Lucy’s disparaging comments when they were sitting together at Harrods had also left their mark. In his heart of hearts, he agreed with her: all his news stories, features and leaders had made no difference whatsoever to Kuwisha’s problems. Here was an opportunity to have a real impact for the better – and who knows, impress Lucy.
Pearson watched from his office window, lost in these thoughts, as Titus hobbled across the road to the market. Cecil began desultory attempts to clear his desk for his successor, and do his expenses. Thirty minutes later Titus, smelling less and with a clean but badly bruised face, and still a pitiful sight, knocked on the door of the Financial News. It was the boy’s first time inside Cambridge House, let alone in Pearson’s office, and he was mute with wonder. He made a touching, vulnerable sight, but Cecil was nothing if not a journalist. He looked at the boy with a calculating eye.
To say that Pearson was driven by compassion for the wretched boy in front of him would be incorrect. True, he felt sorry for Ntoto. But it was a detached and a calculated sympathy, which saw the boy as little more than a possible lever that could move a far, far bigger cause.
Kibwana’s claims at the press conference, his allegations of an imminent meeting between President Nduka and the opposition leader Anna Nugilu, had given him the idea that was now taking shape. But if he were to try what he had in mind, he would have to move fast. Uhuru Day, when the president made his televised address to the nation, was imminent. The deal – if there was indeed a deal – between the president and Mrs Nugilu had to be struck by then.
Cecil gestured towards an empty chair. Titus, still overawed by the fact that Pearson had allowed him into his office, took a back copy of the Kuwisha Standard, from the pile in the corner, and carefully placed it on the seat of the chair Pearson had indicated. He then lowered his skinny body, encased in a pair of old hockey shorts and a threadbare grey jersey Pearson had given him. The cast-offs had been washed under the market tap since their exposure to the flood, and were still damp. The rinse had had little impact on the variety of stains that covered the patched and torn garments, and Ntoto felt deeply embarrassed. Nevertheless, for the first time since being washed away, he was able to think beyond his own immediate survival.
He looked round the room. Newspapers sat in ordered piles, the bookshelves had been wiped clean, and Pearson’s desk was clear, apart from a pile of used travel tickets, restaurant and taxi receipts, and various grubby slips of paper. It was a strange place to leave your rubbish, thought Ntoto. He longed to stretch out on a rope-and-wood bed, standing in one corner of the office. It was rather like a hammock. Ntoto suspected that it was used by Pearson to sleep off Tuskers. But to lie on it was unthinkable. Instead he allowed his aching frame to rest against the back of the chair, and waited for the first question.
“Tell me, Ntoto, can you use a tape recorder?”
“No, sir,” he replied.
This was not entirely true. Ntoto had watched Edward Furniver operate an identical machine.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Pearson, stretching out his feet onto his desk. He continued to look thoughtful.
“That fat boy who plays in your football team, doesn’t he work at State House?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied.
Pearson lifted an interrogative eyebrow.
“His name?”
“Ferdinand Mlambo. A kitchen toto, sir.”
Ntoto corrected himself.
“Senior kitchen toto. He is my friend.”
“And he is an Mboya boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me more about him,” said Pearson, and Ntoto complied.
Mlambo was, in Ntoto’s considered opinion, easily the most successful of his contemporaries. He was a contender, a potential heavyweight: being a kitchen toto anywhere was a remarkable success; to be a kitchen toto at State House was a great achievement; but to be the senior kitchen toto in State House, at the age of fourteen! It was little short of miraculous, and Ntoto felt proud to call Mlambo his friend.
“Can he get into the president’s study?” asked Pearson.
So impressed was Ntoto by the extent of Mlambo’s achievements that he answered spontaneously, dropping the caution that was usually second nature to him. He snorted, an action which alarmed Pearson, who feared that Ntoto was so carried away that he was going to blow his nose in finger-to-nostril fashion.
“Mlambo takes the president his tea and scones, every day, in his study,” Ntoto said proudly, and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jersey, leaving a snail’s trail that ran from wrist to elbow.
“He even . . .”
Something about Pearson’s look made Ntoto cut himself short. He was a shrewd and perceptive boy, and he would have sworn that the distaste on Pearson’s face when he had wiped his nose had been preceded by an expression that had an unpleasant combination of satisfaction and ill-suppressed excitement.
But it was too late. Whatever the damage done by his impetuous reply, there was no undoing it. The disclosure had been made, and Ntoto cursed his thoughtless response. He sat waiting, tucked his left leg under his bottom, and investigated his toenails. Pearson continued to look thoughtful. It would be a long shot, but with little to lose and much to gain.
Kibwana’s claims were not new, and they were common currency at Harrods. Few doubted that the president and Anna Nugilu, the opposition leader, were meeting regularly. But how to prove it? They also said that Nduka was far from confident of victory – though there were two schools of thought about the significance of this. The one, led by the Germans, argued that Nduka had not changed his spots; the other, led by the Brits, believed that the president wanted to leave behind a legacy of democracy, or at least a platform of economic and political reforms on which the new Kuwisha could be build.
In Pearson’s view, neither theory mattered if Newman Kibwana was right. If Mrs Nugilu could be persuaded by the president to stay in the contest, and then withdraw her candidacy after nominations had closed, in return for a clear run when Nduka stood down, the president’s election victory would be guaranteed. At the press conference attended by Pearson, Newman had claimed the two were meeting at least once a week to discuss tactics for the general election. The next meeting between the two, he had claimed, was scheduled within twenty-four hours.
Still looking at Ntoto, who having dealt with his toenails was now paying close attention to a suppurating scab on his left ankle, Pearson rang one if his diplomatic sources to get the latest view on such a meeting. It was very likely, he was told, but it could not be confirmed.
Pearson pondered and plotted. If the gossip could be proved accurate, and Mrs Nugilu was indeed planning to step down and leave politics after presidential nominations closed, the election would become a one horse race. The other candidates were a mixed bunch, their support limited to their home region or their tribe. Nduka’s re-election would be all but certain. But should it be shown that the president himself had doubts about his re-election, the opposition could well unite, and Nduka’s defeat would be a real possibility. But the evidence had to be cast iron. Speculation would not do. Pearson made up his mind. It was worth a go.
“Sit still, Ntoto. I have something to show you.”
Ntoto, who had been thinking furiously, wondering how he could backtrack on his admission about Mlambo, looked up.
Pearson pulled open his right-hand drawer, and took out a tape recorder, so small it fitted comfortably into the palm of his hand. He placed it near Ntoto, and pressed a button, and continued to quiz the boy.
Pearson then replayed the exchange.
As it happened, Ntoto had heard his own voice before. Edward Furniver’s tape recorder was the very same model, and Ntoto had sat at the foot of the wicker chair, at Harrods, entranced by the stories about a cat called Stripey that the white man dictated for his grandchild.
But for Pearson’s sake, and out of an innate caution, Ntoto pretended astonishment. As their voices filled the room, he covered his eyes
with both hands and peeked through a crack between his fingers, and gave fake piteous little cries, part fear, part fascination. Only after the third re-run, when Ntoto had allowed his spurious emotions to be replaced by curiosity and enthusiasm, did Pearson feel that the boy was ready.
He told him he could take revenge on Mayor Guchu and the president, provided he would take part in what was an audacious but feasible scheme.
As Pearson explained what he had in mind, Ntoto recoiled in horror. His worst fears had been realised, and for a few moments he was tempted to run for the door. Instead he assembled the obvious objections: how could a tape recorder, carried by a boy from Kireba, be smuggled past the security checks at State House? Even if that was possible, how could it be placed in the correct position, in the president’s study of all places?
“What if we are caught,” he asked. “What if we are searched?”
“It would be a brave man, or a foolish man, who searched you, Titus.”
Ntoto sniggered. It was a good point. He could strap the tape recorder below his waist, concealed beneath his stained shorts. What went on under those trousers did not bear thinking about.
Pearson was patience personified, betraying none of his own doubts and concerns about the scheme. Once again he reminded Ntoto of the pain and humiliation the boy had endured over the past twenty-four hours. Pain that had been inflicted, Pearson hardly needed to point out, by thugs loyal to Mayor Guchu. And was not Guchu the man who, all agreed, was President Nduka’s closest adviser . . . ?
Pearson managed to conceal the fact that at heart he felt that his plan had only a slight chance of coming off. Were he not due to leave for London shortly, he probably would not have even have contemplated it. What if Ntoto and his friends were caught? Pearson acknowledged there was a risk of this happening. But who would the security police believe: Kireba urchins and their implausible story? Or a respected journalist who accused the boys of stealing his tape recorder? And anyway, by the time questions were asked, he would be on the plane home.
And if the plan worked . . . Pearson would write the story in London, based on a transcript of the conversation between Nduka and Nugilu. Provided it bore out Newman Kibwana’s allegations, the president would be thoroughly discredited. Pearson would return to Kuwisha to cover the elections that would see Nduka fighting for his political life. And his defeat would usher in a new era for Kuwisha . . .
But all that was to come.
Pearson once again explained how the tape recorder worked. Ntoto now looked at it as if it were a snake, ready to bite him. All that was required was for two buttons to be pressed, Pearson told Ntoto: the recorder was loaded, and it would automatically turn itself on, for it was triggered by sound.
Ntoto was not convinced. Getting through the security checks that surrounded State House would be difficult enough. Getting the recorder hidden in President Nduka’s study, and getting it out again would be even more dangerous.
“Listen carefully, Titus Ntoto. Listen very carefully. I am going to tell you two stories. Listen carefully, because they will prove that you and Cyrus and Mlambo can be invisible.”
Ntoto sighed. At least he would have a chance to think. He leant forward, anxious not to miss a word. As the stories unfolded, he found himself being pulled in. Every now and then he nodded his understanding, and when Pearson reached the denouement of the first tale, he let out a little murmur of recognition and a squeal of sheer delight, for it was a story about Tom Odhiambo Mboya, the man after whom they named their club. It was well told.
Ntoto clapped his hands enthusiastically, like the fourteen-year-old Cecil too easily forgot he was. For a moment, only for a few seconds, Pearson was concerned for the boy’s welfare, and contemplated calling off what could prove a dangerous mission. He paused, and the break was long enough to be noticed by Ntoto.
“Next story, next story,” he demanded. Ten minutes later, Pearson thought he had convinced Ntoto that the plan was feasible.
“Remember, Ntoto. You are invisible to people who think they are better than you, more important than you. As long as you look like a street boy, or a kitchen toto, doing the things street boys and totos do, behaving like they do, no one will see you. But – and this is very important – you must behave just like yourself, like a street boy, and Cyrus must also behave like a street boy.”
Ntoto still looked doubtful.
“But they will see us, sir.”
“Yes, of course they will see you. But they will see only two small boys, two pieces of nothing,” replied Pearson.
“They will see two small boys, who they think are rubbish. But they will not see that underneath the two boys are two angry young men.”
Pearson looked at his watch. Time was running out. Ntoto still looked undecided and distinctly nervous.
Pearson changed tactics. He stood up, putting the recorder back into the desk drawer.
“Right, Ntoto. It will not work if you are afraid.”
Ntoto gnawed his lower lip, unsure and alarmed, and Pearson played his last card.
“Do you think I would risk my new tape recorder if I thought you would be caught? Do you know that it is worth more than £200 – nearly one hundred thousand ngwee?”
The fact was that whatever happened to the recorder, Pearson was not going to be out of pocket. He was confident that he could claim it on his insurance. But Ntoto was not to know this.
The enormity of the value of the tape recorder left the boy stunned. He still had his doubts about a hare-brained scheme that had little chance of working. But it immediately occurred to Ntoto that he could sell a tape recorder worth 100,000 ngwee on the city streets without difficulty. Even if he got 10,000 ngwee, it was a small fortune. And was not Pearson leaving for London very soon?
“We are not afraid,” he said firmly. “We will do it.”
“Good man,” said Pearson. “What about Rutere?”
“Rutere is my deputy,” said Ntoto firmly and confidently. “He will do as I say.”
“And Mlambo?”
“He is an Mboya Boy. And he is not circumcised.”
“Pardon,” said Cecil, baffled by the relevance of this information.
“He is not circumcised,” said Ntoto again. Surely he did not need to explain further to Pearson?
“Good man,” replied Cecil, still at a loss.
“Good man. Now we must hurry. We will collect Rutere from the market, and I will drop both of you at the State House roundabout.
The two boys achieved another personal first as Rutere joined Ntoto in the back of Cecil’s Land Rover and the three of them drove off from Cambridge House. Neither Ntoto nor Rutere had travelled in a white man’s car before, although they had acquired a remarkable knowledge of an automobile’s features when they learnt the skills of petty thieves – such as how to jump start an engine, or ways to remove a car radio. They chattered excitedly in Swahili as they sat on the back seat, looking out at the city from this elevated perspective.
“One day,” said Ntoto, “I will have a white man whose job will be to drive me whenever I want.”
Rutere nodded enthusiastically.
“All drivers will be white men, and if they are lazy or if they are loafers, they will, they will . . .”
Rutere paused, thinking of the worst punishment a frequently hungry Kireba urchin could imagine.
“They will not be allowed to eat at Harrods,” he said sternly, “but they will have to serve the food.”
Ntoto laughed, and clapped his hands.
“What’s the joke?” asked Pearson, briefly taking his eyes off the road to check on his passengers.
“What’s so funny?”
“We are just happy, suh,” said Cyrus obsequiously, digging a giggling Ntoto in the ribs.
Pearson concentrated on avoiding the city’s aggressive drivers, while the boys continued chatting in Swahili.
“He said the tape recorder was worth nearly 100,000 ngwee,” said Ntoto. Rutere was awe-struck, and almos
t lost for words.
“100,000 ngwee,” he repeated. “Surely we must steal it.”
Ntoto looked at him scornfully.
“Of course we will steal it. Of course. But first we must use it to do our job. We are not stupid. I want to hurt the president. If I hurt him, that Guchu will squeal. This is the start of my revenge on Guchu.”
Rutere was about to comment, and urge caution and restraint, but something in Ntoto’s voice made him think again.
Pearson stopped outside the local supermarket, and came back to the car with a small packet. A few minutes later he stopped again, this time alongside a street vendor selling fresh maize cobs that had been roasted on the makeshift brazier. He bought the man’s stock – about two dozen cobs – dumped them in a large locally-made raffia bag, and handed it over to the boys.
They had decided against hiding the tape recorder under Ntoto’s shorts as too obvious. He watched carefully as Ntoto instead placed it, protected from dust by a black plastic packet, in the bottom of the bag, and covered it with the roasted cobs. There was just one thing left. He looked critically at Ntoto and Rutere on the back seat, and the former defensively wiped his ever-running nose on the back of his hand.
“Probably not necessary, but better to be on the safe side. When the time comes, sniff this.”
Cecil handed over the packet of pepper he had bought at the local supermarket.
“And make sure that you smell like a dead dog. Remember Mboya.”
He wasn’t sure why he said that. Nevertheless, he said it again:
“Remember Mboya.”
It sounded like a slogan, some sort of rallying call. Cecil’s knowledge of the Kenyan trade unionist was limited. The story he had told to Ntoto had come from a biography that had been part of his background reading when preparing for his posting to Kuwisha, and it had stuck in his memory. But as far as he could recall, Mboya was not associated with a form of political militancy that might appeal to Ntoto and Rutere. The mention of the name nevertheless had a galvanising effect. The two boys, who had got out of the car while Pearson spoke, snapped to attention:
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