by Saul Dobney
53. The Retreat
Eshe stood at the top of the ladder outside the house, glaring at Riaz in his car below.
He had just pulled up, the car's roof down and a deep bass of music thumping through the quiet of the empty street. Riaz stepped out of the car and took off his sunglasses and examined the windows Eshe was cleaning.
“Where have you been?” scolded Eshe. She clumped down the ladder and threw the window cloth into the water bucket Yanif was holding. “We're all working to get the house ready and you disappear all day.”
“What am I doing?” said Riaz grinning. “I'm keeping the Chama going.” He twirled his sunglasses in his fingers as he sauntered towards the house. “I am finding us some work and somewhere to live. Or are you expecting us to go back to Tremus's workshop.”
“And what's wrong with my workshop?” asked Tremus emerging at the front door with Mosi.
Mosi laughed and bumped Tremus on the arm. “Yeah, I'm so looking forwards to sleeping on a mattress next to Mr Rhinoceros.” He skipped out of Tremus's reach, down the steps to Eshe and Yanif.
“What's that?” asked Eshe, pointing to a large box on the back seat of the car.
“A little present,” said Riaz. “For Mosi and Kwasi. Take a look.”
Mosi ran to the car and heaved the box out of the door onto the pavement where he could study the picture on the side. “We are about to be evicted and you've bought a television, Riaz?”
Eshe shook her head and looked to Yanif for support. “A little money and it goes to Riaz's head.”
“A little…?” said Riaz. “We are about to make a lot of money. A real lot. Item one: we are now booked at the Rift Valley Festival.”
“We can go back to the villages?” asked Tremus.
Riaz nodded. “No-one would dare attack us now. And I've had calls from Mombasa. They want to set up a Chama. Mr Eden made us a new gift. And the website has people donating. We have hit the big time.” Riaz rubbed the tips of his fingers together and beamed. “So we deserve a reward. And Mosi will need the TV so him and Kwasi and everyone else can see us when we are… ,” —he paused— “…in London.”
“London?” said Tremus almost in unison with Eshe.
“Steve and me have been talking. He is real interested in Yanif. He wants to do some promotions with Heather; launch a book, sell some t-shirts, and more. We just confirmed the final arrangements and sorted out the tickets. Me, you, Yanif and Eshe are flying to London.”
“London,” said Eshe. She squeezed Yanif around the middle.
Yanif looked puzzled.
“London is in England Yanif, and when we're in England we can see Tabitha,” said Eshe. “Oh, London will be amazing.”
“And now for the third surprise. It is time to visit the next Chama central,” grinned Riaz. “To see our new home.”
Eshe, Yanif and Mosi bounced in the back of Riaz's car as it made its way along the rough dirt track through the Kenyan grasslands. Eshe had her arms on the door frame, marvelling at the expanse of the plain and the vistas to the distant mountains.
“It’s like a safari out here,” shouted Eshe against the noise of the wind. “So far from anywhere and animals for company.”
But Yanif did not respond.
After what seemed an age the car arrived at a high fence. Behind tall iron gates, a straw roof swept down over a large round wooden house, the thatch hanging over the wooden walls and shuttered windows like an over-long fringe that had been invaded by green creepers. Around the house lay outbuildings and an expanse of open land reclaimed by long grasses drying in the sun, and a neglected swimming pool filled with green water that played host to dragonflies.
Tremus whistled as Riaz pulled up next to Angelie's hatchback and a small, battered, white two seater Fiat.
“We will live like kings here,” said Tremus. He turned and slapped Riaz on the back. “You have done good this time.”
From the Fiat the driver oozed himself out of the car, stood and shook himself down.
“Hello Mr Riaz sir,” said the man nodding at Riaz.
“Meet Joe,” said Riaz stepping out of the car and introducing the others. “The caretaker.”
Joe nodded and grinned showing off a gold tooth. He was taller than Tremus and bulkier; half-fat, half-muscle.
Mosi looked him up and down and then did the same with Tremus then stood on tiptoes to make himself taller. “What is it with you and tall people, Riaz?”
“Joe comes with the house,” said Riaz. “He's going to help us with security when me and Tremus are away on business and take care of the collections at the festival. After the crowds and Chiumbo, we need some extra muscle.”
Yanif approached Joe and stared up into his eyes. “The start turns the end.”
Joe tilted his head confused by Yanif's words.
“It’s beautiful Riaz,” shouted Angelie, emerging to greet them from the side of the house with Kwasi. “So much to do, but beautiful.”
“It's so big,” said Eshe. “Can we truly afford it?”
Riaz nodded. “Angelie says so. It's been empty for years. An old friend of Mr Eden went back to England and wants to rent it out or sell it, so it's cheap. Come and see inside.”
Joe took the keys from his pocket and unlocked the front door.
Yanif stayed back, hesitant about going in, but the others tiptoed in staring at the height of the roof and pirouetting to take in the aspect of the open-plan room that was deserted except for a few cardboard boxes and coat hangers lying on the floor. Riaz opened the windows and shutters, and shafts of light filled the house making the dust from their footsteps shimmer and sparkle in the air.
Mosi and Kwasi spotted the stairs and raced to be the first to the upper floor, pushing and pulling trying to get an advantage.
“Twelve bedrooms,” shouted Riaz. “Can you count that high Mosi? We will host guests. Bring people to see us, instead of going to the villages and Steve will send people from England.”
The boys ignored Riaz and ducked in and out of each of the rooms in turn.
“It’s wonderful,” said Eshe. She took Yanif by the hand and led him into the house to the kitchen where silent appliances stood waiting for life to return.
Yanif sighed and shook his head, standing by the kitchen door caressing the wooden pillars that held the roof in place. But Eshe was in heaven, opening the cupboards, leaving trails and fingermarks in the dust on the worktops.
Yanif left Eshe and the grand central room and trudged outside and around to the back of the house. Among the outbuildings were a row of rough brick barracks once used as servants quarters. The closest door was open and Yanif stepped inside to a small empty living area with yellowing white-painted breeze-block walls and an undoored entrance to a second room. Yanif peered into the darkness where built-in bunk beds crammed into the space. A mouse or insect scuttled across the floor and Yanif stepped inside and sat on the hand-sawn wooden frame of the lower bed.
“Yanif,” called Riaz from outside. “Yanif. Where are you? We need you.”
Yanif stepped back out into the light putting his hand up to shield the sun.
Riaz came towards him. “Aren’t you going to come in and choose a bedroom?” asked Riaz. “You get first choice.”
“Here,” said Yanif pointing to the barracks.
Riaz smirked. “No dullard, we have the house.”
“But it is to be a hotel. People come as our guests. They sleep in the house. We sleep here.”
“No,” said Riaz. “We have the house for ourselves. We are the kings now, not the servants. These we can use for less important guests.”
Yanif scrutinised the barracks and then back at the house and shook his head. “This is not right Riaz. We must help poor people, not live in a palace. We must be with them, be like them. Money is not important.” He abandoned Riaz and walked towards the gardens and the overgrown lawn.
A flash of anger passed across Riaz’s face and he ran to Yanif, spinning him around by t
he shoulder. “You always had someone giving you money, looking after you.” Riaz prodded Yanif with his finger. “And you always want us to be poor? You have no idea what it is to be poor. Have you ever been starving because you have no money for food, or digging up roots or scavenging bins to find something to eat? This house is ours now Yanif. For our work. It’s what God has given us for helping you.”
“These are the wrong things.” Yanif balked and pressed into Riaz's personal space. “Money is all you have ever been interested in. Deal, deal, deal and take, take, take. This is wrong.”
“We have responsibilities now,” said Riaz. He banged Yanif on the shoulder and Yanif stumbled backwards. “Angelie stopped her job. Kwasi, Mosi, me, Tremus, Eshe we all rely on you Yanif. This is for you as much as us.” Riaz pushed again and Yanif's heel caught against the poolside decking and he fell to the floor.
Riaz stood over Yanif bearing down on him. “You need to learn…”
Yanif scrambled backwards, but Riaz shoved him again. Yanif would have fallen in the swimming pool, but for Joe catching him from behind.
“Let me help you,” said Joe. “You don't want to get your feet wet Mr Yanif sir.”
“Leave him,” shouted Tremus from the back-door, storming out of the house. “Riaz. You do not push Yanif.”
He hit Riaz in the shoulder.
Riaz grimaced and went quiet, shaking out the pain.
Eshe ran over. “What’s going on? What happened?”
“It’s OK,” said Tremus. He brushed Yanif down. “Just a little exchange of views. Nothing to worry about.”
Riaz rubbed at his arm. “You know Yanif, you would still be carving sticks if it was not for what we have done for you. Are you grateful? No.”
Yanif shook his head.
“Riaz that is not true,” said Eshe. “If it wasn’t for Yanif you’d be selling beads in the market. You’d never have done anything without Yanif.”
Riaz glowered at her. “You can’t say anything. Every time we tried one of your ideas it failed.”
“Stop,” said Yanif. “Stop. This is not what I want to hear.” He put his hands on his ears and walked back towards the barracks.
“Enough,” bellowed Tremus. “Enough of this. We have work. We have the Rift Valley Festival to arrange and a house to fix. I do not have time for these stupid arguments.”
54. Coming to London
An orderly bustle of activity filled the corridor at Addenbrookes Hospital with a doctor leading a group of medical students through the corridors as Dr Hill and the chaplain arrived at the oncology ward. Dr Hill buzzed on the intercom and nurse in a light blue uniform opened the door. She took them to a private room where Jill lay motionless on the bed.
“James,” said Jill lifting her head as they came in.
Dr Hill kissed his wife on the cheek and squeezed her hand.
“There was no need to bring a priest,” said Jill seeing the chaplain. “It's not that bad yet.”
“Hello Jill,” said the chaplain. “How are you coping?”
“As well as can be expected with a pair of knitting needles hanging out and a missing set of ovaries,” said Jill. “Still battling your man-upstairs's evil plan though.” She shook her fist at the ceiling in mock anger.
“Knitting needles?” The chaplain looked confused.
“Brachytherapy,” explained Dr Hill. “They use an applicator to localise the radiation source next to the tumour.”
“So it's worse than expected?”
“Mean little buggers cancer cells,” said Jill. “You think you've zapped them all in one place, and they've snuck off and hidden themselves somewhere else.”
Nicholas put his hand on Jill's arm in solidarity.
“Bugger sympathy,” said Jill brushing off his hand. “I'd have thrown the doctor's computer through the window when she gave me the biopsy results, if she hadn't already told me 'no heavy lifting' after the operation.”
“Is there anything you need?” asked Dr Hill. “We're going up to Ely for the choral festival.”
“A better selection of magazines,” said Jill. “Lie here and don't move is what they said, and I've been through this lot a million times already.” She waved her hand towards a small pile of gossip magazines by the bed.
“I thought you didn't read those sort of things?”
“I don't under normal circumstances. Flab, flesh and fashion and zoom-lens celebrity stalking. It's like going to the zoo to stare at the monkeys with the brightly coloured bottoms. Hang on though. There was something.” She picked up a magazine from the bedside cabinet and dropped it onto the bed. She opened the magazine and flicked through. “Here it is. 'Heather Cross's saviour is coming to London.' I saw the photo and recognised that Yanif character.”
“You seem to be obsessing about him,” said Dr Hill.
“Me?” said Jill. “He's your prophet, Mr Prophet Hunter.”
“James and I were talking about Yanif the other day,” said the chaplain. “James, did I tell you I exchanged emails with Niall Coombe?”
“Who?” asked Jill.
“Niall's photo was on that website with your prophet Yanif. He's in Essex now and he mentioned that Yanif will be visiting his daughter Tabitha soon. Yanif helped her recover from cancer too apparently.”
“Really?” said Jill. “I'd love to meet this Yanif then and find out about his miracles.”
“I can try and wangle you an introduction,” said the chaplain. “If you're well enough to travel.”
“I'm not stuck here all the time,” said Jill. “I do get to go home between zaps.”
“I'd like that Nicholas,” said Dr Hill. He wrapped his hand around Jill's. “It seems fitting, after everything that's happened.”
55. The Rift Valley festival
“Hey Yanif, couldn’t you have stopped the rain?” asked Kwasi, peeking out from under the canopy at the clouds as another shower started. “Everyone would enjoy the festival so much more if the sun came out.”
“Like this,” laughed Mosi. “I’ll show you.” He clicked his fingers towards the sky.
Eshe bumped Mosi with her shoulder. “Don’t tease Yanif like that.”
Yanif looked up to the sky and smiled, blowing out as if to drive the clouds away.
Beneath them, Riaz, Tremus and Keneth were walking up the low hill that ran from the lake up to the stage. Riaz had the collar of his shirt up to stop drops from trickling down his neck, but Tremus seemed oblivious to the rain.
Behind them small groups of people and families clustered under the trees by the picnic area holding plastic sheeting above their heads. In the distance more people were coming, making their way through the wet grass into the field of the festival site from nearby Naivasha.
“You must have shaken hands with just about every person Keneth knows,” said Mosi to Riaz.
“They’ve done a good job with the Chama here,” said Riaz. He shook himself so the drips ran off his sleeves and slipped his way into the canvas shelter rubbing the water out of his hair. “Lots of smiling faces. They want more Chamas. More Yanif. And so many people wanted a blessing from me and Tremus.”
“Do you really have to leave for London tonight?” asked Kwasi. “If you could stay tomorrow and Sunday you’d see all the music. There are local bands. It’s a real African festival, not like that one in Nairobi.”
“We have no choice,” said Riaz. “We have to get to the airport tonight so be able to get to Tabitha’s birthday on Sunday. It was the only way the flights worked out.”
“Henry will want to see you before you leave,” said Keneth. “His Kenyan Popular Front are handing out leaflets and he wants to take some photos. And he said watch out for Chiumbo. They think he has something planned.”
“We'll be safe here though won't we?” asked Eshe. “Chiumbo wouldn't be so crazy?” She shivered and huddled against Yanif as the wind blew through the canopy.
A crack of noise came from her side as a sharp gust shook the stage and one of the
side-wall tarpaulin’s slapped against the stage’s scaffolding in the wind.
The rain was easing off and Angelie and Salina came across the field.
Salina ran over and tugged at Yanif’s arm. “Yanif. Yanif. Mummy’s going to have a baby and she says it’s all your fault.”
“I should hope not,” said Mosi laughing. “I think Kwasi should take his share of the blame.”
“But she said without Yanif and without God, she wouldn’t have another baby. I think it’s going to be a girl.”
Yanif smiled and rubbed Salina's damp hair.
“Can you bless the baby Yanif,” asked Salina. “To make sure it's all right.”
Angelie stuck her tummy out. “Please…”
Yanif rubbed her swelling stomach, then bent down and kissed it.
“Come on Yanif,” said Riaz. “Work to be done. It's time to go through what you will say. This time you need to get it right.”
As he said this, another squall hit the stage. At the rear, one of the ties snapped and a tarpaulin freed itself from its binding and began to flap like a pennant flag, tugging at the scaffolding.
“Watch out,” called Kwasi as a second tie broke loose. “It’s going to blow off the roof.”
Kwasi, Keneth, Mosi and other stage-hands rushed onto the platform to try to catch the sheets. Tremus ran to the mixing desk, trying to cover the electrics with a plastic sheet until the tarpaulin was back in place.
From under the trees, people stared towards the drama of men scurrying from post to post trying to tie the loose sheets back to the stage frame.
Another gust came and a child’s plastic mac blew into the air. It spiralled in an vortex floating over the security barriers and snagged against a microphone stand in the centre of the stage.
“Over here,” called a small boy, running across the field. “Over here.”
Yanif walked onto the stage and picked up the mac and carried it to the stage-edge.
The boy scrambled over the barrier in front and took the coat from Yanif. In the field behind his family and friends whistled and clapped as the boy raised the coat to show he had it before running across the grass to rejoin them.
