“That’s the dead boy’s mother and sister,” someone says. “And of course you know the father, that crook who has a kiosk.”
The hired gravediggers shovel dirt into the grave. Their taut muscles ripple under their soiled shirts. Beads of sweat glisten on their foreheads.
“They better pay the guards a little something to guard the grave,” Odush says.
“Whatever for?”
“Eh! You didn’t know they steal coffins and resell them for fresh burials? Give them a chance and they will dig up the grave, roll Zgwembe out, and steal those new black leather shoes and crisp white shirt they buried him in. If they could sell the body, they would steal that too. Why do they have to dress him up so well when he’s dead, anyways? When they couldn’t even get him a decent pair of shoes when he was alive? If I were Zgwembe, I’d kick off the shoes, peel off the fancy shirt, and tell them to go to hell,” Odush says.
“Who is crazy enough to steal from a corpse? And since when do dead people start getting annoyed and kicking off their shoes?”
“That coffin will still be new for weeks. It can still be sold. And who said dead people don’t get annoyed?” Odush says. “There was this man from our village who died here in the city, and they had him all dressed up in a black suit, tie, and fancy things before tucking him into a neat coffin ready to be transported up-country for burial, but the vehicle wouldn’t move. Every time the driver fired its engine, revved, and tried to drive off, the engine sputtered then died. Two mechanics gave it a thorough check. They said there was nothing wrong, so everyone was puzzled. Until someone suggested the coffin bearing the dead man should be removed from the vehicle. Immediately the car roared off without a hitch.”
Odush pauses long enough for us to puzzle over the first part of his story. He knows we are dying to hear the end of it.
“So the dead man’s family conducted prayers, pleaded with him to allow them to transport his body home for burial. That very night he appeared to his widow in a dream and said he was not going home without his Oris watch. He told his widow his cousin had stolen it and that there was no way he was going to allow himself to be transported home until it was returned. Believe it or not, once the watch was recovered and strapped on to the dead man’s left wrist, the journey up-country went on without any trouble.”
“Now I know you are crazy,” I say and Odush smiles.
We file past graves littered with dried carnations.
Zgwembe’s mum and sister are still standing by his grave. They haven’t moved. They just stand there like they expect him to burrow out of the mound of red earth and announce he hasn’t left them. I wonder where they were when he was still alive and needed them.
“Where do people go when they die?” Dado asks in a low tone, almost as though he is thinking aloud. He hasn’t said much today.
“Heaven or hell, depending on how good you are,” Mose says.
“What if they are still too small to know what’s good or bad, like tiny babies?”
“Tiny babies are like angels. They just float into heaven without a hitch,” I say.
“My mum tells me I had a twin brother. He never made it out of the hospital after we were born,” Dado whispers.
I think of my own baby brother, Banda, his tiny hands curled into fists, eyes half shut, his pink face creased. From the moment Mama returned from the hospital with him swathed in a pink shawl, he never stopped crying. He would scream the whole night and Mama would say it was something called “colic.” One morning we awoke to find Mama in tears and baby Banda silent forever.
Mama said he had joined the angels above.
“I think it will rain today,” Mose says and breaks the spell.
We file across the road to catch a bus. On the ride back to the estate, no one speaks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
***
“IF MOSE IS COMING ALONG, I’m not going,” I tell Dado.
Dado has suggested we make another trip to the abandoned house on Desai Street. There is no way I’m doing it with Mose around after he snitched to his sister and got me in trouble.
“We would have to exclude Odush too. If we ask him along, he’ll tell Mose,” Dado says.
“Fine,” I say, though it no longer sounds like a good idea, just the two of us going to that crazy place. Not that Odush or even Mose can be relied on when there is trouble, but at least four of us sounds safer. But how am I supposed to turn around and say I now want them along when it was me who suggested we go without Mose?
“But what do you expect to find in that haunted house?” I say. “Remember the noise and flashing lights the last time we were there? It might not be such a good idea to visit it at night again.”
“That’s the only time we can get in there without being seen.”
“Seen by who? I thought those ghosts would just sense our presence even if we went at night.”
“We need to find out if there really are ghosts in that house. Sometimes I wonder whether ghosts truly exist,” Dado says.
I’m about to tell him about the hoofed jinns Uncle Owuoth encountered at the coast, but I decide it isn’t such a good idea. Dado would dismiss it as my uncle’s drunken talk.
We settle for Sunday when Dado’s mother will still be at work and Mama will be at her Women’s Guild meeting, which often runs late. Dado will pass by our house at night and whistle twice, so that I know it’s him. It all seems scary and exciting at the same time.
“THAT MUST BE one of your friends whistling out there,” Deno says when the night finally arrives.
I push my comic book under my pillow and slip out through the back door.
“What’s wrong with you? My mouth is sore from whistling,” Dado complains.
“I was reading a comic and didn’t hear.”
Outside, the sky is thick and velvety with dark clouds.
Just as we begin to descend from the overpass lightning flashes and the whole of Desai Street is suddenly engulfed in darkness.
Dado and I hesitate.
“Maybe we should do this when there is no blackout,” I try for an excuse to put off our visit.
“I’m sure the lights will come . . .” Dado starts to say and suddenly stops in his tracks. “Wait! I think I saw someone up ahead.” He grabs my arm as another flash of lightning reveals a dark, hunched figure approaching.
When the sky lights up again we notice that whoever is approaching keeps bending down to collect something from the ground.
“Aaaah! It’s only Makaratasi picking up papers,” Dado’s tone is full of relief.
“I didn’t know she operated at night.”
“When you are mad you can’t tell night from day,” Dado says as we hide behind a jacaranda tree to watch Makaratasi go by.
“Did she see us?”
“Does it matter? Even if she did, she’d probably not remember,” Dado says just as the streetlamps come back on, bathing the whole street in light.
I reach into my pocket and run my fingers against a penknife I pinched from Deno’s backpack. I’m not certain why I took it, but knowing it’s in my pocket is reassuring.
The distant roar of a car spurs us into hiding behind a bougainvillea bush a couple meters from the gate to the deserted house. The car’s headlights bounce against the green gate as it grinds to a halt. A man jumps out from the passenger seat to open the gate, which lets out a loud screech.
The car drives in, but the gate remains open.
“Come on!” Dado grabs my arm and we dash into the compound through the open gate. “Let’s go to the back and see what’s happening.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I protest, but Dado is already moving and tugging me along.
Every shadow seems sinister, every sound a threat.
Dado squats under a window ledge and tells me to climb onto his shoulders.
“What do you see in there?”
I press my face against the cold windowpane, but I can’t see a thing in the darkness.
>
“Get down, someone’s coming,” Dado whispers, and I leap down to the ground. We hide behind a huge metal water tank, just as the back door to the house opens.
A tall man steps out. A shorter fellow in an oversize jacket joins him.
“But that’s Mwachuma!” I whisper, and Dado elbows me into silence.
The short man strikes a match and raises it to light a cigarette. From the glow on his face it is obviously Mwachuma—there is no mistaking him with the black eye patch. He sucks at his cigarette and bursts into a fit of coughing.
“You should go easy on those cigarettes,” the tall man says.
Mwachuma finishes his cigarette, crushes it underfoot.
A third man joins them, and I almost don’t believe my eyes.
“Tumbo,” I whisper, and it is more of a statement than a question, because this third short, squat man is none other than our estate overseer.
“We need to find another place to operate from,” Mwachuma says. “There is too much attention on us.”
“If you had driven that lorry yourself, instead of allowing that lunatic Rasta to drive it, we would not have attracted so much attention,” the tall man reasons.
“It’s not only because of the accident that the police are mad,” Mwachuma says. “Are you forgetting that one of your men was shot and injured, while the other was arrested by the police? That’s what heated things up.”
“That idiot deserved it. How do you try to pull such a stunt in broad daylight?” The tall guy raises his voice.
“Now that the police have that lorry and know it’s mine, I can’t go back to my yard. So how am I supposed to operate? Trust me, things can only get worse.”
“Our man at the police station told me some kid handed them a photo and diary that belonged to Swiney. The kid claimed they found it in an old car that once belonged to the dead man,” the tall man says, and it’s obvious that Dado is as surprised as I am because he nudges me hard.
“Must be those nosy kids in the estate. What exactly was in the diary?” Mwachuma lights another cigarette, sucks at it, and bursts into a fresh spell of coughing. He tosses it into the dark, the glowing butt floating into the night and almost landing on my head.
“The man wrote that he was threatened. He doesn’t name names but he mentions someone with a black eye patch,” the tall man chuckles. “But it’s the death of that man called Stingo that has the police hopping mad. The man was an undercover officer,” the tall man lowers his voice.
“That guy was asking too many questions. Something had to be done about him,” Tumbo says.
“Anyway, I spoke to the boss and he says he is arranging for an alternative transit point. Now we better get back to work,” the tall man turns and walks back into the house.
The others follow after a spell.
We stay behind the water tank, too stunned to move. I’m shocked, as I’m certain Dado is, that the diary and photo have been handed in to the police. My mind is racing through all the stuff I’ve heard, trying to process it. It’s only after Dado elbows me that I snap back to the present.
Dado crawls through the hole in the hedge and I’m right behind him.
We hurry down Desai Street and across the overpass without a word. We don’t stop until we reach the estate and even then we are still silent.
“Do you think we should tell Odush or Mose what we heard?” I finally ask Dado.
“Let’s sleep on it and talk about it tomorrow,” Dado says, as if it will even be possible to find sleep after what we heard.
“Alright,” I agree. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Dado says and melts away into the dark.
I tap on our bedroom window and Deno lets me in through the back door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
***
BUMBLES WARNS ME that tomorrow’s holiday has yet to begin and that I should stop daydreaming in class.
I’m not alone. Everyone is excited over the upcoming national holiday. But that’s not the reason I can’t concentrate. The reason is, I’m still stunned by last night’s events at the house on Desai Street. It’s the reason I’m distracted from what Bumbles is teaching. I wonder if Dado is doing any better down at St. Josephs.
The final bell goes and we are off from our seats like they have tacks on them.
Bumbles slaps a textbook hard against his desk to catch our attention, and we sink back down.
“This here is a classroom and not a beer hall. Now I want you to rise and leave in an orderly manner,” he barks.
We observe some restraint until we hit the door and then we are scrambling down the hallway and out past the main gate like we are scared we might be summoned back to class.
At the estate I slip out of my uniform and rush out before Mama cooks up some chore that needs doing. Outside, the sun is a dull orange ball in the distance. And, yes, my friends are already behind the estate, sitting on the Zephyr.
Dado rises from the hood of the car and paces up and down. “I don’t want anything to do with you anymore,” he waves a hand at Odush.
“But I’m the one who found the photo and diary. I had the right to do with them as I pleased,” Odush scowls.
“Is this guy serious?” Dado shakes his head.
Odush has admitted to handing over the photo and diary to the police. He thinks he did the right thing.
“And you. Will you ever learn to keep a secret?” Odush turns to Mose.
“But it’s not me who told them,” Mose protests.
“Mose didn’t tell us anything,” Dado says.
“He is the only one who knew I surrendered the diary,” Odush says.
“Not exactly,” Dado whispers under his breath and glances at me. “Now that you gave the police the photo and the diary, what have they done? Thanks to you, Mwachuma and his crooks will know that we are on to them.”
“And who said the police will tell them? The police are probably investigating and will arrest them soon,” Odush says.
“Let’s wait and see,” Dado starts to walk away. “And you better cross your fingers Mwachuma doesn’t come for you at night to slit your throat with his Okapi knife,” he slides his forefinger across his throat.
THE NEXT DAY IS the 1st of June, Madaraka Day. It’s the day the British allowed our country to rule itself.
The celebration is reflected in the flags and banners that cover every conceivable place in the estate. They flutter from below the rafters of the overseer’s office and the entrance of the social hall. The burglar-proofed windows of the estate pub are also covered in four-colored banners. Even Mama Nandwa’s kiosk has a tattered old flag at the entrance.
Ours is a four-colored flag—black is for the people, green for the land, red for the blood we shed, and then there is white.
White is for peace. Defeated people pull out white flags when they surrender and they don’t want to fight anymore. At least that’s what Deno says.
But we weren’t defeated. We won our independence from the British. So then what’s the white on our flag for?
It is possible that after fighting for so long our leaders decided: never again. Could be that’s what the white is for.
I hate our flag, which is not the same as hating our country. It’s just that each time the flag is raised you have to stand ramrod straight or you are in trouble. It doesn’t matter if there is a bee in your face or snot running down your nose. Even if there are safari ants crawling up your pants, you move, you’re in trouble.
Sometimes you’re just on your way to some place without any pesky flags on your mind, when someone blows a whistle because they are hoisting a dirty, tattered flag, and you have no choice but to stand to attention until the thing is up.
We raise flags in school. During morning parade a scout marches forward to flash a salute that doesn’t even look like the real salutes soldiers execute on national days. He unfurls a flag and we stand to attention until it is up and fluttering.
Our Headie says honoring our flag
makes us patriotic. Most people want the country to do everything for them but they haven’t done anything for it.
“‘Ask not what your country can do for you,’” our Headie looks out above our heads and mimics someone else’s voice. He asks, “Do you know who said those words?”
Of course we know because he has asked us many times before. They are the words of an American president who was shot by one of his citizens, because they all have guns and are allowed to use them for self-defense. How can shooting a president, who is just waving at people, be self-defense? But that is America, and in America people have rights, even if it is the right to shoot you dead.
Our Headie says, “This was Kennedy, a president much loved by his people.”
Then why would they shoot him, if they loved him so much?
But again, that is America, and in America people do things that don’t make sense unless you’re American.
Raising the flag is about respect for your country. That is what we are taught in school. But who says you can force people to respect something? They will only pretend, and when no one is watching they’ll use the flag to wipe their dirty backsides and then there will be a fifth color on it.
I’ve seen films where people strut around in pants made with the Union Jack—which is what Bumbles calls the British flag. In my country, they would probably shoot me if I did that.
BABA WORKS ON national holidays since his is an essential service. “Trains must run even when everyone else is celebrating. If all the trains stopped moving for even a day, there would be a shortage of essential commodities and the country would grind to a halt,” Baba pushes his chest out to show how important his work is.
I switch on Baba’s radio and twist its dials until it hits the right spot.
“Woi!
Woi!
Woi tunataka Kenyatta aachiliwe”—the radio blares out song after song about the Father of the Nation. The songs go on about how he was humiliated and jailed but did not give up his fight for our independence.
Playing a Dangerous Game Page 10
