by Meja Mwangi
“I like it here,” Meja said, lying down to sleep.
Maina reminded they had the foreman to deal with, and the question of their pay to sort out.
“We came for the money too.”
“So, you will stay?”
“Until you settle down.”
Over the next two months, Boi made them try every job there was on the farm, to find out which ones suited their age and education. They worked under everyone and Boi. They learned to milk, looked after pigs, learned to drive tractors and slaughtered chickens for the market. No one wanted to work with them for long, and they ended up at the farmhouse with Boi. Maina said he was allergic to gardening and became the kitchen-help. Meja got the jembe.
Meja had nothing against the jembe, or any implement that earned him money. He saved every cent he could, while Maina spent his on cigarettes and new clothes. They did not talk about home and the families they left behind. They had food and a place to sleep. For now, that was enough.
The Boi they had in the kitchen was far from the soft-spoken old man who rescued them from the streets. The Boi in the kitchen was impatient and hard to please. He gave them different areas of responsibility, to stop them standing together idling. He did not want them resulting to their unhealthy chokora habits and indiscipline. To Boi nothing was done right or well enough. They were not allowed to stop and rest or worse to sit and talk. The punishment was swift and serious. Anyone found engaging in time wasting activity lost half the day’s ration. Meja and Maina were constantly on half ration.
Chapter Three
A light rain was falling outside. A chilly wind blew in through the cracks in the door agitating the flames, as Meja spooned the last bits of food from his dish mouth. Maina licked his plate, then his fingers, slowly and methodically starting with the little finger of his right hand and working his way to the thumb. Meja added wood to keep the fire going. He watched Maina start on the left hand.
The only furniture in the room was the two wooden crates they sat on, and the shelf with their utensils. They had two mugs, two plates, a water bucket and two old cooking pots Boi had loaned them. Their sleeping places were on the floor on the opposite sides of the hut. They cooked on three stones in the centre of the room.
Maina finished licking his fingers and his plate and sent the plate flying across the room to the rack to await washing. Then he belched and rubbed his stomach.
“That was good,” he said.
“But for the salt,” Meja set his plate down by his side.
“The way Boi has been watching me, I was lucky to get the cooking oil,” said Maina.
He lit a cigarette. The lamp threw grotesque shadows on the walls.
“I like it here,” he said.
“Can you cook pilau?” Meja asked.
“What is that?”
“What the restaurant manager asked me. If I could cook pilau he would give me a job.”
“I don’t want to be a cook.”
“You work in the kitchen.”
“Not for long,” said Maina. “As soon as I save enough, I will start a shop. My uncle has a bicycle shop.”
No one in Meja’s family had a business. What he would do, as soon as he saved enough, was return to the city, and make real money. That would never happen on the farm. As soon as he had enough for bus fare, he would go back to the city and do whatever it took to make money. He would survive on Main Street.
“With your speed,” Maina laughed. “You need speed and cunning, and courage to face up to and survive mob justice. You must be able to withstand pain.”
On Main Street, anyone who ran was a suspect. Main street mobs liked nothing better than to chase down and beat suspects to death. He was there, and tried the things the others did, and nearly paid for them with his life.
“The mob chased me to the backstreets and I did not have the courage to go back.”
“Did you steal?” Meja asked him.
“I took things here and there, but only when it was easy.”
“What did you take?”
“I don’t remember. I do not want to talk about it.”
Then he stared at the fire, being sad. He could sit like that for the whole night. Sometimes he went out in the night and walked and wept softly by himself. Then he put on his mask and came back smiling. Meja was not fooled by the smile. Maina missed his home and family.
“There is no home to go back to,” Maina said. “That is the truth.”
His father had four sons, two daughters and a small piece of land. They lived in a rented a house so they could use the whole land for cultivation. They sent Maina to school, so he would go get a job and support them. Before he left, his father called him aside and informed him that he taken all his inheritance in education. There was nothing more for him to expect from his father. Go get a job, he said, then come back and help educate the others.
“He would be happier if I did not go back at all, than go back empty-handed.”
“You have a job now,” Meja said. “If we put our money together, you can go one month and I the next.”
“It would take more money than we save working here. But you can go home. I will lend you my pay.”
It was tempting, but Meja knew he could not do it. His people would want him home, with or without money, but he could not face them with his failure.
“You will never go back?” Maina asked him.
“When I get enough money.”
The rain was to a steady downpour. The tin lamp was out of diesel. One of them would have to steal back to the workshops to milk the tractors. Meja fanned the fire back to life. The flames danced in the wind blowing through the holes in the wall. He lay back on his bed. Then he saw them. They sat along the top of the wall, big, black rats, their eyes sparkling in the firelight as they stared down on him.
“They want to know where you saved the leftovers,” Maina said.
“Go away,” Meja yelled at them. “We it all.”
“Try eating this.” Maina threw them one of Meja’s shoes.
The eyes vanished, soot showered down, and the shoe landed on Meja’s head. He threw it at Maina. Maina ducked and it ended up on the crockery rack. The eyes reappeared immediately. Then the rats charged down the walls, a mass of grey raining down from the thatch. Maina had disturbed their nests and woken up the rest, and they were all out for revenge.
“Look out,” Meja yelled covering his head.
Maina ducked under his blanket and sealed the openings. They heard the rats rampage through the hut overturning the pots and looting the kitchen place. When they had cleaned the pots, and licked the plates, they raged through the hut looking for anything edible. They tried to get under the blankets.
Meja fought them off, kicking out and thrashing his arms. One of them found an unguarded opening and charged in. He leaped up and tossed it squealing in the fire. It ran out under the door, and the rest fled back up the walls to the safety of the thatch.
“This can’t go on,” he said. “They will eat us in our sleep.”
Maina lay still and left him to deal with the rats. Meja lay down again and braced himself for the next attack. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. It was still raining outside and the roof was beginning to leak. They exchanged worried glances, and decided to ignore the knocking.
“Chokora?”
It was Boi’s voice.
“I want to talk to you,” he said.
Maina snored loudly. Meja followed did the same and pretended to be sleeping.
“I know you are awake,” Boi said to them. “Open the door.”
Meja stopped uncovered his head.
“Open it,” he whispered.
“You open it,” Maina whispered back.
“He is your kitchen boss.”
“Your garden boss too.”
Outside the hut, Boi stood half in the rain and getting wetter and colder. He had to lean on the door to get away from the rain.
“Chokora,” he said. “I can hear you. Open the door.”
The wind blew the rain on his shoes. He leaned on the door too hard, and, with a loud screech, the nails holding the bolt gave way. The door flew open spitting the startled old man inside. He stumbled, tripped on a stool, and landed in the fireplace, where he sat dazed for a moment, mumbling incoherently while the boys exchanged puzzled glances. Then he shot up and halfway to the roof, and screamed. He ran for the door, tripped on the same stool, and landed outside in the rain. He yelled again and ran into the night.
The room was quiet for after that. Even the rats kept out of sight.
“Do you think he hurt himself?” Meja asked.
“You saw how he ran out,” Maina said.
“His trousers were smoking.”
“He is all right,” Maina said. “Do not worry about him. Shut the door.”
Meja shut the door and propped the crate against it. He got back in bed. They were quiet for a moment. Then Maina laughed.
“He scared the rats,” he said. “They will never come back here.”
“What did he want to talk to you about?”
“To remind us of the virtues of discipline and vigorous work,” Maina said. “I am tired of hearing it.”
“He has no one else to talk to,” said Meja.
They were the closest to him.
“He will have to pay for my attention,” said Maina.
“Do you see us old and lonely like him? Without real jobs?”
“What is a real job?”
“A job that pays money,” Meja said. “Real money that we can send home. Like a teacher or a ...”
“I always wanted to be a teacher,” Maina said. “I could not go to teachers’ college, because I had to find a job and help my family. I was also going to get married.”
“Why?”
“Her father was a family friend,” Maina said. “So, I was to get a job, marry her, settle down and take care of my brothers and sisters.”
“Was she good-looking?”
“I think so,” Maina said. “We grew up together, so I never looked at her that way. She was like a sister to me. Did you have a girlfriend?”
“No,” Meja said, “but there was a girl. She did not notice me, but I thought she was pretty. I would walk by her house every chance hoping to see her. I dreamed she would one day notice me, when I got a job and a car.”
“I never dreamed of a car,” Maina said. “A bicycle, like my head teacher had. But now ...”
They were quiet for some time, listening to the night and the rain and to their own thoughts. The rats ventured back to forage and the wind nearly blew the door open.
Boi sulked for the rest of the week. He avoided talking to them and instead went through the foreman. The foreman cut their rations and demanded they go apologise to the old man on their knees. Maina did not see why they had to apologise.
“He is the one who should apologize,” he said to the foreman. “He broke down our door and sat on our fire.”
Boi revenged in his own way too. And with a severity they could not have imagined. He gave them conflicting instructions, and then reported them to the foreman when they got something wrong. He made a mess of the kitchen floor so that Maina was continuously mopping and polishing. He polished floors until his shoulders ached. Meanwhile, Meja watered the gardens until they were swampy. When Boi ordered him to water the bushes beyond the gardens fences, Maina was outraged.
“Now he has gone too far,” said Maina. “We must stop him.”
“How do we stop him?”
“I will think of something. Just let him keep coming.”
Meja was for peace. He was tired of hiding when Boi came to the garden looking for salads. He wanted to once again be able to hang out by the kitchen window chatting to Maina.
Then, one day, while Boi was busy thinking of ways to make his life harder, Maina hit back. He turned off the oven, while lunch was cooking, then went on mopping and polishing. Shortly before lunch, Boi realised the oven was off and the boss was due home soon. He could not be certain what had happened and did not think Maina could be so vicious. All the same, he had the foreman quarter Maina and Meja’s rations.
Maina waited for some time before making his next move. The roar that erupted at the Big Man’s table that evening told him he had succeeded.
“Sugar in steak?” Big Man yelled. “You are too old for this job.”
Boi was in a panic. Admittedly, he was sometimes a little absent-minded, but he was certain he had not sugared the steak. How sugar had ended up in the saltshaker was also mystery. But, now that his career was threatened, he was willing to consider all possibilities, including the possibility that Maina was after his job.
There was a lull in the kitchen war while he thought of his next move. There was peace in the kitchen, and in the garden, and the boys received full rations. Maina believed he had won.
“This is how it was meant to be,” he said, lying in his bed after the evening meal. “No more lectures, or complaining from the old man. This is peace and quiet.”
Even the rats in the crockery rack foraged quietly.
“Your friends are happy too,” Meja said.
“They are my country brothers,” said Maina. “They share everything, including half rations. I will take them to the city when I leave. They will do well in the dumpsters.”
“I wonder what they would do if I washed up after dinner?”
“They will eat us,” Maina said.
“Tomorrow I wash up,” Meja said to the rats. “I will wash your plates tomorrow.”
That tomorrow never came. Maina and Meja woke up to find their world turned upside down in the night. Thieves had broken in Big Man’s house while he slept and stolen his computer, his radio, and a camera. The Big Man was furious. He summoned the farm workers and demanded to know who had done it.
Boi could not have done it. Meja and Maina knew nothing about it and neither did the foreman. All he knew about was the farm machinery and the labour and the flour and the milk and nothing more. The rest of the workers hardly ever went to the farmhouse. Boi suggested searching the workers houses anyway.
A search party, headed by Boi and the foreman, went through the huts, turning up a lot of soot, fleas, bedbugs, rats, and a snake. They found nothing of interest at all, until they came to the last huts. The huts belonged to the chokora, the street boys Boi had brought from the city. The stolen items were stashed at the back under the crockery rack.
They did not bother pleading their innocence. It was such an obvious frame-up some villagers loudly voiced their doubts. It did not make any sense to them at all, but it made sense to Meja.
“You should have left him alone,” he said to Maina, as they packed their belongings.
“He started it,” said Maina.
“And he finished it.”
Boi did not go to see them off.
Chapter Four
Maina and Meja landed back in the backstreet where they had started, a little older, a lot wiser, and more desperate. It took a lot of talking to convince Meja it was the only place they could go. Nothing much had changed to the back of the supermarket in their absence. The same busy people rushed past by with the same indifference, holding their noses against the stench from the same dumpsters. Meja sat as before watching them go by and wishing he could be one of them.
A hand reached out of the dumpster and dropped a bag on the ground. It was not Maina’s hand. Meja wondered where Maina was. Two urchins ran down the road chased by a security guard. The hand dropped another bag.
Then Maina came from the back entrance of the market, where he had gone to look for work and walked towards Meja. He saw the plastic bags the hands from the dumpster had dropped and picked one of them. As he examined the contents, a grey head suddenly pop out of the dumpster and looked about for the bags. He saw Maina walk away with one of his bags and yelled at him.
“You!”
Maina glanced back and kept walking. The old man hopped out of the dumpster and ran after him.
Meja rose nervously, as Maina ran towards him.
“Catch,” Maina tossed the bag at him and ran past.
Confusion raced through Meja’s head as the bag flew at his face. He instinctively opened his hands and the bag in them. Through the confusion, he heard a voice scream.
“Huyo! Huyo! Huyo!”
More voices joined in the clamour and, before he knew it, his legs were moving away. They did so slowly at first, trying to surreptitiously walk away from an uncertain situation, then increasingly fast until he too was soon running after Maina. He did not know what was in the bag, or why they were chasing after him, but something said to hang on to whatever it was and run. Someone grabbed at him. He dodged and ran on.
“Thief,” he heard them yell. “Huyo, huyo, huyo.”
He stopped running. He was not a thief, and he could explain why he was running. He was scared, that was all. Then a mob charged from a side lane led by one askari and came running towards him.
“Thief,” they screamed. “Stop him, catch him.”
Someone aimed a rock at Meja. A security guard swung his club at his head. He ducked and ran.
Suddenly, it seemed the whole city was after him, shouting and trying to stop him. He dodged into a narrow side lane, remembering to keep to the backstreet and always to the backstreet, as Maina had taught him. They chased after him.
“Thief,” they shouted. “Stop him, catch him. Thief!”
One pursuer was armed with an empty dustbin, others with sticks and stones. Meja ran into another side alley, emerged on an unfamiliar road, and ran on, weaving, and dodging among the dumpsters and the dustbins and the pedestrians. The mob kept after him.
“Huyo! Huyo! Huyo!”
He thought he heard a gunshot and glanced behind. There was a policeman now leading the chase with his gun drawn. Terrified, Meja ducked in an alley. The mob went after him. He evaded the many hands trying to grab him, leapt over rubbish heaps, and upset dustbins, and when he looked back again, the policeman was shoving people aside to get a clear shot.
Meja was so frightened that, though his head said to run down to Grogan Road, his legs headed uphill towards Main Street. He knew he should be running in the opposite direction, deeper into the old part of town, but his legs would not listen. He ducked into another side street, his legs still moving faster than his mind, collided with a beggar, and sent him flying in the gutter. He heard another gunshot and decided he had had enough. He was ready to give up, but his legs would not stop running. They turned left, then right, then left again, and he went along having lost all sense of direction. Then, suddenly, they were on the Main Street. There were people everywhere.
