by Carl Hancock
‘Go, but leave one vehicle for real men! We are not afraid of blood!’
‘Nor us, as long as it belongs to somebody else! Right! Here comes the big bang!’
Six explosions were simultaneous and the shattered pieces of concrete flew high and the dust and earth flew higher. A final blast caused the store shed to collapse and burst into flames. Behind a single stone built wall, the remnant of a farmhouse built by a failed English farmer eighty years before, they were protected for the few vital seconds against the lethal blast and the chunks of concrete tumbling back to earth.
Car headlights were cutting through the darkness much closer now as the two white matatus skidded to their right as they left the compound in a panic.
The confused shouts and screams of the Naivasha men in the convoy of cars racing out of town signalled their fury and frustration that they had failed to protect their new dream project. They had been too casual, too lazy and let their children and women down.
‘Henry, we saw those matatus pass us.’
‘I swear there was nobody inside. I was watching carefully. Damn the beer!’
‘Yeah, damn the beer. That’s our problem. Blame somebody, something else.’
‘Mother of God, look at that! I pity the one who will have to tell the Kamau girl.’
‘McCall! Anyway I bet she’s guessed. Everybody in town heard that noise.’
The dozen cars and pick-ups pulled up on the verge outside the compound. The disconsolate men stepped out and moved to the chicken-wire fence. With their fingers grasping the fence, they stared, incredulous, through the smoke and dust.
‘Oh, no, I forgot! My uncle and cousin were supposed to be on duty in there tonight.’
‘Someone was in there. That’s where the police got the message from.’
‘I’m going in.’
‘We’re with you. The cowards have run off by now. See, no matatus.’
In the restored silence of the night, names were shouted in a tangle of a dozen voices. When no reply came, the men scattered in different directions to search. But it was a search that was short-lived.
The wild screams coming at them out of the darkness to their left shocked them into silence and for a few seconds drained the energy out of their legs. The crazed pack fell on them, jabbing with the sharp points of their spears or swinging the broad, shiny blades of their pangas. The sudden frenzy of violence terrified them into running for their lives. When the cries of pain of companions began, their own anger erupted into fierce retaliation. They hurled jagged pieces of concrete, picked up pieces of planking and rushed forward, ignoring the hurt of their wounds. Toe to toe, hand to hand, the savagery of the battle rose in a crescendo of fury of strained limbs and outbursts of obscenity and the agonised pleas for mercy from those fell under the weight of blows from a superior enemy.
The crack of pistol shots fired somewhere outside the tight ring of noise, dust and bloodshed brought a lull which grew into a prolonged cooling of the urge to fight on. Led by Inspector Caroline Miggot and Sergeant Hosea Kabari, still holding his pistol above his head, a crowd moved forward warily.
They laid the dead and the badly injured in separate lines on the dusty mix of grass and gravel away from the broken heart of the ruin of the hospital. Nobody had escaped unwounded. Those well enough to walk were herded into a group and forced to sit down in a circle, watched over by newly arrived Naivasha men. Other local men had been asked by the inspector to guard the closed gates to make sure that none of the hundreds gathered outside could get in. Tom and Rebecca McCall were led through. Rebecca was beyond tears as they moved forward trying to take the full impact of the horrors around them.
‘Caroline, this is a place of healing and peace. Why …’ She heard cries of men in pain coming from close by. ‘People have been hurt here?’ Her eyes were staring in disbelief. She quickened her step and put her hands to her mouth when she saw the line of men stretched out on the ground lit up by the flames of the fire burning more quietly now.
‘How many have died?’
‘Many. We think twenty-five at least. Fifteen are from the town. The rumours are that the others are tribesmen. But, please, Rebecca, come away.’
‘No. I must look at everyone here.’
She began her slow passage, stopping by each body and whispering what Tom and Caroline took to be a prayer. But her words were an apology, heart-wrenching grief for the men and for herself.
Tears filled Caroline’s eyes. She knew that a deeper pain was about to strike her friend and that she could not warn her nor protect her from its impact.
‘Oh, no! Please God, no!’
She fell to her knees and grasped the ankles of Iolo Jones, the ‘almost doctor’ from Wales. The tears streamed until the pain of cramp seized the muscles of her stomach. When Tom managed to lift her to her feet, she insisted on continuing her walk along the line, supported on her husband’s arm. Her words were no longer spoken in a whisper.
‘Please, forgive me. I have been so foolish, so arrogant. If only I could start again!’
Tom held back from saying a single word to her. He knew she would be unjust to herself and he was reconciled that he would not be able to follow her down to the lowest depths of her grief.
Caroline, on the busiest, most stressful night of her time in the police, moved to the group of men suffering minor wounds. She was shocked when a hand grasped her arm tight and pulled her ‘round. Nimosi Murroni, his face disfigured by an empty eye socket, his clothes filthy with dust mingled with dried blood, looked her in the face and pointed towards Rebecca.
‘Who is that person? I think I know her.’
Caroline pulled herself free and stared at her assailant. She replied coldly.
‘Rebecca …’
‘Kamau, the singer. Yes, of course. Why is she here?’
‘Someone has just destroyed her dream. Perhaps the someone is you!’
‘Her dream?’
‘The hospital she wanted to build for her people here.’
‘Hospital? Then they lied to us.’
The single startled eye would have unnervered someone less strong than the experienced police inspector.
‘I must speak to her. Now!’
Caroline was spared the dilemma of making a decision. Tom and Rebecca were moving towards her. Murroni took his chance.
‘Rebecca Kamau, my life has ended here tonight. My body is standing and you see my lips moving, but inside I am dead.’
Rebecca took Tom’s hand and looked at the stranger, alert and composed.
‘So you are telling me that this is your work. I think you have done all your speaking. I pity you’
‘And I, too, can still feel pity in amongst the sea of shame. So many good men taken. Someone lied to me, but my lie is greater. Since I was a child I have known violence, the taking of lives. When my family was taken, I thought I knew how to honour their memory. My dream was revenge.’
‘On innocent men like these, your people and ours?’
‘If he came to me at this very moment, death would be a friend. In truth, there are no words.’
‘No words.’
Rebecca turned aside and bowed her head. Tom, at a complete loss, looked to Caroline for guidance.
‘Caroline, you have far more work than I can imagine.’
‘Ambulances and doctors are on their way. Many policemen from the district. There will be no peace here for many days, perhaps never. But, take her home, Thomas. And, please, two small favours. Phone Paul and then Maria. There will be a tomorrow and we must try to prepare. But for tonight, let her emotions flow. Thank God for the warmth of family and friends.’
Chapter Thirty-six
he media fest began early and spread far. The Nation, The Standard and local reporters from international outlets were in Naivasha before dawn. Television channels were allowed into the compound for half hour stints and low flying helicopters bearing news company logos confirmed to the people of the town that their suffering wa
s a centre of attention for the second time within weeks.
The stories were graphic and, by and large, accurate. The photographs were suitably gruesome and persuaded editors to put them on front pages. Two east coast dailies in the United States managed to add personal touches. ‘Rebecca Kamau, as she was then, will be remembered as the singing sensation at concerts at the Flamingo earlier this year,’ said The New York Times.’
‘Kenya born Debbie Miller, a graduate of MIT, designed the new hospital and is currently in Naivasha, supervising the early stages of the build,’ reported The Boston Globe.
The Daily Nation of Nairobi probed deepest in an effort to find causes. ‘One person stands out as the major link between three violent attacks this year: Rebecca Kamau. Julius Rubai, her fiance, was gunned down on the night of their engagement party at Muthaiga Club last May. She and her family had close links with the McCall family of Londiani whose flower farm and house were blown up just weeks ago, with a horrific loss of life. And now this, the destruction of the hospital she planned and sponsored. To us at The Nation, this common thread in the attacks seems to provide a rich vein of clues to help uncover the culprits. When we inquired on progress to police headquarters in the city, we were given the old chestnut comments of “No comment” and “We are following several lines of inquiry”. Hakuna matata, the boys in blue are hot on the trail.’
At the Rubai house, there was a strong sense of deja-vu. Sally had scoured the newspapers and followed this up with hours of Bible reading and prayers for the lost souls. She mused on the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah, for a few hours had no thoughts of new baby Julius and wondered if she might do some good by visiting her almost daughter-in-law and trying to offer comfort.
All these were solitary activities. Family discussion on the subject only took place in the evenings, just as they had done the last time disaster struck Naivasha and, that time, Londiani in particular. Sally, Abel and Reuben sat around the plasma. Sally, with her regular bouts of weeping and outbursts about the unfairness of life, soon began to bore her husband and son. Reuben stayed out of a sense of duty and made hardly any comment on the vivid scenes unfolding in front of them.
Abel was his usual two-faced self. His expression was solemn, but his words were few. Underneath the neutral exterior his mind was in overdrive. He had known about the destruction from a phone call from his regular boys on their way back to Nairobi. He had soon rationalised the possible problem for him with the crazy Turkana. There was nothing to link them with him and, as a bonus, he had saved a few shillings. The ten dead would not be asking for their pay and the other five were safe in a Nairobi lockup and likely to meet up with their brothers in the not too distant future.
As for the fifteen locals killed in what must have been quite a fight, he had no sympathy. If they had kept their noses out of his business, they could all be sitting that evening watching the television and seeing the fireworks display just down the road. And there was yet a bonus for him here, too. The smart-arsed songstress would be sitting in a corner somewhere, sobbing her heart out with shame and guilt, blaming herself for the death and destruction of the night. But now there would be no more sentimental drivel about putting up a hospital for the poor, unfortunate people of her beloved mess of her hometown. It was ‘A win-win situation,’ as he had predicted to Sally. He was as indestructible as ever, back in full control.
* * *
It had been a grim night at Naivasha. Home Grown, the nearest flower farm to the hospital site, had sent in two lines of mobile floodlights. At once the relief workers could move around more confidently, less fearful about where they planted their feet. The line of dead was watched over by priests and nuns who murmured their prayers and hymns over each corpse in turn. One by one the Naivasha dead were taken home by their families, still in a state of shock and unable to grasp the numbing reality of their own changed lives.
Ivor, Dai and Tom held their vigil over Iolo. They took turns to hold him in their arms. The spontaneous prayers in Welsh were the passionate outpourings of men hanging on in a whirlwind that had suddenly blasted into their quiet lives. Over and over there were pictures of home in their minds. They visualised the moment when Iolo’s family would hear the news. If they were thinking that bringing that news would be their awful duty, they were wrong. Sonya Mboya who knew members of their church in Llanelli had already passed on the news to the almost doctor’s family. At that moment on a rainy night far to the north-west, their home chapel was filled with a congregation that was stunned and helpless. They prayed, sang hymns and waited. It was a small relief to them to be told that Iolo would be back in Wales by the middle of the next day. The KLM jet carrying the nightly cargo of flowers and vegetables to the Amsterdam market would divert briefly to Cardiff to drop off the four friends. Eddie and Rollo would travel with them.
* * *
‘Thomas, I must go back. I should have stayed to help. At least then I should have been actually doing something instead of …’
‘Rebecca, I’m ready to go now. But by coming home you helped. There were, are, so many practical things to see to over there.’
‘So I would be no use for these practical things?’
‘Better than anybody. You would have worked till you dropped. But I think that having you there right in the middle of a shattered dream would have broken a few hearts. I went back an hour ago to check.’
‘And you didn’t take me! Thomas, how could you?’
‘There are big crowds all ‘round the compound, making that low murmuring noise, that cry of deep grief. It is such a beautiful sound and I always cry when I hear it. Inside things are calmer. There are doctors and sisters from Kijabe, Nakuru, even Nairobi. I’ve never seen so many policemen in one place. Sweetheart, they are just like you. They are desperate to help in any way they can. And, they are angry!’
‘I am not angry, Thomas. You know that.’
‘I know it. That’s because you haven’t got an angry bone in you body, just like your father and mother.’
‘Should I go, then, Thomas?’
‘Get your clothes on.’
Dawn was close when they arrived at the gate. There was a pink glow on the rim of the Aberdares. But it was the after smell of burning that caught at her throat as it drifted through the car’s open window and brought her close to vomiting.
Tom eased his way towards the locked gate. The sergeant on duty flashed his torch to check on the passengers. He turned sharply away and shouted, ‘Open up! It’s her!’
In moments they were standing in the compound again. Rebecca stood rigid and looked around. The news of her return spread quickly through the crowds on the fence. And there was a reaction. A heavily pregnant young woman began the wailing cry of grief.
‘Rebecca, our special girl, do not forget your dream!’
Others took up the call with their own expression of sorrow. The confusion of sounds melted into a single outpouring, three words repeated over and over in an unhurried rhythm, the simple expression of ancient passion.
‘Uhuru-Sasa-Rebecca!’
Over and over in unison, the first two words heavy and emphatic and the last breathed out on a whisper. The repetition became hypnotic and softened the sharp edges of pain.
Against this soothing background, Rebecca moved first to the place where she had found Iolo. An American doctor and two sisters from Kijabe Hospital were preparing his body to be taken by ambulance to their mortuary. The doctor shook his head sadly.
‘We must keep him cold. The hospital here can’t take him. Their people have been marvellous. Strange isn’t it? Someone told me that this bomb site was the beginnings of a brand new place for the town.’
A red-eyed Ivor Jones looked up from his kneeling position at his friend’s side and motioned towards Rebecca.
‘Sir, this is the lady …’
The doctor swivelled ‘round to face Rebecca.
‘I’m so sorry. Rebecca Kamau …’
‘McCall. This is my husband,
Thomas. No need for any sorry. We are so grateful that you are here to help our dear friends.’
‘I have only seen photos of you on my discs of your music. I’m returning home next week. You’ll always be the voice of Africa to me.’
‘Thank you. Please, Thomas needs to talk to you. Important things about our Iolo.’
While Tom led the doctor to the empty space behind the open door of the ambulance, Rebecca grasped the hands of the other friends. By now the Home Grown lights had been switched off and in the glimmering of the new dawn, she pulled them into a tight circle. ‘Why did he come?’
A weary shake of the head from the three of them. They had been over this ground so many times, since they found Iolo unconscious and cut up in amongst the jagged slabs of broken concrete.
‘Bled to death.’ David had an ironic smile on his lips as he spoke. ‘Funny thing, he was the only person around who could have saved him. That make sense, Ivor?’
‘Nothing makes sense! We should have been on our way back to Gilgil. We were having a great time talking to a couple of truck drivers from the coast. Great blokes. Muslim boys.’
‘Iolo got up on his feet. We thought he was going to make a speech. “Got to take a leak or we’ll have to stop the car on the way home.” We never saw him again. Alive I mean.’ More tears slid from Ivor’s reddened eyes.
‘What’s going to happen? Do you know anything, Rebecca? If we were home …’
‘But you are home.’
‘Before all this, Iolo was talking to the drivers about going back to med school. “One more year. The hospital will be open by then. I’m coming back to help a few Naivasha babies into the world.” Gospel truth!’
‘How did you four people come into our lives? Why does it have to be like this? Tom is talking to the doctor. His father has a plan. You know that a plane goes out to Europe every night, with a cargo from the farms?’
‘You mean we could be on one?’
‘Tonight, Iolo as well. I hope you don’t hate our country.’
‘Rebecca, we’re not going. The four of us have been talking about it, the four of us!’
