by Carl Hancock
‘Matthew, do you have to talk like this? Seems to me you got some kind of problem with your dick. Just let’s be a bit more careful with our words here. And the other one?’
‘McCall. Name ring a bell? A few months back …’
The Wambui face lit up. The inspector was recalling the happiest day of his police career.
‘Thomas, the kid from the Kakamega Forest? Bring him in! Bring them all in! Wait a minute. What do they want?’
‘A visit. The farmer the Nairobi boys brought in. Attempted murder. Hey, by the way, did you see the papers yet? Assassination.’
‘Attempted … attempted. Get your facts right. You’re a cop, don’t forget.’
Wambui was in a quandary. He liked the people waiting out in the office and he wanted to oblige them. But this Briggs, he was a high priority prisoner. Mmn, what to do?
‘Okay, bring them in. Executive decision. Matthew, watch me and learn.’
As the inspector feared, this Miller was a tricky operator. So many questions: diet, exercise, visitors, did he think this place was some kind of hotel? In the end Wambui gave in.
‘Right, twenty minutes with Prisoner 22146.’
‘No supervision.’
‘No supervision, okay. Twenty minutes and then you all disappear.’
Bertie had been hit about. That was obvious from the difficulty he had crossing his tiny cell to greet them and the bruises and cuts clearly visible on his face. None of this was a concern for him.
‘Ewan, how’s he going, Raf?
‘Missing his daddy.’ She was smiling through her tears. ‘He’s smart, that’s for sure. When he gets one of us on our own, he’s full of questions, usually the same ones to each of us. If the answers don’t add up …’
‘I’ve asked them if they’ll let him visit. They just laugh. “Bwana, you would not be allowing your son to come into a dump like this! That’s bad, man, so bad”.’ After a long silence he began again. ‘I don’t think I’m going to get out of here. Seen the papers? Assassination. I’m a fool. Could have finished him off. No trouble. Left him for the birds and the ants to clear up. Probably turn their guts over. Do you think ants have guts, Tom? Instead, I’ll be the one having the little accident. Probably take me down to the park. You know, late at night job.’
The tears were flowing freely now from Tom as well as his grandmother. Paul, conscious of the passing time, stepped in.
‘That’s enough! Bertie, you are not going to rot in this place or another one like it. And the scavengers are not going to be picking at your bones on some mountain top.’
Paul had been inside his country’s jails on many occasions, visiting friends or clients. They were places that bred a sense of despair, hopelessness. Bertie, like so many others, was in a state of deep shock. He himself had to fight hard to keep down the feelings of helplessness that threatened to overwhelm him. In a few minutes he would be back on the street, but for now, on the inside, he knew that the best he could do was to share the anguish, to try to understand the cold reality of what it was like to have the precious gift of freedom suddenly wrenched away. Words or silence, which helped more? He was never sure.
The look in Bertie’s eyes frightened him. A sensitive man brooding on feelings of injustice created a dangerous situation. In those moments when the blackness was at its deepest, the urge to create one’s own peace became seductive and the balance of the mind was easily disturbed. Paul knew that to survive intact Bertie would need to have deep inside him a core of belief, a hard centre that no one, nothing could destroy. His sister, Maria, was the only person he knew who could foster this kind of hope. She had the gift of making the delicate mind feel strong again.
Self-belief, the possibility of change for the better, mental toughness, so easy to talk about, to think about as ideals.
‘Bertie, ever read The Count of Monte Christo?’
‘Yeah, as a kid. Loved it.’
‘What a man, eh? Edmund Dantes. I think about him often when I come into places like these. Words on a page. Cheap talk. Yes.’
Bertie laughed. ‘I see. For Edmund Dantes, read Bertie Briggs.’
‘Sorry, Bertie. I get these … notions sometimes. Out they come. Talking too much. Runs in the family.’
‘Yeah, the Chateau d’If, another hellhole. Bloody marvellous. Best book I ever read.’
‘Bertie, listen.’ Paul spoke quietly but with a sense of urgency. ‘I think we can get you out of this place.’
‘We?’
‘Daniel and I. You remember Daniel Komar. You met him at the Rugby Sevens in Pembroke. His nephew was playing for the Banda. Another lawyer, I’m afraid.’
‘So?’
‘Fighting fire with fire. Just think about us like we are that little old man in the next cell to Edmund.’
Bertie’s gaze narrowed. ‘You believe this, don’t you?’
‘Not just a story to help make you feel good. Bertie, patience. I didn’t want to come out with it yet. And, please God, remember …’
‘That it could all go down the gurgler …’
The cell door creaked open. ‘Time’s up. Time to go.’
Wambui himself had ventured down to the cell to let the visitors out. He watched the long embraces of farewell and as he bent to lock the door, he said to Bertie, ‘Mr Briggs, it is my wish that some day soon I will walk down to this place to open this door and say goodbye. Perhaps I could get Matthew to polish up the squad car and we could drive together to Naivasha.’
Chapter Eleven
im Sawyer had broken off work to come to the meeting. He had left his two stonemasons to finish the job of pointing the outside walls on the bungalow that would soon be the home of Rebecca and Tom. He could see the building set on the knoll just about a hundred metres away and from where he sat on the veranda of the ruin of what the farm workers referred to as ‘Big House’, he could understand why his men had started calling it ‘Long House’.
‘So, Jim, what should we do here?’
‘Spoilt for choice, Alex. This veranda has polished up well. Wonderful stuff, not a crack in it. Blue marble. Can’t get it any more. I suggest that you keep this as the heart of the house. If you still want to rebuild, that is. On the phone a couple of days ago …’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know. But they’d just taken Bertie then. Now I feel we owe it to him to stay. Last thing Ewan needs is a big move.’
‘Okay. Debbie will tell you that I was speaking to her just before we sat down. I feel happy with a pile of bricks to look after or a few lengths of new timber. Love the smells of my work. But, Debbie, I’m confused. You’re American, but your dad …’
‘Was born in Western District. Luo. Barnie is Paul’s brother and their sister, my aunt, Maria.’
‘Wow. I just about follow that. But even an up-country boy like me can see that, well, this is a bit more than putting up a house here or getting a hospital going. Not sure if I’m up to it.
‘I took my degree in Boston, Public Building … but you know all this. I really came over to work on plans for the hospital with Rebecca. When we were kids, Daddy used to tell us stories about home here. They were just crazy sometimes. “Oh, Daddy, come on!” “Ah, but you see”. And he ended them all in the same way: “Always something new out of Africa”. I can see what he meant now. But I guess I didn’t expect so much so quickly.’
Maura set down her empty tray on the wall next to where she was sitting. ‘Neither did we. To be honest, we toyed with the idea of taking off for the coast for a week. Taking Ewan, letting him play on the beach or something. We were pretty down.’
‘Maria, you soon knocked us on the head for that.’
‘Alex, Luo women are headstrong. You know that.’
‘My father had his expressions, too, Debbie. “A spade is a bloody spade, son. Tell it like it is.” So “selfish”, “self-pitying”, “running away”, Dad would have approved.’
Maura took up the thread again. ‘“Dead man walking”. There’s another one for the
collection. Bloody, bloody depressing and all the other negative words rattling ‘round in my head.’
‘Leo Mackie’s butterflies. He had cases of them in his old shack in the grounds of Pembroke. Beautiful creatures, every one held down on its bit of parchment by a steel pin through the guts. Powerless. That’s me, too.’
‘Thomas, forget us. What about Bertie? Too much time to think, mostly about Ewan. Perhaps … I am afraid. He can’t cope.’
‘But, Rafaella …’
Jim looked across at Alex. ‘Shall I go back to the house? Help with pointing. I’m upset myself, but for you people … I don’t know what’s for the best.’
‘Listen!’ There was anger in Maria’s voice. ‘Listen! Carry another person in your hearts for a few minutes. Simon Mboya. I was one of the first to see him after Hosea’s men found his body on the side of the road in Kericho. Knife wounds in his back and his hands, a doctor’s healing hands, hacked so badly that his fingers were hanging off. And another person and this one sitting over there between his wife and daughter. Burned in the fire where forty-five of his friends lost their lives. And you, Thomas …’
‘Maria, you’re right, but you are also strong.’ There was a tremble in Maura’s voice as though she was pleading for forgiveness, mercy even.
‘So we sit round here and wait for the butcher to pick out another target. Why don’t we all just drive down to Karen and stand in line outside that monstrosity of a house and invite him to get it over with? I’m sorry. I’m going too far.’
‘No, Maria.’ Stephen Kamau’s rich, melodious voice turned heads towards the place where he was rising to his feet. ‘No, Mister Sawyer, you must not go back to your work yet. I see that you are almost finished with that house. Well, I for one want you and you, Miss Debbie, to make your plans for the new life that will soon be growing here. We cannot allow them to suck the marrow out of our bones. I miss my plants. I want my hands to be busy again. There is no choice.’
The emotional temperature was rising. Maria judged that the moment had come to share her news.
‘Daniel Komar and my brother are on their way to join us here. Paul tells me that lawyers have to take good care how they act and how they speak. They have been working very hard and now there is a plan. They are ready to take a big risk, to be reckless. I’m excited.
* * *
‘Paul and I have been getting a case ready. We’re usually in the business of defending, mostly someone who’s being screwed by our beloved government. This time we’re bringing the case. We have a defendant. The name of Abel Rubai. Yes, we know what you are going to say and we agree with you. No judge in this country who values his life will take this case on.’
‘Not to mention your lives.’
‘Right, Alex. The thought has entered our heads. But … we have a judge who is willing to give the charge a hearing. Joshua Gombo.’
‘Crazy Josh. I thought he was dead.’
‘Old, but not dead. He was around in 1963, best young lawyer in the country, friend of Tom Mboya. Even the Brits thought he was quality when they gave the country back to us.’
‘Too good, of course. And another Luo. That didn’t help. When they got rid of Tom, Joshua … He told us one late afternoon. He was lecturing in the uni law school. Brilliant. His courses were always oversubscribed. This day he asked us to stay behind. I think he saw something promising in us. “Men, Tom was the best political man this country has ever had, but dead bones, what use are they? I’m on the list. I know it. So I teach and I write and sometimes I do something a little bit, shall we say, odd. Keep them guessing. One day, my chance will come. I’ve watched you two. Keep an eye out for each other. They want to make me a judge. I’ll do a good job but quietly. I want you to know before the news comes out. Trust me and don’t forget me. One day, perhaps you will need me. I’ll be ready.” The day has come.’
‘More bones on the mountain tops!’
‘Alex, we’re telling you just in case.’
‘Yeah, Daniel and I have talked that one through, several times!’
‘And this is all we are telling you. Keep your eyes open. It is safer this way. So why did we come all this way to …’
‘Tell you nothing?’
Tom McCall understood. ‘You’ve told us all we need to know. Maria, I’m excited, too!’
The following Saturday The Nation carried an article written by the editor, Laurie Patel. It was one of what he called his ‘occasional pieces’. Laurie was the youngest editor in the history of the paper and, at first, had been a very reluctant one. A year before, Adil, his father and predecessor in the job, had called him home.
‘The paper needs a young man’s energy and new ideas. Come and show us some of the smart things you have learned in that University of Oxford and at those parties in London that you keep writing to your mother about.’
To Laurie’s surprise, he had loved his new job from his first morning down at the Nairobi office. Within a month, circulation had begun to rise. Very early on, he had seen that, as boss, there were special treats to enjoy. He chose to combine his love of writing and fascination for liberal ideas to conjure up articles on subjects that interested him but always with a Kenya slant. Mildly disapproving of such indulgences, Adil had given the pieces the title of ‘sophisticated ramblings’.
Readers loved them and every time they appeared, they sparked discussion in the lounges of the Nairobi Club and Muthaiga and on the street corners and in the cafes where the wananchi chewed on their roasted maize cobs or sipped their glasses of strong coffee. And when the editor of The Washington Post had asked permission to reproduce a piece entitled, ‘Aid or Aids, which is the greater villain?’ even Adil was impressed.
So, on that Saturday, ‘Time to speak up for the little people’ intrigued the huge band of faithful readers. None of these was aware of the influence that two Nairobi lawyers and founders of the newest political party had had on the writing. The theme was a call for more equality in the courts, a well-worn topic, but there was an edge, an aggression in the writing that angered a few but delighted the vast majority, one paragraph above all.
‘Perhaps the situation is about to change. I have heard a rumour that one of our big boys is about to feel the heat of the blowtorch. Now that would be a case worth watching in court! What would the charge be? Would it be a police prosecution? What judge would be ready to put himself forward to conduct the case, knowing the risks involved in a failed prosecution, or even a successful one?’
What the readers did not know was that the article was not simply a piece of ordinary journalism. Mister Komar and Mister Miller were making their first move. Others would follow very soon. The first came on that very afternoon.
All Saints’ Cathedral on Kenyatta Avenue was full to capacity. The youngest daughter of Alfred Shimba was marrying the son of the most prosperous tea-planter in Western District. The father of the bride was one of the twelve, the mysterious band of brothers whom Abel Rubai had gathered around him. In theory, they were meant to be seen as advisors to the president. In theory. In reality, they took their orders from the King of Karen. Membership was fluid. Displease Sir Abel and you would find yourself in the outer darkness, cut off from all the privileges and deal making that the big man watched over.
An invitation was a must for anyone who wanted to think of himself or herself as a member of the social elite on the Nairobi scene. Alfred and Mrs Shimba had requested the presence of the company of Daniel and Ann Komar and Paul and Marion Miller out of reluctant respect to the founders of the latest in a line of insignificant protest parties with delusions of grandeur. Their places were far back in the nave, but they were happy to be present at the marriage of two young people they had never set eyes on before that day.
The ceremony over, the celebrations continued further up the hill at the Nairobi Club. The buffet lunch was followed by entertainment in the great lounge, cleared of its solid oak tables and its leather chairs. A heavily pregnant lady soon tired of the n
oise and the exuberant behaviour of the young set of Nairobi socialites. When she stepped outside to take the cool afternoon air with a stroll around the boundary of the club’s cricket pitch, she had company.
Sally Rubai had not seen Ann Komar for at least twenty years, since the days when they had worked together at Neisland, Kapper and Reed, the city accountants. She was excited to have met her former colleague and the bond of friendship was instantly renewed. Ann introduced Marion and the three women ambled happily towards the pavilion, at ease with each other and filling the minutes with unbroken conversation.
‘Ann, you haven’t changed one single bit.’
‘Nor you.’
Sally let out one of her gravelly chuckles. ‘Where did you learn to tell nice fibs like that? This is all me, you know.’ She wobbled her body briefly to prove her point. ‘This remind you of something? Like the jelly they used to sell in that cafe at the top of Kamathi Street.’
‘The place we went to for lunch on a Friday.’
A shadow passed across Sally’s face as she stared for a moment out towards the line of pine trees sheltering the club grounds from the Ngong Road and its Saturday traffic.
‘You two are lucky, you know. I can’t do that any more. Just wander where I please. Is that place still there?’
Ann shrugged. Marion was able to clear up the mystery. ‘It’s a bar. Yes, another one. Rough place. Paul had a case about six months ago. Somebody hit somebody over the head with a chair, or was it a table? I forget.’
‘This used to be such a beautiful city. I remember the day when Abel and I moved into our first house. On Wiaki Way. A palace. Then Julius came along and I finished work.’
Sally noticed the exchange of anxious glances between her companions. She reassured them. ‘It’s all right. I’m getting over it. Well, you never do, I don’t think, but you know …’
She sighed and made an effort to lighten the mood. ‘Anyway,’ she caressed her belly. ‘My new baby. My Julius. Yes, I know it will be a boy. We talk a lot! Crazy?’
