‘I think we just might come to an understanding,’ Jamal added. He opened the briefcase that the giant had left behind and handed me a hefty folder. ‘My gift to you, Detective Ishmael. All you need to know.’
I opened it and quickly glanced at the papers – it contained letters, documents from the Refugee Centre and a logbook with hundreds of names in it.
I looked up at him, alarmed. ‘Did you kill Samuel?’ I asked him.
‘No, I had gone to retrieve these documents. You gentlemen interrupted me.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I needed a moment to think. As you might be aware, things around here are changing very fast,’ he explained. ‘And you, I had to decide what to do about you now that Samuel was gone. Surely that was understandable.’ He said it like it was something I ought to have figured out for myself.
‘So what do you get in the end?’ I asked.
‘I want to be the last man standing. Consciences will continue to bleed money and it is time we did some good with it. I am rich. It is time for phase two: legacy building. But have no illusions, Detective Ishmael, I will put you down if needs be.’
‘And the Foundation? You want a piece of it?’
‘The Refugee Centre is the foundation of the Foundation,’ he laughed at his own joke. ‘Whoever controls the Centre controls the suffering, and whoever controls the suffering controls the guilt … See what I am getting at?’
‘This shit, I have to tell you that this shit is way above my pay grade,’ I told him. ‘I just want to find out who killed the girl.’
He laughed again and then, with a smile, he stretched out his hand and we shook as if we were concluding a big deal.
‘Some might think you a simple man, but I think you are a man of singular determination,’ he said. ‘Like a bulldog, as you Americans say. It’s a shame I couldn’t help you with that, but every little thing counts.’
‘Tell me, Jamal, did you kill Samuel?’ I asked him again, looking him straight in the face.
‘And make it look like a suicide?’ He paused. ‘No. I liked Samuel … as much as one can like a fellow criminal.’
‘So why did he commit suicide?’
‘This is not easy work that we do, Detective Ishmael. If you are not careful it catches up to you. We all come to this work from somewhere. And we live in some very dark places. I am sorry I cannot be of more help than that,’ he said apologetically, turning to leave.
I watched as Jamal made his way towards the door. Before he stepped outside he opened the briefcase and placed it gently on the floor, then he was gone.
As soon as I was able to stand I walked over to the briefcase. Inside I found my weapon, fully loaded, and my wallet, badge, cell and car keys. Opening the door I realised that I was in the middle of a meat market – which explained the smell. There were rows and rows of meat stalls interrupted only by small bars. For Kenyans, this was nyama choma heaven. I picked a stall randomly and used their phone to call O and tell him where I was and what had happened.
After I had finished filling O in – and told him where I had left the Land Rover – I ordered two kilos of nyama choma and two Tuskers – one for myself and one for O when he arrived. Then, with trembling hands, I opened the folder, sipped my Tusker and started going through the documents.
How much can a guilty conscience be worth? Millions, it would seem. The logbook was a record of donations coming in and money going out. There was money coming in from all sorts of organisations – the United Nations, The World Bank – and from all sorts of governments as well, from Britain to Syria. The Ford, Rockefeller, and Bill and Melinda Gates Foundations had also given money, along with Hollywood types and sports stars. Anybody and everybody with money was in the game. This was the world trying to clear its conscience, and to do that it was prepared to pay close to seventy million dollars a year.
I turned to the recipients’ page and it became clearer how the whole thing worked. Let’s say Shell has ten million dollars due in taxes. Under normal circumstances Shell could give that money to charily – thus not paying the tax and at the same time creating publicity and goodwill for itself. But what was happening was that Shell would give the ten million to the Never Again Foundation, which in turn kicked six million back to the Shell board, keeping four million for itself. The six million went into the private accounts of the board and the four million to Samuel Alexander and his subordinates. It was such a neat cycle, that each year generated so many millions for CEOs and wealthy philanthropists, that it might as well have been legal. The rich had found a way of giving back to themselves.
And the money from the non-corrupt, from those who gave because they wanted to educate a child orphaned by the genocide, these little donations also amounted to millions – and the money generated was not going to the refugees. On paper, this money was buying cars and houses for the Refugee Centre, but it was surely going into buying favours, keeping politicians silent and into private bank accounts. There was no way any of this money was making it to the refugees I had seen in Mathare.
There were some African names on the payroll that didn’t make sense to me, so I turned to the letters and e-mails as I waited for O. They were from all over the world. To clean up the millions the Never Again Foundation and the Refugee Centre had to have little offices wherever there were Rwandan refugees to be found. And in some of those places their representatives had made deals that for whatever reason had gone bad. Some of the e-mails were from these representatives, demanding money and threatening to go public if it wasn’t forthcoming. There were also e-mails from several CEOs, asking for their cut. These were politely written but the threat behind them was unmistakable – one ended with the line, ‘hospitality begets hospitality’. There was also one cold e-mail from Joshua to Samuel reminding him there was honour amongst thieves and that ‘the five hundred thousand’ was long overdue. Had Samuel Alexander been scheming the other schemers?
Whatever was going on, one thing was clear, the Refugee Centre and the Never Again Foundation had spread themselves too thin. Collapse was almost inevitable. Was this why Samuel had committed suicide and left an apology for Joshua? Was Jamal hoping that with Samuel now dead and Joshua exposed, and in a US jail, he could resuscitate the Refugee Centre and use it for his own ends? And what did any of this have to do with the white girl? Had she simply stumbled onto something she shouldn’t have?
‘I have been looking all over for you, and you have been eating nyama choma?’ O asked incredulously, pulling up a chair and grabbing a Tusker off the counter.
I showed him the bump on the back of my head and filled him in on the fine details I hadn’t told him over the phone – including our visit to Janet and the real identity of Samuel’s man Friday.
‘Shit, I knew something wasn’t quite right with that old man, he couldn’t hide his dignity,’ O said, trying to justify his misjudgement.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I told him, pushing the logbook across the bar towards him. ‘This is more important … Take a look at this.’
‘What you have here is our death sentence,’ O said as he looked at the names on the recipients’ page. ‘This is our Minister for Internal Security, this is a Member of Parliament …’ And he went on as he scrolled down the list of names.
‘That means we have to move fast,’ I said.
‘What do you suggest?’ O asked.
It was time to blow this whole thing open. My logic was very simple: it doesn’t matter how good you are, stay in a gunfight long enough and eventually you will get shot. We couldn’t keep outrunning death. We had to give those involved something else to think about.
‘We have to hit them where it hurts the most,’ I told O, trying to feel hopeful. ‘We go after their reputations. If we can get the story out there it will get us some protection.’
We left for O’s office where I called the Chief, explained the situation, and faxed the papers to him.
‘Oh, boy, don’t I miss black-on-b
lack crime,’ the Chief said when he rang back twenty minutes later. ‘Listen, Ishmael, if this is what takes us down, then so be it. But you have to make it count. I am with you, but all you have here are some documents from some shady African crime figure. We are up against power itself … you understand me?’ He paused. ‘We need to tie all this shit to the white girl. You want to bring these guys down? Connect them to the white girl … she has one angry ghost.’
I understood what he meant – the rage surrounding her death was such that anyone involved in it was going to go down no matter how powerful they were. The Never Again Foundation and Refugee Centre would tumble down once the face of their victim was the white girl’s. Were we manipulating race? The calculation was simple: one million lives did not move the world, African countries included, to intervene, but the death of one beautiful blonde girl would. We did not create that equation – we found it as it was. And we would use it to get justice.
‘And, Ishmael?’
‘Yes, Chief?’
‘You need to get your black ass home. Shit here has hit the fan and it’s spilling all over me,’ he said and hung up.
At least I had his backing. Maybe he had finally tired of playing politics and wanted to do something real for a change.
With the Chief on board I called Mo and faxed the papers to her. I waited for about ten minutes then called her again. ‘Did you get your Pulitzer material?’ I asked her, trying to keep things light.
‘Yeah … Two days, gimme two days,’ she said, sounding serious. ‘I need at least two to put this shit together. I wanna look into the Never Again Foundation, they stink bad.’
‘Call the Chief if you need anything,’ I told her. ‘Tell him I sent you.’
‘Sure thing …’ She paused. ‘And, babe, get out of this alive, you hear?’ she added.
We had two days to survive. Once the story was out, we would be safer. But by the same token everyone would be scared to talk to us. So we also had two days in which to make something happen. It was nine pm. We sat around the office talking about the case, trying to figure out what to do next.
‘I keep going back to Madeline. Look, man, she knew Samuel Alexander and she knows Joshua. She is the connection, she has to know something,’ O finally said.
‘I spoke with her last night … nothing …’
‘You mean you questioned her?’ O asked sceptically. ‘Was that before or afterwards?’
I gave him an angry glare, but deep down I knew he was right.
‘Brother, you are getting everything mixed up. That is all I am saying,’ O said. ‘Maybe she’s not hiding something, maybe she is. Maybe she doesn’t know she has something we can use. Use your head, man. We have to talk to her.’
We got to Madeline’s at about ten thirty. She was in her pyjamas, getting ready for bed, and was not very happy to see us, especially after we explained why we were there.
‘Listen, Madeline, I am not saying you are hiding anything,’ O tried to explain, ‘but you are the only person we know who knew both Joshua and Samuel.’
‘Your friend is a fucking asshole,’ Muddy said, turning to me. ‘For one, I did not know Joshua that well …’
‘I am not saying you were fucking him,’ O said defensively.
‘He’s right, Muddy,’ I added, ‘we’re not saying you’re mixed up in anything, but you might know something without even …’
‘Like what?’ she snapped at me.
‘We spent a whole day in Mathare trying to find someone who might have known Joshua, but no one would tell us anything. They wouldn’t even admit that they knew about the Refugee Centre. Why is that?’ I asked, sounding every bit the cop.
She put her hands over her face. ‘I don’t know … Maybe someone had threatened them?’
‘What about the Never Again Foundation?’ I asked.
‘What about it? The Refugee Centre is the left hand, the Foundation is the right.’
‘What about Joshua and women?’ I asked.
‘He used to specialise in girls from his school,’ she said bitterly, ‘but these days … I have no idea.’
O opened the briefcase and handed her the letters and logbook. She looked at him in surprise, then began to leaf through the letters, whistling every now and then in surprise at what she was reading. Finally, she put them aside and started working her way through the logbook. But with each flip of the page my disappointment grew – it was clear that Muddy really did not know anything that could help us. I went and stood by the kitchen window, trying to think of where else we could look.
‘Kokomat, look … Kokomat is listed,’ Muddy suddenly yelled in excitement.
I rushed back to the dining room. She was pointing at an entry: Kokomat Supermarket. They had received one million dollars from the Never Again Foundation.
‘So?’ O asked. ‘That is just one of many Kenyan companies listed.’
‘And you are supposed to be the fucking detectives …’
Muddy rolled her eyes at us. ‘Kokomat is one of the biggest supermarket chains in Nairobi! They should be giving money to the Foundation, not getting it from them.’
We still looked puzzled.
‘And it is owned by a Rwandan women’s cooperative,’ Muddy explained. ‘They are being paid to keep quiet about something.’
This was something! Muddy stood up and I kissed her hard. Would she come with us to Kokomat to help us find out where the women lived? O asked. She agreed and went to put on a light sweater. Then, together, we hopped into the Land Rover and drove off.
The massive gates of the main Kokomat offices were closed, which wasn’t a surprise considering the time of night. Undeterred, Muddy climbed out of the Land Rover and approached the security guard. She chatted with him for a few seconds before reaching into her back pocket for some money and what was clearly a joint. Minutes later she was back with the directions – the owners lived in Muthaiga. Of course they lived in Muthaiga, I thought, the estate was a cesspool of wealth.
It was close to midnight but we couldn’t wait till morning and twenty minutes later we were in Muthaiga, O showing his badge at gate after gate until we were finally outside the address we had been given. Muddy said it was better if she went in alone and with reluctance we agreed. She was an insider, no matter how much of an outsider she seemed.
A middle-aged woman opened the front door and she and Muddy spoke animatedly for about ten minutes, then she looked back at us before walking into the house. We sat outside for another half an hour, then, just as I was about to go looking for Muddy, chauffeur-driven black Benzes started pulling up. We counted five in all, and out of each popped a middle-aged woman dressed in long, flowing African clothes. They must live in Muthaiga as well, I thought as I watched Muddy and the owner of the house welcome the arrivals.
‘What the hell is going on?’ O asked.
‘This is your country, you tell me,’ I replied, just as intrigued as he was.
‘My country, yes, but here we are both foreigners,’ he scoffed.
After another half an hour or so the front door opened again and the owner of the house called us inside. She led us to the sitting room where we found the five women and Muddy – out of place with her jeans and dreadlocks. The owner of the house introduced herself. Her name was Mary Karuhimbi from Rwanda and she was the Managing Director of Kokomat (the five women were the top-ranking executives at the supermarket). Mary Karuhimbi then went on to give us the names of her parents and grandparents and her clan name. Everyone followed suit, even O. When it was my turn, I named my parents and grandparents but apologised for not having a clan name. Ms Karuhimbi waved away my apology. ‘No need for sorry,’ she said, ‘sometime brothers and sisters have different mothers and fathers.’
Then Mary Karuhimbi called Muddy over so that she could translate for her. I felt the butterflies in my stomach. Finally we were onto something. This was it.
‘My daughter, yes, I can call her my daughter, says that you risked your lives to save a young
girl in Mathare,’ Muddy translated. ‘We thank you for that because she is one of our own. We owe you a debt. We will repay you tonight with the truth.
‘She also says that that Joshua Hakizimana might have taken the life of a young white woman. And that you, our long-lost son, seek justice for her. We also thank you for that. It does not matter whether it is one of our own, or one of theirs, a young life anywhere is an important life because it is the future. We claim her death as the death of one of our own.
‘Investigators Ishmael and Odhiambo, we have spoken amongst ourselves … Harsh words were exchanged between us, but we have decided that even if it was Jesus who had committed such a crime we would have to speak out.’
O and I looked at each other, unsure of protocol. Should we thank them? But before either of us could muster the courage to say anything she had ploughed on, Muddy trailing in her wake as she struggled to translate quickly enough for O and me.
‘You want to know about Joshua the hero?’ Mary Karuhimbi spat on the immaculate tiled floor. ‘That is Joshua, your hero,’ she said angrily, pointing at her spit.
I hadn’t been expecting her to say nice things about Joshua, but outright hatred? I was surprised.
‘We are all from the same village. Survivors … But sometimes I am so numb that I do not know if I am still alive,’ Muddy continued as Mary Karuhimbi began speaking again. ‘Is there redemption in such suffering as ours? Can hell be any worse? Ah, can even heaven make all this worthwhile?’
Not knowing what to say O and I just nodded for her to continue.
‘When we first heard whispers that there was a headmaster who had turned his school into a sanctuary we were filled with hope. The violence was like a flood, and when it reached the outskirts of our village we resolved to search for higher ground. Having heard of Joshua Hakizimana’s school we naturally resolved to go there. There were about two hundred of us, and since we could not all go at once, blindly, we first sent my son to find a way to the school, talk to the headmaster and tell him that we needed his help. My son was gone for three days, but he returned with exactly what we had hoped for: the permission of the headmaster and a map that we were to follow.
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