Playing a Dangerous Game

by Patrick Ochieng

  “So that’s settled,” Dado continues. “Now, if we’re caught and we scream for help, run to the police station and tell them everything, including what Lumush and I heard the last time. Tell them we heard the men talk about how Stingo had to be silenced. That will certainly have them acting,” he says.

  “We meet behind the slaughterhouse at nine o’clock p.m.”

  “Yes, see you then,” I say. That will be a good time for me. It’s when Baba listens to the news after we’ve had supper. It won’t be difficult to excuse myself like I’m off to bed and slip out unnoticed.

  MOSE SHOWS UP last behind the slaughterhouse. We had decided against meeting near the Zephyr because everyone knows it’s our spot and we don’t want Apondi or someone else interrupting.

  Above, a playful silver moon peeps out from inside a thick blanket of clouds. A distant blare of a locomotive adds to the gloom. There is barely any activity on Desai Street.

  When we get to the spot near the bougainvillea bush, Dado signals us to stop.

  “From here you will be able to see anyone entering the compound,” Dado says, slapping Odush on the shoulder. “Make sure you keep as close to the hedge as possible so no one sees you. One whistle blast will be a warning that someone’s coming in. You hear us shout for help, sprint to the police station. Tell them what we heard the men say, especially about Stingo. That should make them do something. And Mose, you stay behind Lumush. Not now please, just stick to the plan,” he cuts Mose short when he tries to speak.

  “Why don’t you let him say what he wants to say?” Odush says, but Dado is already on the move.

  He goes down on his knees and crawls through the gap in the hedge. I follow closely, stopping only to dislodge a barb caught in my jacket, then I’m through.

  “Let’s head for the back,” Dado tugs at my arm. We keep off the graveled drive to avoid the crunch, crunch sound against our feet.

  “Shhhh. Did you hear that?”

  “It’s only a cat,” Dado says, as a white cat slips past.

  I remember Uncle Owuoth once telling me about jinns transforming themselves into cats to lure unsuspecting victims. However, now we know we aren’t dealing with ghosts so I don’t give the cat much thought. By the time we get to the back of the compound, the moon above has found some empty space between the clouds, increasing our visibility.

  Dado crouches and runs forward. He reaches for the door, opens it, and pulls out a flashlight I didn’t know he had and switches it on. Its beam bounces into the room, revealing sacks piled on top of each other.

  “Someone in there is bound to see that light . . .” I start to whisper before the night’s quiet is shattered by loud barking from behind us and all I can think of is Mwachuma’s mongrel, Tarzan, ripping us apart.

  “Run!” I shout, and Dado bumps into me, knocking me to the ground.

  I rise, slip, and fall down again. The barking and growling are now right in my face, as a warm, yeasty smell fills my nostrils. I think I’m finished, but the barking recedes as suddenly as it began.

  I’m up again, and my heart feels like it wants to jump right out of my chest. A couple of steps and I bump into something, someone who grunts and grabs me by my shoulder, flinging me to the ground. I struggle to my feet before a heavy blow explodes on the side of my head, and my legs no longer feel the ground below. A second blow lights up a thousand stars in my head, and then I’m drifting, sinking into nothing.

  MY HEAD THROBS. My throat is dry. My hands are bound behind my back. My feet are tied together. I try to move my mouth but I can’t. Something tight bites against its sides. I try to blink away the pain.

  I hear the sound of feet scuffing against the floor, followed by whispers:

  “We need to move the coffee out of this place before light. I’ve already arranged for a lorry which will be here soon,” one of the men says, his voice loud and commanding.

  “I hope you’ve also arranged for loaders. There are too many sacks and they’re too heavy. It would take too long to load them into a lorry. We don’t have time,” another one says, and though his tone is guarded, it is obviously Tumbo. “And what do we do with the two kids?” he asks.

  I’m relieved. At least I’m not alone, I think, before a sense of guilt hits me.

  “You leave that to me. For now let’s make this coffee disappear,” the loud one says with finality.

  A door slams shut.

  “Lumush! Lumush!”

  I hear Dado’s voice and I feel a burst of energy. I try to speak but I can’t because something tight rips across my mouth.

  “Are you gagged?”

  “Mmm . . .” I mumble.

  “I was gagged too, but I slipped it off. Keep moving your mouth up and down and the gag will drop,” Dado lowers his voice.

  I move my mouth up, down, and sideways to try and loosen my gag, but it just won’t move. I keep on doing that until my mouth is sore.

  “Roll over so I can use my teeth to untie you,” Dado whispers, and I roll over toward him.

  After a lot of maneuvering I feel his warm breath on my wrists as he gnaws at the knots that bind them. Soon his breath is labored, but still he works at it. After what seems like forever, the knots loosen and my arms are free. I rip off the gag and get to work. It does not take me long to untie the knots on Dado’s arms.

  “We better get out of here.” I grope for the door, but it’s locked.

  “Easy now, they’ll hear you,” Dado whispers, and at that very moment the lights come on.

  “And where do you two think you are going?” Tumbo stands at the door with a metal bar in his hand.

  He is joined by the tall man we saw the last time. And Mwachuma.

  “Now you’ll learn why you should never interfere in other people’s business,” Tumbo raises the metal bar and advances.

  “Our friends have gone for the police.” Dado steps back. His tone is steady and that surprises me, because I’m shaking and my heart is racing.

  Tumbo stops in his tracks.

  “Oh yes!” Dado nods. “At this very moment, Odush and Mose are telling the police where to find Stingo’s killers.”

  “Who told you about Stingo?” Tumbo lowers his arm.

  “Ah! You mean, how did we know about the charcoal jiko and the carbon monoxide poisoning?” Dado’s voice rises.

  The tall man hasn’t said a word but gestures Tumbo aside, and it is at that moment that the sound of sirens fills the night.

  “Now you see what I meant?” Dado shouts out, but the three men are already fighting to get out through the back door.

  “Down! All of you, down!” someone shouts from outside.

  Tumbo rushes back in, followed by a uniformed policeman with a gun in his hand.

  “Don’t you move.” The policeman points the gun at Tumbo, who drops the metal bar and raises his hands in surrender.

  “The boys are in here,” the policeman shouts out and is joined by another. “Don’t worry, we’re police officers,” one of them says. As if it isn’t obvious.

  “YOU TWO HAVE your friends to thank,” a burly police officer says after we’re freed, opening the back door of a police car. A blue light flashing from its roof gives the compound a surreal look.

  The officer directs the beam of his flashlight at three handcuffed men seated on the grass. Tumbo and the tall man avert their faces, but Mwachuma stares up at them defiantly.

  “I’ve never been inside a police car,” I whisper to Dado, and I’m sure it’s also his first time.

  Raindrops begin to dot the windshield.

  “Time to get you boys home,” one of the officers fires the car’s engine. “Someone will visit you tomorrow to record your statements,” he says as he steers the car out of the compound.

  “Wait until Mose and Odush hear that we got a lift in a police car,” Dado nudges me and smiles.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ***

  IT IS NOW ONE WEEK since we were rescued from the house on Desai Street. D
ado, Odush, and Mose are seated with me in our living room. It’s strange that despite being friends for so many years, it’s the first time we are all together in our house.

  Mama convinced Baba to take time off from work because today is an important day.

  There is a knock at the door, and I answer it even before Mama asks.

  I open the main door to find Bumbles standing there and I’m stunned. What could Bumbles of all people be doing in Railway Estate on a Saturday, and worse still at our doorstep?

  “Good morning, Lumumba,” Bumbles extends his hand and shakes mine like we are the best of friends.

  Not waiting for an invitation, he walks right into our living room, and it is clear from the way Mama and Baba welcome him that they have been expecting him.

  “Now, won’t you introduce me to your friends,” he says, but Mama is already at it, reeling out names before retreating to the kitchen.

  After she is gone, Baba and Bumbles go on and on about African history, which they both seem fond of. It’s almost noon when a neat blue Mercedes pulls up outside our house. A police officer leaps out, opening the back door to let out a tall man in a smart blue uniform. You can tell from the way the officers mill around him, saluting, that he is their boss.

  They usher him into our living room where Mama, Baba, and Bumbles rise to greet him.

  Baba leads him to the green chair next to the radio. He removes his hat, balances it on his knee, and introduces himself as an assistant commissioner of police.

  “These must be the brave boys I’ve heard so much about,” he says, looking in our direction.

  “Oh yes!” Bumbles nods. “The one to the left is my student. A very bright boy,” he says, and Mama’s smile lights up the room.

  “You must be Mr. Bumbles,” the assistant commissioner turns in his direction. “I’m sorry about your brother, but now, thanks to these young men, the culprits will finally be brought to justice.”

  The assistant commissioner then informs us that Mwachuma and the other thugs have confessed to running a coffee smuggling ring. “They have also confessed to being responsible for the deaths of Mr. Swiney and his family, as my men earlier informed Mr. Bumbles.”

  Bumbles takes off his glasses and uses a handkerchief to wipe his eyes.

  “My officers have already communicated the details to Mr. Bumbles, so I need not go into that. All I’ll add, which I’m sure the brave boys already know, is that we also lost a dedicated officer called Stingo who was working undercover. I’d like to again thank you boys for your bravery. I will be forwarding your names for the Presidential Award. But that doesn’t mean you should take such risks in future.” The man smiles and sips the tea Mama has served him. “Next time just report whatever you suspect to the police and let us do the investigating.”

  AFTER THE ASSISTANT commissioner is gone, Mama warns us about poking our noses into other people’s business. She tries as hard as possible to wear a stern face, but she can’t hide the pride in her eyes.

  “There are some mandazis I baked for you boys, but that doesn’t mean you can go creeping into deserted houses in the middle of the night. You could get yourselves killed.” She smiles, as though what she just said is amusing.

  “Lumumba?”

  “Yes Ma . . .”

  “Why don’t you see your teacher out?” Mama says, when Bumbles rises to leave.

  “Thank you,” Bumbles turns and says.

  He hugs me, and though he averts his face, I know there are tears welling down his cheeks.

  Then I watch his hunched figure recede in the gathering dusk.

  “SO TELL US HOW you were gagged by the thieves,” Mose says, edging closer.

  “But we already told you a hundred times.” I slide off the hood of the Zephyr.

  Up ahead, the sun is steadily sinking. I know Apondi will soon be along to tell me Mama wants me indoors, and that the evil car will finally be our undoing.

  “I want to hear it again. I want to hear how they bound your hands and feet like kidnappers do in films. Is it also true you were attacked by dogs? Now that’s cool,” he says.

  But no one is listening because Odush and Dado are already arm wrestling on the car’s hood, and my bet is on Dado.

  THE END

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Patrick Ochieng is a lawyer and author who was shortlisted for the 2010 Golden Baobab Prize and longlisted for the Syncity NG 2018 Anthology Prize. He has been published in Kikwetu, Munyori, Brittle Paper, and other literary publications. He lives in Kenya with his family.

  ABOUT ACCORD BOOKS

  Accord works with authors from across the African continent to provide support throughout the writing process and secure regional and international publishing and distribution for their works. We believe that stories are both life-affirming and life-enhancing, and want to see a world where all children are delighted and enriched by incredible stories written by African authors.

  Copyright © 2021 by Patrick Ochieng

  All rights reserved

  First Edition

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  Jacket design by Jared Oriel

  Jacket illustration by Taylor McManus

  Production manager: Beth Steidle

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Ochieng, Patrick, author.

  Title: Playing a dangerous game / Patrick Ochieng.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Accord Books/Norton Young Readers, [2021] | Audience: Ages 9–12. | Summary: In 1970s Kenya, ten-year-old Lumush and his three friends discover a criminal operation that puts both themselves and their families in danger.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021023089 | ISBN 9781324019138 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781324019145 (epub)

  Subjects: CYAC: Friendship—Fiction. | Smuggling—Fiction. | Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Blacks—Kenya—Fiction. | Kenya—History—20th century—Fiction. | LCGFT: Action and adventure fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.O1985 Pl 2021 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021023089

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