Kill Me Quick

by Meja Mwangi

  His hand shot in and out of Maina’s pocket fishing a dirty handkerchief.

  “See?” He said, handing back the handkerchief. “There’s nothing to it.”

  The man’s money was inside his coat pocket and not so easily reachable.

  “Just a matter of perspective,” said Professor. “Nothing to it.”

  They followed the victim around waiting for a chance. Maina prayed the man would go in a shop, and never come out again, or get in his car and drive away. They followed him around and watched him shop.

  “What is the matter with you,” Kifagio asked him.

  “He walks fast,” Maina said.

  He could hardly hide the shaking.

  “Run after him,” Professor said.

  “You can hit him,” added Kifagio.

  “Do not do that,” Professor said quickly. “Do not get us killed.”

  Maina rushed after the blue suit. His mind racing and his heart pounding from fear, he was tempted to run back to his backstreets and dive into the safety of the first dumpster. But he was unfamiliar with the part of Main Street, and there were too many people about, and he feared running into a policeman and having to explain why he was running. Someone might mistake him for an escaping thief and set the mob after him.

  He rushed after the prey. They came to a bus stop, just as a bus was stopping, and the man made for the door. Maina made a grab for the jacket and missed. The blue suit vanished inside the bus. Other passengers jostled Maina pushing and shoving to get inside the crowded bus. He pushed back, as they forced him back inside the bus. The bus started off. Kifagio and Professor hopped on board at the last minute and hung out of the door. The bus left the centre headed for the suburbs.

  The conductor approached Maina with his hand out for the fare. Maina panicked. He had not seen or handled money for months and could not remember when he last had any. He pretended to search in his pockets. The conductor waited and other passengers smiled knowingly. He was ready to give up and confess, then Kifagio dug in his rags and came up with the fare. Professor opened a window to get some air. They would need all their wits now that they had lost the protective cover of the Main Street crowds.

  Their quarry alighted a short while later and entered a gate close to the bus stop. Maina was desperate, as he saw the man about to disappear inside the house. Before they could stop him, he went after the blue suit, arriving at the door just as the man disappeared inside and closed the door behind him. Through the window, Maina saw him drop his shopping bags on a table, take off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair. Then he took his shopping and walked through another door calling for Phoebe.

  Maina opened the door, dashed in, and snatched the coat, sending the chair crashing to the floor. He was half way to the door, when the man reappeared, saw what was happening and threw something after him.

  “Thief!” he shouted. “Thief!”

  People on the road heard the shouts, saw the thief come fleeing towards the gate and tried to apprehend him. Maina altered course for the back of the house where a six-foot high fence was the only obstacle. Beyond it was a back road and freedom. Maina leapt at the wall, grabbed the top and hoisted himself over it. He landed on the other side bruised, but still hanging on to the coat, rose and limped away. Kifagio and Professor were there waiting at the corner. They dragged him along, congratulating and slapping him on the back.

  Chapter Six

  There was feasting and merriment at Razor’s house. Sara had swept the floor and cleared it of cigarette ends and idle gang members. Then she had gone to the market and bought tea, sugar, rice, flour, cooking oil and other commodities that had not been seen in the house for a long time. She also brought back roast meat, ugali, bread and some strange sauces the seller said was good with meat.

  “But what is it?” Razor wanted to know.

  “Salsa?” Professor stepped in to examine the jar of sauce. “Salsa is Spanish for kachumbari. Salsa is also a dance originally from ...”

  Apart from Razor, the gang did not care what it was, or where it was from, if it was edible. They devoured it in big mouthfuls, talking in grunts and gestures, their cheeks filled, pausing now and then to congratulate Maina making it possible. Food and goodwill flowed as freely as the special chang’aa Sara had bought from the bhangi dealer next door.

  Despite the many aches and bruises he had sustained, Maina basking in his glory, was happy to hear Kifagio call him friend. Kifagio kept slapping him on the back and telling how he had charged inside the bus without fare. The story got more exciting with every retelling. First Maina had pursued the man screaming into the house and emerged wearing the man’s coat. In the next version, Maina had knocked down the gate, overpowered three watchmen, stormed in the house, and stripped the coat off the wearer’s back. Maina gave up denying he was a hero and wallowed in the praise. Whatever the truth, no one could deny he had made the party happen. Even Sara looked at him with different eyes than before. He thought he saw Sara wink at him, but that was just the chang’aa and the bhangi speaking.

  Jitu called for a speech to thank Maina for a job well done. Professor promptly volunteered, but he was too drunk to still be on his feet long enough to get to the point of his speech. He started telling how a whole family had charged after Maina armed with clubs and pangs, and how Maina had fought them off with karate kicks that the Professor had never seen in a Chinese film. Kifagio accused him of lying and the two almost came to blows. Then Nyoka rose abruptly, startling everyone for he had never volunteered for anything, and announced he had a speech.

  “Friends,” he said. “We are all friends. Friends are ... friends.”

  He swayed, and was about to fall on Kifagio, but Kifagio pushed him back upright.

  “Friends,” he continued, steadying himself, “Chokora is our friend.”

  He swayed backward, and was about to fall on the bed, but Sara planted her foot on the small of his back and shoved. He staggered to the middle of the room before, steadied himself and continued his speech.

  “Friends,” he said, “Chokora is a friend’s friend, friends. Friend’s friends, friends are friends and ...”

  “What are you talking about?” Razor asked him.

  “I am just saying that I love you all, my friends.”

  “Sit down, fool,” Sara said to him.

  Nyoka sat down and applauded himself.

  Then Jicho tried, but was so full of love and praise for Chokora he could not hold back the tears running down from his one eye.

  “I do not know what else I can say,” he said and sat back down on the floor.

  Another fool rose to speak and, when he too was discovering that he did not know what to say, Sara gave up and invited Maina to sip from her bottle.

  Maina hesitated. He had seen all sorts of intoxicating things ingested to get high, but, apart from his initiation smoke, he had not been tempted to try any of them. Now with everyone in such high spirits, and Sara smiling at him so attractively, the time had come to step into the unknown.

  Razor watched him accept the bottle from Sara, take a big swallow and hand it back. The room was suddenly dead quiet, all eyes on Maina. Then the chang’aa hit the base of his stomach and bounced back up knocking him to the floor in a fit of choking and coughing and fighting for air. The gang burst out laughing. Professor thumped him on the back to release trapped air from his lungs so he could breath.

  “You must take it slow,” he said. “It is not called kill me quick for nothing. Take it slow, classmate.”

  “Like this?” Razor took the bottle from Sara, tilted his head back and poured half of it slowly down his throat.

  “Ha!” he said.

  “That way it does not burn your throat,” said Professor.

  “Try another sip.” Razor offered him the bottle.

  Maina accepted the bottle and held it up to the small light that found its way through the doorway. Though it burnt like fire, it was clear like water. He shook his head and handed back the bo
ttle. Sara took out the wallet Maina had brought back from his dangerous mission, and which was now hers by right, and gave some money to Nyoka.

  “You run to the kiosk and bring Maina some soda,” she said.

  “Run?” Nyoka was doubtful.

  “Run,” she ordered.

  “I don’t think I can run,” he said to himself. “But I will go.”

  He struggled to his feet, and could barely stand, but there was no arguing with her. He reeled to the door and staggered outside. They heard him sing loudly as he went.

  Kifagio offered Maina a joint. They smoked and waited for Nyoka to return. Soon it was dark outside and still no Nyoka. It was pitch black inside the shack, not that there had ever been much light before, but then there had never been so much food and drink and joy and happiness. Now, and for no reason at all, everyone needed to see everyone’s face. They could not do without it light. Jitu was talking to Nyoka, unaware the man had left to buy soda, and telling him how much he loved him.

  “What is keeping him?” Sara asked impatiently. “Kifagio, you go find Nyoka.”

  He left the shack, doing his best to walk straight, and the rest waited. Darkness had dampened the party spirit. Jitu grumbled it was too dark to see his friend Nyoka. Razor missed seeing Sara’s beautiful face.

  “Jitu,” said Sara, “take this money and go buy a candle.”

  Jitu took the money and staggered off. They waited. Darkness suppressed conversation, so they spoke in whispers. Jitu took so long Sara had to send someone else after him. Then she remembered Nyoka and how he could hardly stand when he went singing happily away.

  “Mwalimu,” she said to Professor, “Go find Nyoka and the others. Tell them if they have drunk my money, I’ll kill them.”

  Razor offered to go with him. Maina was left alone with Sara. They listened to the footsteps fade away. The house was dark and silent but for Sara’s heavy breathing.

  “Chokora,” she said, “come sit here next to me.

  Maina, hesitates.

  “Come,” she ordered.

  He rose and hesitantly took Razor’s place on the bed. He sat exactly where Razor had sat. Sara took his hand in hers.

  “You did well today,” she said, caressing his hand. “Better than anyone has ever done; even Razor. “I am so happy inside.”

  She placed his hand on her bosom.

  “Feel how happy I am?” she asked him.

  Maina emitted a small, scared wail and tried to withdraw his hand. She held on.

  She took his other hand and wrapped his arm round her shoulders. He was about to faint from fear and something else.

  “Kiss me,” she said. “Chokora, kiss me now. Kiss me quickly before Razor comes back.”

  Then she kissed him, clamping her mouth to his so he could hardly breath. Suddenly filled with fright, he tried to get away. She clung to him, pulled him down on the bed. Suddenly, there was a sound, and a silhouette appeared at the door peering inside the dark room.

  “Where is everyone?” A voice asked.

  Nyoka stood at the door trying to get used to the dark. Maina shot from the bed, tripped on a crate, and went crashing into him. Nyoka cried out in panic and fell back outside. He rose and bolted down the way yelling at the top of his lungs.

  “Nyoka,” Maina called after him, “Nyoka, it’s me Maina. Don’t be scared, it’s only me.”

  Nyoka disappeared down the lane screaming.

  “Let the fool go,” Sara said. “ He is like all the rest.”

  “Shall I go for them?”

  “No,” she said. “Come back here now. Chokora, come back here right now.”

  When he hesitated, she rose, found a stub of a candle, and lit it. She threw the door screeching shut, grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him back on the bed.

  Razor and the gang returned at dawn the following morning, roaring drunk and in high spirits. They brought neither soda nor candles, just their ragged carcasses and unlikely stories. They tried telling it all to Sara, to explain what had happened to the money she had given them, but she was not listening.

  The short of it was, they had all ended up at the same chang’aa den deep in the heart of Shanty Town, having made their ways there variously and dubiously, and now they had neither the money nor the things she sent them for. None of them could explain it in any way that made any sense, but it did not matter, because no one was listening. Sara lay comatose on her queenly bed, and Maina sat with his back to the wall a catatonic look on his face. He could barely remember the faces talking at him, but he remembered lying in a bed with a bag of bhangi, a bottle of chang’aa and Sara. The rest was a sweet haze, and all he wanted now was to be left alone to sleep it all off.

  The gang was not through celebrating him. Razor found Sara’s wallet, ordered more chang’aa from next door and the party continued. Only Maina was concerned by the noise. When he voiced his discomfort over disturbing the neighbours, the gang shouted him down.

  “To hell with neighbours,” Razor said. “This is Shanty Town and I am the king. I order you to drink as loud as you like.”

  It was daylight by then, but the only light inside the hut was the red glow from the joints of bhangi making the rounds.

  Maina’s reputation as a provider grew, as time went by, but he continued to amaze them with his ingenuity. The big drawback, he soon realised, was that the gang now expected him to return with a wallet full of cash whenever he went out on patrol. They began to rely on him, and spent days smoking bhangi waiting for him to bring food.

  Maina patrolled for hours in the suburbs, where he had once mended potholes, looking for opportunities to make money. He dived in dustbins looking for recyclable garbage as he had done once, but now he was also always on the lookout for anything left carelessly lying about, anything he might convert to cash. Most times he went home empty-handed, but sometimes he returned with enough money for food and drink.

  Chapter Seven

  Maina was finally a tested and qualified member of Razor’s gang. He was not afraid of policemen any more, but he kept his distance from them. They hated anyone not in a suit, or inside big a car, and if someone looked innocent, they assumed he was hiding something and demanded he prove his innocence. One could not trust a policeman.

  “It is quite simple really,” Professor tried to break it down for Maina. “A policeman can see that you have no money or means, ergo, you must be a potential felon, or in other words a criminal in waiting. He might shoot you dead on the spot. Law allows it, but then again, that may be just what you are looking for. It is all a matter of perspective. You cannot argue with perspective. It is useless trying to reason with one, ergo, when a policeman says hello, he means run like hell. Just a matter of perspective, that is all.”

  A policeman could ask a suspect anything. Like where he was coming from, where he was going, why he looked so hungry or why he had no shoes on his feet.

  “Kijana,” a policeman sayss, “Young man, why are you sleepwalking across the road like a hungry hyena? Don’t you know cars can kill you? And what are you doing in the street when everyone is at work? If you cannot find a job, go back to the village and take a jembe.”

  Some people were foolish enough to say they had no land to go back to.

  “So, you decide to loiter in the streets stealing side mirrors?”

  “I do not steal side mirrors.”

  “What do you steal?”

  If one insisted on reasoning with them, he ended up at the station helping with investigations he knows nothing about.

  “You can’t win against them,” Professor said to Maina.

  Maina stopped on the rim of the valley above Shanty Town, at the point where the city stopped and Shanty Town began, where sense and nonsense parted company, and where dreams and aspirations stalled, refusing to continue into the valley of despair. It was a terrible place to be. Every time he got there he had a vision of doom, of something slowly and irreversibly breaking apart and ceasing to exist.

  He s
tood rooted to the spot, gathering courage to continue. People passed him, stealing fearful glances at him, as they went on their way. They knew him as Chokora, one of Razor’s boys, the one who did not curse at them or frighten their children or kick their chairs or chickens out of his way. He had heard rumours that he also lent money to those in need, but that was untrue. Sara made sure of that no gang member had any money to squander on such things.

  He stood at the top of the rise inhaling the garbage smoke, and the dust, and the smells from the sewer plant, and from the crematorium across the valley that rose in a hazy cloud, and spread like a shroud that entombed the place in an acrid bitter air. People stepped off the road and walked round him on their way back home from the city where they spent the days like him searching for sustenance. Many were born in Shanty Town, and most would die there having never seen the possibilities that lay beyond their horizon. It did not surprise him to hear Shanty Town citizens talk of the squalor as a mere prison sentence that would one day end, and from which they would walk away free to fulfill their destiny.

  “One day,” a resident who had lived all his life in the place, and was fast heading to the grave, would say, “I will get out of this place and never come back here.”

  Such was the spirit of Shanty Town.

  “Hello,” a girl’s voice said behind him.

  Her name was Delilah. She was tall, and as lean and straight as a bamboo pole. Everyone said she was the most attractive girl in Shanty Town, and she was his friend. At least that was what she said.

  “Do you still dream of marrying me?” she asked him.

  Maina took her hand.

  “Day and night,” he said.

  “Have you found a job then?” she asked.

  “I’ll get a job,” he said. “When can we go out?”

  “When you get your first pay,” she said. “Real pay from a job job.”

  “Job jobs are hard to get, but ...”

  “Keep trying,” she said, letting go his hand. “I must hurry home or my brothers will come looking for me.”

  She had been looked for work, any kind of job for a long time and she had finally found one at Friends Bar. She was a barmaid. He could not get a job as a cleaner, but she had a job as a waiter.