSH HAS HIS EYES and mouth wide open. Mose tugs at my shirt and points at a distant figure, rolling toward us like a locomotive.
It’s Apima, the woman who owns the local drinking den. She has one hand pressed to her side to keep her lesso wrap in place. Could be it is also to guard the money she ties under it. She reaches the Zephyr, slaps her hands against its sides to stop, and I swear, it moves a few inches.
Apima slumps to the ground behind the Zephyr. Her breathing is labored, like she’s played a full football match. She presses a fat forefinger to her lips to warn us to stay silent. Her massive shoulders rise and fall with her breathing.
Two policemen in uniform appear from the front of the estate. Their eyes dart about like they are looking for someone. They cup their hands against their foreheads to shield their eyes from the sun.
Apima stays hidden.
THE PEOPLE OF RAILWAY ESTATE have learned to live with Apima and her brew. Lots of men and even some women spend their evenings drinking the illicit changaa she brews in Block 12. Mama says they are all weak-of-spirit and in need of prayers.
The talk is that Apima dips charms in her brew to keep people coming back for more. Me, I wonder what kind of charms can make grown men and women keep going back to Apima’s house to drink changaa.
Even Odush, who pretends to be an expert over grown-up matters, is unable to properly explain:
Playing a Dangerous Game Page 7
