by Carl Hancock
Abel returned to his screens for an hour’s relaxation. While he scanned the markets, he was meditating on an idea that had first come to him moments after he had watched the old president close his eyes in death. He picked up his lists of MPs and constituencies. He was especially interested in those in the Rift Valley and the north-west. He marked off three then went for a swim. All the time he was in the water he was weighing up pros and cons. He returned to his screen room to finish off dressing and had another look at his lists. Between slipping on his shoes and fixing his tie he made up his mind.
Nakuru South, it needed new blood. Simon Nyache was going to resign, so there would be no question of pushing a man out against his will. Yes, it was a pity that Briggs had changed his mind about selling the farm. The family had no stake in the area, yet. There would be promises about fixing the roads, replacing that slum of a hospital and calling it The Simon Nyache Memorial Hospital. This was going to work!
Over lunch Julius gave his father a surprise. He had some news. He had heard that Tom McCall was going to stand for election to parliament on the Serena ticket, for Nakuru South. Fortunately for Abel, he was holding a glass of wine as Julius shared his news, so it was easy for him to avoid giving any sign that he had been caught off guard. Inwardly a spasm of anger rose out of the depths. That family, that kid again! Vestiges of the youthful religious superstition that had held him in thrall, as it still held Sally, slid under his guard long enough for him to be troubled. Was there something in this mumbo jumbo after all? She talked a lot about sin and retribution, about the danger of entertaining wicked thoughts, harbouring evil intentions.
‘Julius, where did you hear this nonsense?’
‘No, it’s true. There was a big table of us in the Carnivore. I was sitting next to Kijo Warge. We were getting at him because he says he’s a member of Serena, boasting about the new brush that’s going to clean up the stinking mess in the stable that is Kenya today. He thinks he’s a bit of a poet, too. He was drunk and he started mouthing off some of the candidates they’ve got for an election. How could we know what was going to happen?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, there’s going to be an election, isn’t there?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘So, we asked him for some names. One was for Nakuru South, Tom McCall. Okay. Perhaps it was just the drink talking …’
‘Nakuru South. I think it must mean another red dot!’
‘What do you mean, red dot?’
‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll check this out.’
‘Check it out! Check it out!’ Sally, the third member of the lunch group was animated. The chicken was delicious and the potatoes, soaked in butter and garnished with parsley, were her favourite. But it was the request from the family of the dead president that Sally call over and talk to them that really excited her. For once she was wanted at State House for herself and not just as an accessory to her husband. And Julius was challenging his papa. Usually he was keeping his head low, hoping to avoid another onslaught about getting up off his backside to do something creative, something big, something risky, something that would turn in a profit.
Abel smiled sarcastically. ‘Let’s just suppose that there will be an election. What if I told you that I know another possible candidate for Nakuru South? This one is as young as McCall but with a real chance of winning.’
Julius narrowed his brow. ‘You mean me, don’t you! Christ, Papa …’
‘Do not blaspheme in this house, Julius! I absolutely forbid that kind of language.’
Mama was bristling and thrusting her finger emphatically towards her son. She could feel her genial mood evaporating, her energy being sucked away. She rose and strode out of the room without another word.
Father and son stared at each other across the wide expanse of white tablecloth. Abel glanced away and picked up his glass. He held it out towards Julius in a toast. ‘To the next KANU member for Nakuru South, Julius Rubai!’
‘Thank you, Papa. I won’t let you down. I will beat McCall. Perhaps you don’t know it, but he is getting married in June to …’
‘The pretty little house girl who sings …’
‘The arrogant shit shouldn’t even be alive!’
‘That can be arranged as you well know. But for God’s sake, grow up, Julius! I hate that particular McCall at least as much as you, but he’s a fighter. He never gives up. That’s his trouble, but you could learn a lot from him.’
‘So, he’d make a better MP than me?’
‘Of course he would, you idiot! But the government of this country is not about having the best people in power but the right people. And the right people are our people!’
Self-pity plunged Julius into silence. He hung his head like a chastened six year old. Abel had seen this sad picture often and it never failed to upset him, paternal self-pity that he was careful not to reveal.
‘I have to get over to State House. After that there are going to be more meetings. But at eight o’clock I will be sitting down to dinner at the Muthaiga with your mother. I expect you to be in the third chair!’
Over the next six hours Julius kept out of sight of the rest of the family. He wanted to distract himself. He dressed in full leathers and took his new BMW super bike out onto a circuit of dirt roads around Karen and Langata which were almost traffic free, especially first thing in the afternoon. He reached over a hundred and fifty a dozen times and enjoyed a few hairy skids. Next it was into the paddock to practise some jumps on Sultan, his eight year old grey. Changed into his sweatsuit and trainers he was out on the roads again, pretending that he was preparing for a big fight in front of a packed house of adoring fans.
He loved the sensation of relaxed weariness, most of all as he slid down into a warm bath. The release of endorphins into his system had completed the rehabilitation. As he pulled on fresh new clothes the Rubai son and heir was in a state of euphoria. He knew once more that he was capable of anything. He wallowed in a series of happy daydreams. Julius Rubai standing in the back of a pick-up waving to the Naivasha constituents who had voted him in, the youngest MP in the house. Julius Rubai with his new bride on his arm, standing outside the west door of All Saints, Nairobi, as the cameras whirred. Julius Rubai supervising the construction of his new Karen home. Yes, he was up for the meeting with his father.
Abel was in excellent form in the Muthaiga’s crowded dining room. He revelled in the stares and glances constantly focused on his table. European Kenyans were suffering another of their periodic bouts of nail-biting and chest thumping. The death of a president could mean a huge shift in attitude of ‘old’ Africans to their position in the country. Everyone in the room recognised and knew that he was a powerful force in the running of the country. Damn it, they could be dining in the presence of the next president, out with his family for a last taste of social freedom.
‘What do I have to do to get nominated?’
Sally was arching her eyebrows again. This confident enthusiasm for one of Abel’s projects was something new in her beloved eldest child. She wasn’t completely sure about what the project was, but Abel was clearly pleased with his boy.
‘Nothing yet. Just keep out of trouble. Read the biography of the president by that overrated Englishman. Write up a few notes for speeches you might have to make.’
‘And that’s to do nothing!’
‘Have the beef. It’s from the farm.’
‘Our farm?’
‘Of course.’
‘You sold it to the club, Abel?’
‘No, my dear, a present.’
‘A whole cow?’
‘Don’t be so shocked. Look at the menu!’
Sally ran her eyes down the list of dishes and broke into peels of genteel, restrained laughter.
‘Boeuf a la Sally? Is this your idea?’
Abel shrugged boyishly.
‘Hey, beloved, you losing it?’
‘Ridiculous! It’s excitement, adrenalin! This unfortunate busi
ness has made me realise that I was beginning to feel just a little bit bored.’
‘The president is dead and you start giving cows away!’
‘Come now, girl. He was nearly eighty. He had a great life. His name will be in the history books.’
‘For our grandchildren to read about.’
‘Grandchildren, certainly! That’s right, isn’t it, Julius? Things are much brighter on the matrimonial front?’
‘Are they, Papa?’
‘If we are patient. Look, the president dies and the first day has almost passed with no riots, no demonstrations. We are over the worst. The army and the police are on full alert. TV stations are showing old newsreels. All these people in here, all the businessmen expect us to lead the way. So, you know what this means? The country is ours at last, all these years after Uhuru. A young man should think of taking a wife, planning his future.’
In conversation Abel’s voice had a gentleness that made it difficult for those at the closest tables to pick up anything but the occasional word or phrase. It was obvious to everyone that this was a contented man. He was close to achieving a lifetime ambition. He knew the shape of the next few weeks in the political life of the country. He was the only person in Kenya who knew the identity of the next president.
Not even the man who was soon to have this greatness thrust upon him had any inkling of what was soon to happen. He was from an approved tribe, bright enough, presentable but humble. He would be sensible enough to enjoy the trappings of power without yearning for the drug in its pure addictive form. Abel knew that the man would do what he was told. The former headmaster of Kakamega High School could present a speech impressively even when it was devoid of real substance. He would throw his arms about and tell the voters what they wanted to hear.
Abel was enjoying a satisfying day, one of his best. The bonus was that Julius, at last, was beginning to talk and act like the Rubai son and heir he had been planning for since the moment in Nairobi Hospital when Sally presented him with their firstborn.
Chapter Nineteen
he election was delayed, but there was a new president, albeit a temporary one that Abel, with the support of his inner circle, had chosen. They made sure that Kenyans would have enough time to watch their new president as he went through the motions of statesmanship. Joseph Oringa was at the airport to greet and say farewell to visiting heads of state. He took the salute at ceremonial parades. Once or twice he was allowed to make long speeches to the country on national television, masterpieces of cliche and meaningless jargon.
The wananchi would see and hear His Excellency Mr Oringa so much that when the country did go to the polls there would be a familiar face on posters, a father figure who would look after his flock with selfless devotion. That the former headmaster had no right in law or anything else to masquerade as the country’s leading political figure was something that troubled thoughtful and serious-minded Kenyans. Letters appeared in The Standard and The Nation, even the international press, all seeking explanations. Abel and his colleagues ignored these calls. The colourful foreign minister, John Undugi, summoned the press to his office. He lambasted the doubters, the unpatriotic weaklings, the pawns of foreign companies and governments. ‘The jackals think they can tear at the flesh of our beloved country. They do not understand that we have a man who will protect his fellow citizens. He has taken on the heavy burdens of state so that his people can sleep safely in their beds until we are ready to move forward into a new era of prosperity.’
Joseph Oringa slept very peacefully in his bed. He had unexpectedly arrived in Paradise without the inconvenience of crossing the Jordan.
No thinking person was fooled by the political nonsense. The opposition parties made the best of the situation by oiling the works of their political machinery. Paul Miller and Daniel Komar were more pleased than most for this time bonus to prepare their candidates. They were more assured that Tom McCall would run in Nakuru South, though he had not given his consent — yet!
‘Tom, Rebecca, Paul and I are up in the central rift for a couple of days. A bit of visiting. Fancy riding along with us this morning? Paul wants to check on a school in Langa Langa.’
‘Not Pembroke, I presume, Daniel!’
‘Ah, not quite.’
* * *
The headmaster was a friendly man, smart in his grey suit and black boots. He walked his visitors around, chatting all the while. He was proud of his three stone and concrete classrooms, put up the previous summer by a detachment of British Royal Engineers as part of their exercises. They had also flattened and cleared a piece of bushland and created a rough, grassless playing field where scores of children all wearing their school uniform of red pullovers were milling about happily. Mr Solomon Roy was optimistic that the other classrooms, wooden, dilapidated and unpainted, would be replaced soon by another group of British soldiers. He was not sure of the number of ‘students’ in his charge, but he did know that books were ‘a very big problem for us’.
The staffroom reminded Tom of his gap year days in Saint Patrick’s in Naivasha — dingy and badly furnished. Although the students were back in their classes, the all-male staff continued their chats and their games of cards. Even when an uproar erupted close by, the two burly men who finally decided to check on events were in no hurry to leave their colleagues. They sauntered over to a table, picked up two long, whippy sticks and ambled out. Silence was restored in seconds, soon punctuated by the sound of canes crashing down on desks, stern words barked out by adult voices and the whining screams of half a dozen boys who were clearly in pain and very frightened.
Mr Roy did not know where to look. He was embarrassed and no doubt glad when Rebecca said that she must leave and wait outside in the car. As she reached the door she turned and said quietly, ‘If I have children, please God, they never have to come to a place like this.’
They returned to the A104 across country. Daniel enjoyed wrestling with the wheel as they bumped and lurched along the stony track. The rough ride was no barrier to conversation.
‘So, were you sorry you came, Rebecca?’
She was holding Tom’s hand very tight. ‘No, Paul, not sorry, not even angry. Sadness, deep sadness. Our poor children. Such a waste. While we were in that place I did not feel even one second of hope for our country.’
‘Paul, Daniel, listen to this woman. I’m so proud of her. Here’s your Serena candidate for Nakuru South!’
‘Thomas, how can you say such a foolish thing?’
Daniel disagreed. ‘No, Rebecca, you would be a wonderful MP, but you would not win this seat just now. You are a woman, you are beautiful. The men would be afraid of you and the women would be plain envious.’
Paul added, ‘You must know that we are sad, too, but there is hope. Not all our schools are like that, but too many are.
Solomon Roy has a good heart and he has much shame that he cannot do better things for his students.’
Back on the main road there was marginally less bumping. It was a short journey to the turn to Naivasha town between the yellow fever trees and past the orange sellers. They did not slow down at the turn but sped on and took the left turn and began to climb to the Kinangop plateau.
‘Don’t worry, we’re not planning a safari up into the Aberdares. We want you to meet someone.’
‘Mr Roy’s brother, perhaps?’
‘Not a blood brother … you’ll understand soon. We’re nearly there.’
Moses Mwangi had a shamba a short distance off the road.
Moses and Rose had kept the girls home from school for the day for the meeting. The message that guests were coming had been passed on to Moses from the headmaster of the small village school who had received it from his good friend, Dominic, who’d heard it from Tony, a matatu driver who had met Daniel in Mama Ngina Street in Nairobi.
Moses was having trouble with some of his neighbours, had been since his own days in school. Mzungo had been his nickname back then and his ways still irritated the
men of the district. Moses was never seen in any of the local bars. He spent a lot of time with his girls, helping them with their work, teaching them about the countryside. He was a conservationist and he watched over his little patch of woodland with tender care. He was an evangelist for good practice on the land and protecting water resources. Worst of all, he went on painting expeditions with a group of middle-aged white women.
Moses had been threatened and beaten up. Once the police had hauled him in on some flimsy excuse. They had locked him overnight in a windowless hut. Without telling him they had given him some company, the two day old corpse of a young man who had committed the ultimate sin of stealing his neighbour’s cow and paid the ultimate price, a vigilante style garrotting by an angry mob.
All this Rebecca and Tom learned later on the way back to Naivasha.
The visitors were greeted with gentle graciousness. Two tables were set out in the shade of a tall pepper tree. A late morning feast lay waiting on the blue cloths.
Rebecca’s bad memories of the school visit evaporated when she set eyes on this group of five standing in a semicircle and smiling their welcome. Moses and Rose were a slightly built couple, the girls much sturdier, but they all had a simple poise which suggested a strong family bond and an inner calm. After the introductions Tom was the first to speak.
‘Wonderful soil you have and this garden is gorgeous. I’m interested in flowers, but I recognise hardly any of these.’
‘Rose and the girls look after this area. You will have to ask them. I spend more time with the trees.’
