“People use charms to control others. They don’t last forever, and just like batteries, charms also become useless after a while,” he says.
THERE WERE ALSO those who considered Apima an angel. They could never forget how she took in Makaratasi’s baby when nobody wanted the newborn child.
It all started when the eagle-eyed women of Railway Estate noticed the bulge under the madwoman’s dirty dress. At first they dismissed it as a result of what she had eaten, but with every passing day Makaratasi’s belly grew bigger and bigger. Not that it stopped her from collecting discarded paper, stuffing it into her sack, and depositing it behind Mwachuma’s scrapyard, where she slept. Soon it became obvious there was a baby in that swelling belly.
As the months went by, Makaratasi’s belly continued to grow until it seemed it would burst open. Then one rainy morning, loud screams were heard from near the scrapyard and Dado’s mum was the first to get there. In no time she appeared with a new baby wrapped in a towel, and the whole estate was ecstatic. But no one wanted to take the baby home, so Apima offered to take her. Four years on, Makaratasi’s little girl, Tabasamu, still lived with Apima, who treated her like her own.
LONG AFTER THE policemen have left, Apima attempts to rise from where she is seated behind the Zephyr, but collapses right back onto the ground.
Dado steps forward and offers her a hand. He tries to help her up but she is too heavy. It is only after we all intervene that she manages to rise to her feet. She gives Dado a quick peck on the cheek and she is off.
We watch her massive body shaking like jelly inside her dress as she goes.
IT IS NOT LIKE THE police don’t know what goes on inside Block 12. Once a week they raid the place and march Apima away. A couple of hours later she is back, selling her brew. Everyone says she gives them something small. Then they are all smiles, and have lots of good things to say about her.
“Has anyone seen me in their house looking for customers? I sit right here and all those men bring themselves to Block 12. Their wives ought to ask why their men spend time here rather than in their homes,” Apima challenges anyone who accuses her of spoiling the men of Railway Estate.
However, things changed a bit when a man called Stingo died less than four months after he moved into the estate.
Stingo lived in Block 24, close to the social hall. He always wore a white fedora with a thin yellow band around the side and never took it off. People said he worked from one of the many offices in the brown building that housed the railway headquarters. No one knew exactly what he did, and so rumors about him swelled.
Showing up a few weeks after the mysterious death of the white family on Desai Street, people said he was a police officer, working undercover, and maybe he was.
Stingo would stop over by the old Zephyr and walk around it, shaking his head and marveling at the old car. He once referred to the person who abandoned it as a fool. He then asked if we knew who the owner was, and I almost blurted out that it belonged to Swiney, before Dado elbowed me. Maybe the man was investigating the whole affair and I would end up as a suspect, Dado warned.
Odush swore he once saw Stingo come from the direction of the ghost house, before the man disappeared. But then anyone going to the railway headquarters, where Stingo’s offices were situated, had to go past the ghost house, and perhaps Stingo was just going to work. You had to take Odush’s word with a whole tablespoon of salt.
Most evenings Stingo would stop over at Apima’s in Block 12 for a quick drink. He kept to himself and spoke little. Someone said they had seen a gun under his shirt, so he had to be a security agent.
And so the mystery of who Stingo was remained unsolved. After a while, people accepted him as a resident of Railway Estate. He interfered with no one and seemed to mind his own business. Even when one of Apima’s regulars accosted him and accused him of being an agent of the state sent to spy on people, Stingo simply downed his drink and walked away. Then Stingo disappeared. When for three straight days no one saw him emerge from his house and his door remained locked from the inside, they alerted Tumbo, the estate overseer, who forced the lock. They found Stingo’s lifeless body on a chair in his living room, with a charcoal jiko stove by his side. Those who were present said he had a nasty black bruise on the head.
I remember Baba saying it could be foul play. Who would be stupid enough to lock themselves in a room with a burning jiko and the deadly carbon monoxide it releases? Besides, the man had a bruise on his head.
TWO WEEKS AFTER STINGO’S DEATH, a woman in a tight skirt and red lipstick had appeared with a teenage boy who resembled the dead man. Two men helped them load Stingo’s furniture onto the back of a pickup truck, under Tumbo’s supervision. They then drove off and it was as if Stingo had never existed.
CHAPTER TWENTY
***
THE WORDS “WE BUI SCRAP METAL” are written in bold letters at the entrance of Mwachuma’s scrapyard. Yet the man lives alone in his littered yard. Could be he considers his mongrel, Tarzan, leashed in a corner, as his business partner.
Mwachuma buys all the scrap metal he can lay his hands on. He calls it dead metal and says he is there to give it a decent burial. When he is in a good mood he will adjust his black eye patch and demonstrate the fighting skills he learned during the Mau Mau War, when he lost his eye.
His left hand extended, the right one on his chest, his head tilted, he will pretend he is holding a gun, take aim, shout—“boom.” He will repeat the maneuver over and over until he is out of breath, wheezing and coughing.
He never seems to leave his yard, yet he knows everything that goes on in the estate. Perched on a metal bin, his knees drawn up and his shoulders hunched, Mwachuma’s tiny, bald head sticks out from his neck, making him resemble a vulture.
Mwachuma pretends he hasn’t seen us walk into his yard. He lifts his nose to sniff the air, then blocks one nostril, blows hard through the other, and wipes his snort-smeared hand against his dirty trousers. He reaches for a half-smoked cigarette from the back of his ear and lights up. Smoke exits from his mouth and nose, before he erupts into loud coughing, like there is a battle raging in his sunken chest.
Tarzan stirs from behind the old Bedford lorry in a corner of the yard. I’ve seen the film Tarzan, where this white guy with golden hair and a strip of skin for a skirt is lost in the jungle. He speaks animal language and sometimes rides an elephant. He swings from tree to tree. Only, he is white with blond hair and not black like Mwachuma’s dog.
Mwachuma is in no hurry. He slides off his perch, places a foot on the ground. He sucks at his cigarette one last time, tossing it onto the dusty ground. He coughs to clear his throat, then spits. With every step, he winces and bites his lower lip like he is stepping on shards of glass. It takes him forever to reach us.
“I told you the guy has jiggers,” Odush whispers. “I’ve seen people in our shaggs walk that way. After the fleas’ eggs were dug out from their skin, they walked normally again.”
“What is it you kids want?” He scratches his big belly and we cover our mouths to keep from laughing. “I don’t have time to stand around doing nothing,” he says, as if he ever does anything other than smoke and scratch.
“We want to buy your scrapyard,” Odush says, and we all laugh.
“I don’t have time to waste. Tell me what you want.”
Dado pulls out the brass rod we’ve decided to use as an excuse to enter Mwachuma’s yard. He hands it to Mwachuma, who pulls out his Okapi knife and scrapes it.
“I’ll give you two shillings for it,” Mwachuma says and tosses it into his heap.
“We won’t accept anything less than three shillings,” Dado replies.
But all our eyes are trained on the green Bedford lorry.
Its front number plate is missing. Could be the rear one is still there. But who is going to find out with that black mongrel leashed beside it?
“You’re the smart one, aren’t you?” Mwachuma pulls out three shillings and hand
s the money to Dado. “You should be a businessman.”
“The old Bedford lorry, it’s been in your yard for years. What do you intend to do with it?” I edge in that general direction, but my eyes are on Tarzan, who hasn’t moved a muscle.
“It still can’t move, but once it is repaired it will transport lots of goods,” Mwachuma boasts. “When the railway grinds to a halt, as it certainly must, road transport will be the way to go.”
“And what makes you think anyone would want to carry anything in that old thing? What does the number plate read, anyway? K . . . what?” Dado asks.
Mwachuma does not respond.
“No one has ever seen your lorry move,” Odush cuts in, and Mwachuma’s eyes dart to the ground near the lorry’s tires.
“How do you know that the railway will grind to a halt?” I ask to draw Mwachuma’s attention away from the lorry.
Mwachuma ignores my question at first. “Those tire marks you see were made when some mechanics towed the lorry a short distance while making repairs on it. And as for the railway grinding to a halt, how do I know that night follows day? Of course it does. Everybody knows the railway will not last long. Not with all the stealing going on.”
“I know you’re eyeing the railway, hoping it fails so you can get scrap metal,” I say.
“I certainly wouldn’t mind so much scrap.”
“Is that why you have Nairobi city council manhole covers here in your yard? The one outside our house disappeared and now there’s a gaping hole,” Odush says.
What’s wrong with the guy? Next thing he will be telling Mwachuma about the diary we found.
“I think you kids should leave, now,” Mwachuma bristles.
“Not until we see the number plate of your lorry,” Odush says, and I could kill him.
“Whose property has Mwachuma stolen? The stuff here doesn’t belong to anyone. It’s all brought in by people in need of money. Who has seen me leave this yard to look for scrap? People bring it to me, like you did that brass rod. Now get out of here before I throw you out.”
We don’t move until he reaches into his pocket and we remember the wicked-looking Okapi knife he used to scrape our brass rod, then we run out to the entrance, where we sing:
“Old Mwachuma has a jigger in his toe
Old Mwachuma has a jigger in his toe
Old Mwachuma has a jigger in his toe
And that’s the reason he can’t walk straight.”
Mwachuma makes to hobble in our direction, changes his mind, turns to where Tarzan is leashed, and bends to let loose the growling dog. But we are long gone.
“WE OUGHT TO TELL Tumbo about the manhole covers in Mwachuma’s yard,” Odush says.
“And who says he doesn’t know? Apondi says Tumbo is the biggest crook around. She’s good at digging out such things,” I say. “Mwachuma’s got to be involved with something more sinister than scrap metal.”
“Come on, let’s go buy mangoes with the money we got from Mwachuma,” Dado interrupts, and we troop toward the entrance of St. Josephs.
Mama Maembe has a big wooden crucifix dangling from her neck and sits on a low stool, a metal basin full of mangoes at her feet. She peels the top off each mango with a sharp flick of her knife, then slices the sides so they hang outward in flaps. She sprinkles ground red pepper mixed with salt on them. We sink our teeth into the mangoes, sucking in air to cool the burning sensation of the ground pepper.
“We could sneak into Mwachuma’s yard at night to see the lorry’s license plate. I think the thing can move,” Dado mumbles and reaches into his mouth with his thumb and forefinger to pull out mango fibers lodged between his teeth.
“Aaa! Me, I’m not going anywhere near that madman. You saw the knife he had and that dog. Worse still, the man could have a gun. You’ve seen the shooting moves he makes.” I shake my head.
“I’m not scared of the man, he can barely walk,” Odush says.
“You’re always talking tough, but at the first sign of trouble you’re off like a jet plane,” Dado challenges him.
“We could do it at night,” he ignores Dado.
“Not with that black mongrel in the yard. The thing could be sick. You’ve seen the stuff that comes out of its mouth. When you get bitten by a sick dog, you start barking like it and biting people. Then they start howling, too,” Mose curls his lips.
“Do you know how many injections they give you when you are bitten by a sick dog? Seventeen injections, and all in the stomach,” Dado says.
“You mean, all at once?” I stare at Dado.
“Oh yes!”
“That’s a lie. Nobody ever gets injected seventeen times,” Odush says.
“You go and get yourself bitten by Mwachuma’s mongrel and see if the drumming and singing of those Riswa people can save you,” he tells Odush.
“There’s no way I’m going near that mongrel,” Odush says.
“Neither am I,” Mose says.
Now that we have decided we aren’t going back to the scrapyard, we head for the old Zephyr. It’s where we always end up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
***
MOSE, ODUSH, AND I are behind the estate blocks, strolling toward the Zephyr, when a man in a yellow T-shirt leaps over the iron fence that separates the railway yard from the estate and lands a few feet from where we are. We are about to take to our heels but then realize the man means us no harm, so we pause.
The man must have hurt his leg because he limps off in the direction of the rail overpass. He glances over his shoulder as he goes.
“Did you see that? He had bloodstains on his shirt,” Mose says.
“Why would he jump over the fence?” I say, and just then the sound of a siren reaches our ears.
A blue police car shoots in from the main road and screeches to a halt. Two police officers leap out of the car just as a second man tries to scramble over the metal fence. He reaches for something under his jacket, but too late, the police officers grab him from under his shoulders and pin him to the ground. The man tries to kick at them until one of the officers pulls out a gun, then he stops struggling. They handcuff his wrists and sit him on the ground.
“Hey! You kids shouldn’t be here,” one of the officers shouts, and we race off to the front of the estate.
“That policeman pulled out a gun like in those cowboy films,” Mose says when we reach my house.
“How do you know it was a gun?” Odush asks.
“Who doesn’t know what a gun looks like?” Mose says.
“If it wasn’t a gun then what was it? It had to be a gun, that black thing,” I say. “Policemen carry guns and they are allowed to use them.”
“Do you think he would have shot the man if he tried to run?” Mose asks.
“No, I don’t think so. They would just have overpowered him. Those officers are strong. And you also don’t shoot people unless your life is in danger,” I say.
“Everyone seems to be heading back there, let’s go see what’s happening,” Mose says, and we head back to where the police are.
The man is still seated on the ground with his wrists handcuffed. Three more uniformed policemen have joined the earlier two. They are combing the grass around the arrested man, searching for something.
“Maybe the man dropped a key or some secret code on a piece of paper,” Odush says.
“Or even the money he stole,” Mose says.
“How do you know he stole money?” I ask.
BY NOON the policemen are still combing the scene. One of them takes photographs, while another in a white lab coat concentrates on the metal fence.
“The man in the coat is probably looking for fingerprints,” Dado says when he arrives. “I read somewhere that when you touch something you leave your fingerprints on it.”
“Just like when you touch a glass surface,” I say.
“Did you also know that in the whole world, there are no two people who have similar fingerprints?” Dado asks, and Odush gives him a look
that says, go cheat someone else.
“That’s true,” I say. “Once the police get the fingerprints of the man who got away, they will be able to trace him.”
“And how is that even possible?” Odush wants to know.
“I think the police have everyone’s fingerprints and name stored somewhere. So all they need to do is compare them,” Dado says, and I’m wondering if that is even possible.
THE SUN IS almost setting when the police finally drive off with the arrested man. By then practically everybody has left. If that is what they do most of the time, then police work must be really boring, I think to myself.
BABA BRINGS UP the arrest after we’ve had supper. He says the man was part of a gang that had already offloaded lots of bags of coffee from a bogie before the police were alerted. The coffee was destined for Mombasa but had been diverted to a deserted part of the railway yard.
“Once I discovered about the diversion, I alerted the police,” Baba says. “Some of the men escaped in a lorry with some coffee.”
“I’m sure the police will arrest all the others,” I say. “I saw them get their fingerprints from the metal fence after they jumped over it.”
“So now you have become a policeman? Could you help get those plates to the kitchen instead of talking about things that don’t concern you?” Mama snaps at me and I’m off, but I notice Baba smiling.
THE FOLLOWING DAY there is a story about the coffee theft in Baba’s newspaper. Baba reads it aloud. His tone rises and his eyes brighten when he reaches the section that mentions his name:
“Mr. Onimbo, a railway employee, saved the day by alerting the police. Were it not for this honest employee’s quick action the corporation would have suffered significant loss, the Managing Director was quoted as saying.”
I wait until Baba leaves the room before I tear off the page and shove it into my pocket so that I can show it to Mose and the others.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
***
THE APRIL HOLIDAYS are upon us. The rain hammers against our iron roofs before rushing to the ground to form puddles. Still, we hang out at the back of the estate near the Zephyr, not worried about getting wet.
Playing a Dangerous Game Page 8
