Girl with the Golden Voice

by Carl Hancock

  In a break from his money making he read the story of the kidnap on The Nation’s website, but no one would find that hut in the Kakamega Forest. The kid was coming to the end of his first night there. One phone call and it could still happen. A single bullet would do it. Two years before he had let that too inquisitive reporter who knew too much about one of his profitable scams starve to death in that same hut.

  Abel wanted to be done with speculation and balancing options. He desperately needed some kind of action. He would take on the role of the concerned, compassionate neighbour. So he rounded up Sally and Julius for a journey to the Naivasha lakeside. The boy drove and Sally, soft-hearted, innocent, would provide cover. Her reaction to the new misfortune of the McCalls’ would be emotional, her sympathy sincere and uninhibited.

  * * *

  Mary was ready to travel with Rebecca to New York, London or Nairobi. Instead the two friends shared a long weep at San Francisco airport and then parted. Mary grieved with Rebecca for her loss but felt guilt that she was more sad for a loss of her own. Even after just three weeks of concerts with the band, Rebecca had transformed them, raised the level of performance. The combination of her beauty, her voice and her stage presence was world class. With Rebecca around, America would have taken serious notice of the whole Wajiru experience.

  On her journey home Rebecca’s greatest need was for peace and the chance to come to terms with this violent shift in her life and the weight of the guilt that would not leave her. She had left Kenya twenty-five days before without even contacting Tom or Mama and Papa. She had spent many hours since taking herself back to that time, probing deeply and as honestly as she could the thoughts and feelings behind the why of this. Shame, fear, the need to get away, a fascination to see close up and experience a little of the glamour and glitter of a life she had touched only in magazines and films, these had been the most of it. She had expected to sing a few songs, travel a little and then return home. The thrill of standing in front of large audiences in the two concerts the band had given down at the coast had dazzled her. America would be different, but she wanted to see for herself. It was kind of Toni to give her this chance and she did not want to let him down.

  The reality was certainly different. From her first moments on stage she became aware that something unusual was happening to her. When the first show ended she came off but could not wait to be back out there in front of another audience. She was being fulfilled in a new way, excited by the unexpected urge to take risks with her performance that all came off so easily. The rapture of these Americans, their wild applause helped to make her a little less the wash girl of Londiani.

  But Stephen and Angela Kamau’s eldest saw the danger of becoming addicted to this drug. She was making a lot of money for using God’s gift and that frightened her. All these smart people treated her as someone special. These new ways were bringing uncertainties and turmoil. In the noise and the colour it was easy to hide, but the mask of glamour could not protect her in the lonely moments of the early morning.

  The shock of the news of Tom numbed her mind. All her energy for doing things was concentrated on making sure that she was in the right places for her flights. She ate nothing on the journey and only troubled the steward for bottles of drinking water. As soon as she had curled herself into her seat and still on American soil, she was emotionally and spiritually back in Africa, in Londiani. But it was Londiani without Tom. Every tiny particle of news about his taking was etched deep into her mind. It was so hard to hope. Eight men had taken him and they knew his name. Eight men in smart suits and in smart cars. And she had gone off without a word. Poor Lucy, thank God they had let her go, but why so soon? Did they want their work advertised? Was she in the way?

  Kill, death. These were the words but so far only words. She must cling to hope however painful it became to do so. And if the worst came, had come? She had seen corpses. Would they bury him somewhere? Leave him for the animals? She shuddered and wept as the images came and, thank God, went.

  Perhaps, perhaps they would give the family a chance and ask for money. She sighed and let the big engines drone on.

  For the first time in her life she was not looking forward to going home. She worked to compose herself on the run-in after touching down in Jomo Kenyatta. Naivasha was eighty miles away. In her bag she carried twenty thousand dollars. Any taxi-driver would be happy to drive her home for American money.

  She had barely pushed her trolley into the arrivals hall than Toni Wajiru’s father took over and led her to the car park.

  ‘Straight to Naivasha? Please, just a little breakfast at home. Dorcas has everything prepared. We’ll get you home by noon. Promise.’

  * * *

  Simon Umbeke was the oldest driver with the Eldoret Express company. He was on sidelights as he drew up beside the figure which had flagged him down on the empty road. Normally Simon would stop only at village centres or designated stops, but the sight of the white legs intrigued him enough to cause him to brake hard. There was a murmur of discontent from the passengers of his half full coach.

  Simon and his conductor, David, exchanged surprised glances when their new passenger appeared on the bottom step of the open doorway. The young man was filthy with matted hair, body and clothes mud-stained with several patches dark red with dried blood. And wasn’t that a skull he had crooked under his armpit?

  ‘I’d like a single to Naivasha town, please. You do go there?’

  David looked across at his boss before even thinking of issuing a ticket.

  ‘I don’t have any money on me just now, but you’ll get it as soon as we reach town.’

  David took his chance to get rid of their scary passenger. ‘Sorry. I could get fired. Right. Boss?’

  Before Simon could reply, a man in a suit three rows back spoke up. ‘Here’s the money. Come on. I’ve got business in Nairobi!’

  As Tom tried to thank the man, he was waved away with a smile. ‘Forget it. I’ve got kids of my own. But if you’ll take my advice, you’ll see a doctor as soon as you can.’

  Tom took a seat five rows back, opposite a small old woman dressed in black. After eyeing him narrowly for a few moments she reached into her sisal basket and pulled out a plastic bag, also black. She pointed at the skull. ‘Put it in this. Not nice, not nice.’ With a whisper behind her hand and a sly grin she added, ‘I hope it’s not a relative!’ She turned away and continued her knitting.

  The first part of the journey passed quickly. The closer they came to Nakuru, the more landmarks he recognised. He enjoyed the ride on the speeding coach but fifty kilometres short of Naivasha things changed dramatically.

  There was a long stop at Nakuru Market. It was seven o’clock and the stalls and dukas were opening. The rush and chaos of pick-up matatus and coaches was growing fast. Lithe, aggressive touts trying to drum up custom had to compete with the loud, thumping music. Tom wore a big smile, happy to be back in the thick of the bustle he was so familiar with. Nakuru was his big town and most weeks he was in, shopping with his grandmother, meeting his friends at farmers’ get-togethers in the Rift Valley Club.

  The coach was empty while his fellow passengers got off to stretch their legs and buy some refreshment.

  Tom paid no attention to the heavy footsteps causing the floor to rock. His first sight of the policemen came when he looked down at a shiny pair of big black boots. There were two constables, burly men in khaki drills each carrying a rifle.

  ‘Sir, will you step outside for a moment?’

  Tom’s protests were ignored and he was marched off and made to stand against the wall of the market by policeman number one while policeman number two went to commandeer a matatu for the five minute drive to headquarters. In seconds a large crowd gathered and stood in a semicircle, hoping to enjoy an early morning bit of fun. They were keen to find out what crime this mzungo had committed. Must be a robber at least, maybe even a murderer.

  A young voice called out, ‘Run for it, Bwana! He’s
spent the bullet money on a woman!’ The nervous policeman did not join in the howls of laughter.

  Inspector John Wambui was a large man with a fine bristling moustache who had suffered his trials as he rose up the ranks. He could not remember a better start to the day in all his years in the service. A copy of The Daily Nation lay on his desk before him. Attached was a note printed in red, left by the night duty officer. Abel Rubai had telephoned every main police headquarters in the country. Urgent business. He expected them to be on full alert in a search for the missing white man.

  Wambui was purring with excitement, for there in the armchair across from his desk sat the very man. The clear picture on the front page of the newspaper proved it. For now this meant a big feather in his cap. He was hoping that soon a more practical reward might follow, a juicy promotion, perhaps, his own station down in Nairobi. Rubai wielded a lot of influence and he never forgot a favour.

  In half an hour he was passing under the railway bridge on his way out of town in the specially polished number one squad car. He was chatting amiably to his fellow passenger on the back seat, Mister Thomas McCall of the town of Naivasha. Unfortunately Mr McCall was still in a dishevelled, filthy state. ‘I apologise, but we are having problems with water supply to the station.’ Inspector Wambui lied convincingly. He did not want to restore his treasure to his family all cleaned up. In some mysterious way the young man’s messy appearance would give an extra shine to his own glory. He himself had telephoned the family with the wonderful news of what he had described as ‘your son’s miraculous rescue.’ His reward for that piece of foresight was the even more wonderful news from the other end that Mr Abel Rubai was at the farm. Surely he would not leave before the inspector was able to present his charge and, more importantly, himself to the powerful man.

  Most of the journey passed in silence or with some bouts of inconsequential chat. Tom had decided to say nothing or as little as possible about his ordeal but had one question of his own to ask. ‘Tell me, Inspector, how did you know I was on that bus?’

  ‘Ah, yes, well, if I asked you to put it down to first-class police work. And I believe there was a call from a member of the public who had seen you on the bus. I am told he said that he was some kind of businessman and, as you know, my constables acted with their usual efficiency.’

  * * *

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  Rebecca had her hand across her mouth to cover the gasps that the shock of the news had set off. Alfred Wajiru, keeping an eye on the slow progress of the three lanes of traffic on Uhuru Highway, was apologising but was not sure why. ‘I’m sorry, so sorry …’

  ‘But … you see … I left as soon as I … heard … and after I got on that plane … Mary, she … after I left …’

  Words, sobs and tears tumbled out. She struggled to get a grip on her whirling thoughts. The news overwhelmed her. She needed time.

  ‘On the back seat. The newspaper. It’s on the front page.’

  ‘Perhaps Dorcas will have some coffee.’

  ‘Coffee, fruit, cereals, anything.’

  ‘Do you think I could take a shower?’

  ‘Of course, of course.’

  Alfred was pleased to see that Rebecca was beginning to calm down already, and why shouldn’t she? What news! In this country when a man disappears from the street like that, it’s goodbye forever. So a miracle. And even he, Alfred Wajiru, a mzee of sixty-five years, felt as happy as a schoolboy.

  ‘I need time. I’m exhausted. I realise that now.’

  ‘We’ve got plenty of beds. Have a lie down. Stay the night. We’ll get you home. Tell us when you are ready. Why don’t you take a look at the picture? He’s smiling. He’s a very handsome young man. Take a look.’

  ‘I will after that cup of coffee. And I know he’s a handsome man.’

  ‘Stephen, your father, I met him when you and Mary sang at the Bomas. The most handsome man I ever saw. Do they know that you’re back, the family?’

  She turned away and when he could see her face again, there were tears welling.

  ‘No, they don’t know, just like I didn’t tell them I was going to America. I have displeased my parents and my sisters. I’m ashamed and afraid.’

  * * *

  They were pressed against the fences of the driveway. The excited Inspector Wambui did not have to instruct his driver to slow down as they travelled the last few hundred yards to the house at Londiani. He, a Kenya policeman, was savouring a new experience. The continuous line of smiling, waving, cheering citizens of Naivasha had left shamba, field and schoolroom to catch a glimpse of Thomas McCall, the local hero who had beaten the odds. But he, too, the guardian of the law, had played a part in this victory. It was a big day in his life and he was enjoying it. Bwana McCall was coming home and thousands wanted to rejoice in this miracle in person. Only yesterday he had been given up for dead. The newspapers and radio had carried a story that was familiar to them all. Some prominent person disappears. The circumstances are suspicious. Very, very rarely is he seen alive again. Sometimes a body is found, in a shallow grave or gnawed by forest animals. The sands close over the passing of yet another man, always a man, who has upset someone in high places. The wananchi go on their way with a shrug and a sense of frustrated anger.

  Tom waved back happily but wearily. He recognised so many of the smiling faces and mouthed his thank you a hundred times. He enjoyed the warmth of his people. He knew how much they loved to be together in large numbers to celebrate good news. On the lawns close to the house the crowd was thicker. They punched the air and stepped rhythmically, chanting his name in unison.

  The car stopped close to the veranda steps. The beaming Wambui stepped out nimbly and held the door for his passenger. Tom steadied himself and followed. A collective gasp went up when they saw his condition. His movement was stiff and he held his left arm close to his chest. Calls rang out of the hubbub: ‘God bless you, Bwana Tom!’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Jesus, for bringing him back to us!’

  ‘Home from the dead! Home from the dead! Alleluia!’ and taking their lead from a large, colourful woman rocking to and fro, the mass of people, ‘Karibu, Thomas! Karibu, Thomas!’

  The family was around him before he had taken two steps. They touched him without grasping him. A second, thicker ring thronged around the family. Everywhere he looked he saw tears on smiling faces. Eddie was sobbing uncontrollably. Alex moved in and cradled Tom’s head gently and drew Maura in. She hugged him close and patted his back gently, like a mother winding her baby after a feed. The filth of his clothes and the mud and earth on him from top to toe told her enough about her son’s ordeal and redoubled the bliss of her thankfulness. His body would clean up soon enough. Just to feel the strength of his arms around her and the living warmth of his flesh was a dream come true.

  As Tom moved slowly, drawing along the line of family and friends up onto the veranda, Wambui followed in his wake, milking his new popularity. The climax of this experience for the humble Nakuru cop arrived when he found himself face to face with the great Abel himself.

  ‘Wambui, I shall not forget what you have done today.’ Glowing with pride, the inspector omitted to look closely at Abel Rubai’s eyes as he spoke.

  Alex knew that his people expected a few words from their much-loved Bwana and so when throats became a little hoarse and legs began to tire, he stepped up onto the veranda wall.

  ‘My brothers and sisters, this is a wonderful day for us all. Yesterday you grieved with us and we blessed your hearts in gratitude for your kindness and sympathy. Today we thank God that our grief is transformed to joy.’

  He reached out to touch the inspector’s shoulder. ‘Inspector Wambui, we thank you for your excellent police work. You will always be welcome in this place.’ He paused to face the Rubai family. ‘And a special word of gratitude to Mr Abel Rubai who, unknown to any of us, has worked tirelessly behind the scenes to help make this rejoicing possible.

  ‘We are overwhelmed t
o see so many of you here. I hope you will excuse us if we leave you now. This young man needs a little attention before we send him back to work in the fields.’

  The crowds, satisfied with what they had seen and heard, slipped away back to their work or their homes.

  As the family began to move inside, Tom took Lucy aside. She had never felt so grateful for anything in her life. Her face was a happy mess, pale, wet and streaked with lines where she had rubbed away her tears. He put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Luce, I’m so sorry that I brought this lot on you. I’m so glad to see you and … well, how was it after I deserted you?’

  She sighed. ‘Tom, I wish more than ever that I was pregnant. I’ve thought a lot about that these last few days. Waste of time, I know. We’ve been terrified. You should have heard the cheering and screaming when the phone rang with the news. Tom, you look absolutely … but your eyes are shining. How did you manage it? The family, they’re so strong. Bertie, too, even little Ewan. You can see, I’m still not thinking straight. That journey back through the forest, I thought that they would kill me and dump me somewhere, but they were … gentlemen. Nothing was too much trouble. My parents arrived that evening and I’ve been spoilt rotten. Africa. What a place, full of surprises and, thank God, plenty of good ones.’

  Bertie passed close by. Tom smiled and reached out his hand.

  ‘Bet you won’t want to lend me the Harley again.’

  ‘Tom, unbelievable, un bloody believable. Pardon the French, Lucy. Look, I’d be glad to give it to you. It’s in great nick. Tom, your mum …’

  Maura motioned her son to follow her into the kitchen. His eyes widened as he entered. The place had been transformed into a jua kali surgery The centrepiece was the table. There was a soft covering topped by a large white sheet and at the head three strangers who just happened to be doctors, Lucy’s father and two friends who were coming to the end of their East African safari.

  They worked on their patient for an hour or so. Tom was stripped of his clothes, dressed in a towelling robe, white again, and investigated minutely, piece by piece. After the examination came the consultation. A catalogue of ailments was drawn up and suggestions for treatment. His left arm had a hairline fracture just above the elbow; three, possibly four, ribs were cracked; there was heavy bruising on his back and legs and lacerations on many parts of his exposed flesh although these looked worse than they actually were because the blood had dried to black gore.