by Meja Mwangi
“What now?”
Meja looked up startled. His only friend seemed to have written him off as a failure.
“I have not failed,” he said.
“Of course, not,” said Ngigi. “You have the whole afternoon and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. You do not fail until you give up. You can hammer on the rock until you die and no one will try to stop you. But you do not get paid for it, that is all.”
“I will not fail,” Meja said.
They were silent for a while after that. It seemed there was nothing else to say. Then Ngigi pointed.
“See that man there?” he said. “They call him Bulldozer. He was not even a one-stroke lawn mower when he first came here. Just a small bag of bones, and see how big and awesome he is now. He breaks more rock in a day than many of us do in a week. There is still a lot of day left to today.”
He crawled deeper under the shade of the truck and closed his eyes.
“Why don’t you measured it for me?” Meja asked him.
“You will know when you have dug a fool’s grave.”
Meja crawled from under the lorry, rose.
“It is lunchtime,” Ngigi said.
Ngigi opened one eye, regarded him seriously.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Meja.”
“Listen, friend Meja,” he said. “That is rock. Anger or determination does not impress rocks. You cannot wear it down with persistence, or hurt its feelings with insults. You find a way inside it instead, a weakness you can exploit to bring it down.”
Meja walked away. He returned to his work place charged, certain that, somehow, he would dig the fool’s grave, if it was the last thing he ever did.
He picked up his hammer and swung it to his shoulder. His arms and legs trembled with the strain of holding up that hammer. Then he turned to the rock and focused his energy on one spot.
“I am harder than you,” he said to the rock. “You cannot defeat me.”
Then he let fly with the hammer. It missed the target, bounced off the rock and slammed into the bag of steel wedges barely an inch from his foot. He was about to lift it again then stopped and picked up the bag of wedges. He took one out and weighed it thoughtfully in his hand.
Then he got down on one knee and studied the rock face. He scratched it with the wedge, blew away the dust, and scratched again. He wiped stinging sweat from his face, with the back of his hand, and went on searching and searching. His search was rewarded with the discovery of two hairline cracks crossing at right angles and running the length and breadth of the rock.
He took a sharper wedge from the bag, he placed it over one of the cracks and hammered it in with the other. It bit into the crack and stuck. He stepped back and studied it. Then he positioned himself, planted his feet firmly in the ground and lifted the hammer. He swung it at the wedge. The wedge slipped into the rock slightly, and this time the hammer did not fly out of his control as before. The second wedge needed one blow to sink in the widening crack.
Suddenly excited by a sense of progress, he spat into his palms and rubbed them together.
“Follow the line of weakness,” he said to himself.
Way off in the quarry, the crusher resumed its roar. Lunchtime was officially over. It was time for the miners to go back to work. Then came the clang of steel on steel, the sound rising and falling in the wind, and it might have been in another land, so far was it from Meja’s mind.
Taking the pick, which up to now had seemed useless, he swung it over his head and buried the tip in the crack he had opened with the wedges. With a twist, the crack opened outwards and upwards along the face of the rock.
His hands were slippery with sweat and blood. They were also excruciatingly painful from the dust working its way in the blisters. But it hardly mattered. He dug his heels into the ground, grabbed the pick handle with both hands and gave a mighty twist. The handle slipped from his hands, and his own weight threw him backward, so that he tripped on the bag of pegs and fell on his back. He lay dazed, with gravel digging in his back, and thought it was time to admit that the rock was mightier. Then he heard a crack, followed by a roar like thunder, and suddenly the whole cliff came tumbling down.
Meja leaped to his feet and ran pursued by the sound of falling rock and a cloud of thick white dust. When he stopped running and looked back, the end of the quarry where he had been working was a mountain of broken rock. His tools and his shirt were buried under it.
He was in a panic. Not certain how much of the rock face it was right to bring down at one time, he feared he might have done something wrong. Then someone exclaimed behind him and he turned to see other miners coming toward him all excited.
“What have you done?” yelled the foreman.
Meja started to apologise. The foreman patted him on the back.
“It is all right to bring down the whole mountain,” he said. “Just do not do it in one day or we shall all be out of a work.”
“I won?” Meja asked.
“For now,” said the foreman. “For now.”
The miners laughed and congratulated Meja.
“I do not know how well you do from here on,” foreman said, “but I have to let you work.”
Other workers expressed their doubts too.
“It seems you have worked three days on your first day,” Ngigi said to him. “You may have to take two days off.”
“You will get your card tomorrow morning,” said the foreman.
He gave Meja another doubtful look and walked away.
Chapter Twelve
The van turned off the highway and sped along the dust road. Ignoring the speed bumps, it flew down the road with a cloud of dust in its wake. It was late afternoon, and the driver was tired after another long day waiting outside the courthouse.
A little way down the road, he came to the first gate of a heavily fortified compound with massive walls, topped with razor wire and watched over by armed men atop watchtowers. The gate swung open and the van went ahead through another gate to stop outside the administration building. Three warders, two of them armed with batons, came out to meet the van.
“How many?” asked the unarmed warder.
“Affande, just one today,” the driver said.
One of the warders walked to the back of the van, pulling a bunch of keys from his pocket. He selected a key, inserted it in the lock, turned and swung the door open.
“Umefika,” he said to the prisoner. “You are home.”
When the man made no effort to step out of the vehicle, the Affande stepped up and looked inside the van.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Barracuda,” said the prisoner.
“Barra ... who?”
“Cuda.”
“What sort of name is that?” asked the Affande. “Kamba?”
“No, Affande,” said the driver. “Barra Kuda is a fish that eats people.”
“Like papa?”
“Papa is nothing,” said the prisoner. “Barracuda eats glass.”
“It is a gang name, Affande,” the driver said, amused by the look of awe on Affande’s face. “A bad-boy name.”
“Is that so?” the Affande gestured at the prisoner with his stick. “Come out here, let me see how bad you are.”
The man took his time getting out of the van, moving deliberately slowly, his handcuffs jingling, all the time eyeing the warders. When he stood on the ground he towered over them, and the Affande had to step back to have a better look at him.
He was a mountain of a man, muscles chiselled out of black granite and stuffed inside buffalo hide. He had a neck like a tree trunk and dreadlocks down to his shoulders. His eyes were black too, as dark as night, and he was the meanest convict the warders had handled in recent months.
“Where did you find this one?” the Affande asked the driver.
“You know I do not find them, Affande,” said the driver, with a weary laugh.
The prisoner was strange enough to behol
d, but the blanket he wore, that barely covered his torso, was something else. It was Government property and made him look like an escapee from the city’s mental hospital.
“Where did you get the blanket?” asked the Affande.
“A policeman gave it to me,” he said. “To wear to court.”
Affande turned to the driver and lowered his voice.
“Are you certain you brought this one to the right place?” he asked.
The prisoner heard him and laughed.
“I told them it was all a big mistake,” he said. “I do not belong in prison. I am really a good man.”
“Really?” said the warder. “We shall see about that.”
Other prisoners, watching through the barbed wire fence separating the administration area from the cell blocks laughed and shouted comments at the giant in a blanket. The man smiled unconcerned and let the blanket blow in the wind exposing his nakedness.
“What did you do?” asked Affande.
“Nothing.”
“You say Affande to the Affande,” said a warder. “To me you say yes sir, you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said the prisoner. “It is all in the book, Affande.”
Van Driver reached inside the van for the file and read out the name.
“Alias Barra ...” he read.
“Barracuda,” said the prisoner. “That is with two …”
“Never mind,” the Affande said. “Here we shall call you Kamongo. I am told that fish too eats everything.”
He gestured at the warder to receive the file from the driver and started off. He led the way to the office, followed by the swaggering prisoner and the two warders.
“Affande?” said the driver. “The police want their blanket back.”
“Wait for it,” said the Affande.
The prisoner let go of the blanket, stepped over it, and walked on. The driver picked up his blanket and returned to the vehicle.
Inside the office, Affande flopped in a chair, turned to face the prisoner, and was startled to find the man stark naked.
“Blanket?” he asked.
“He gave it back, Affande,” said a warder, slapping the file on the desk.
“What happened to your clothes?” asked Affande.
“Evidence, Affande.”
“Your underwear too?”
“Did not have any, Affande.”
“Have you been in prison before?”
“No, Affande.”
“Then you have a lot to learn,” said Affande. “It is a whole new school here. Some of your peers call it the University of life. To start with you must respect everyone here, warders and prisoners alike. Do as you are told and, if you do what we tell you, your life here will be a holiday. Do you understand?”
“Completely, Affande,” said the prisoner.
“Do you have any personal property?”
“No, Affande.”
“No watches, rings, wallets or mobile phones?”
“Not anymore, Affande, the police took everything.”
A warder pulled on a pair of surgical gloves.
“Bend over,” he said.
“What for?” asked the prisoner.
“Rules,” said the warder.
“Body search,” said the Affande.
A warder positioned himself behind the prisoner and tried to bend him forward. It was like trying to bend a sculpture.
“I don’t carry anything there,” the prisoner insisted.
“Bend over, Kamongo.”
“Barracuda.”
“Kamongo, bend over.”
When he did not budge, Affande spoke up.
“Kijana,” he said. “You are in prison now. You do as you are told. It is for your own good.”
He had a quiet authority, a fatherly voice that did not need to be raised. The prisoner gave in, and the warders got to work. They searched him thoroughly, poking and probing, until they were satisfied he had nothing on him or in him.
“We don’t like to do it but,” said Affande, “Last month a prisoner smuggled a mobile phone into the cells. A huge Nokia thing you would not think could fit inside a man. The best smart phone in town, I was told. Stolen, of course. Until then I did not know a man could carry so much back there.”
“Affande,” laughed a warder, “if we did not search them, they would bring a television hidden in there.”
“Next thing you know, they bring an AK 47,” said the other.
The Affande was looking at the prisoner with growing interest now. The man’s right arm had a long shiny scar running down from his upper arm to the back of the hand. The hand was a massive thing frozen in a half-open position like a claw. Another scar ran down one side of the body from above the buttocks and down to the knee. The skin was so tight the hip and thighbones were visible underneath. The Affande now realised that the arrogant swagger was a cleverly disguised limp rather than a practiced expression of badness.
The prisoner smiled, and waited while they argued about the size of his uniform. Finally, they gave him the largest uniform they could find and he squeezed into it. Then they gave him a blanket, a plastic mug, a plastic plate, and a plastic spoon.
Then the Affande gave him the unofficial welcoming speech, grave and sincere words of wisdom to which, the prisoner paid no attention. He just nodded and smiled, as Affande told him of the waste that was a life of crime, and how this was his chance to learn and reform so that he could become a useful and respected member of society. There were several courses and trades that they taught at the prison. If Kamongo was ready and willing to exert himself he would leave prison with an education that would certainly guarantee him a job and a clean start in life.
The prisoner smiled and nodded and smiled until the Affande had said all he had to say. It was not clear to Affande whether he had heard or understood any of it. Then the warders led him out to the prisoner’s compound, shoved him through the gate and locked it behind him.
“Cell nine,” they said, “Follow the smell.”
The prisoner stayed at the gate in his ill-fitting uniform. Other prisoners were going back to their cells, and some stopped to stare, but most hardly noticed the newcomer. He stood by the gate watching them and, for the first time, he looked uncertain. Up until then he had not stopped to think how long eighteen months was.
“Make friends,” said one warder from behind the gate. “They are all bad boys like you.”
The prisoner showed no sign of having heard. He searched among the criminals for a face to be friends with. He needed to find his cell, but he had to find his cellblock first and they had neglected to tell him. Then someone called out his name.
“Meja!”
A prisoner ran toward him with his arms outstretched. Meja recognized his dumpster friend, now looking clean and well fed.
“Are you still following me?” Maina asked him.
They shook hands and hugged.
“What are you doing here?” Meja asked.
“Five years,” said Maina. “You?”
“No so long.”
Maina laughed the old laugh that he had, when things went very badly, and hugged Meja again.
“I am happy to see you,” he said.
“I thought you made it,” said Meja.
“On backstreet?”
“Anywhere,” said Meja.
“I made it here,” Maina said. “But how did you become so huge? Have you been working out?”
“You could say that,” Meja said. “You do not look so bad yourself.”
“Prison food,” Maina told him. “A lot better than on backstreet.”
They laughed, stopped, and looked each other up and down.
“What did you do?” Maina asked.
“I will tell you about it, but first I have to find my cell. Block nine.”
“I am in block nine,” Maina said. “Cell number?”
“Nine.”
“So am I,” said Maina.
Another prisoner walked up.
“Chokora,” he said, “who is your friend?”
“My brother,” Maina said. “He is Meja. We hunted together.”
“Sara’s gang?”
“Before Sara,” he said. “Take his things to the den.”
“Number nine?” The prisoners sounded impressed. “The Affande must find you interesting.”
“Affande files his interesting cases in number nine,” Maina explained. “So that we can reform them.”
Meja gave his blanket and things to the prisoner. They followed him along the row of cellblocks to the farthest one from the gate. Inside cellblock nine, Maina led Meja down a dark corridor lined with numbered metal doors on either side. Each door led to a ten by ten cell. The cell floors were covered with sleeping mats from wall to wall. The doors were open, the occupants settling in for the night.
Number nine was the farthest cell along the corridor. Most of the occupants had not arrived for the night. Their mats and blankets were folded in neat piles by the sleeping places. There was a single light bulb, hanging high up over the cell and protected with a steel cage.
“Welcome to number nine,” Maina said.
Meja’s things were on a mat next to Maina’s. The mat had just that morning been vacated by a cell mate who was whisked away back to court to answer for a robbery he had boasted about while inside.
“It is safe to assume that the walls here have ears,” Maina informed.
“Not to worry,” Meja said to them. “Like everyone here, I am innocent.”
They laughed at the joke, and Meja decided to like them.
“It feels home already,” he said, sitting down on his mat.
“You limp,” Maina said.
The bad-boy swagger had not fooled him..
“It is nothing,” he said.
The rest of the cell mates trooped in and Maina introduced them as they walked in.
“This one is Chege,” Maina said.
The man stepped forward to shake hands.
“Two years for something I did not do,” he said.
“And this is Ndege,” Maina introduced the next man.
“Robbery with violence,” Ndege said. “It would have worked had the watchman not come to so soon, and pressed the alarm.”
