by Frank Coates
‘Did you speak to the man from the Leopards, Mr Koske?’
Koske’s expression expanded into his all-knowing smirk. ‘Wasn’t I the one who arranged for him to be here?’
‘And did he ask about me?’
The pause was excruciating.
‘He remarked upon a few of the players.’
Joshua knew this was a lie as none on the pitch could match his ball control and agility, but he let Koske have his moment of control. ‘And me?’ he asked, hating himself for his pleading tone.
Koske nodded thoughtfully. ‘He said you played well.’
‘And…?’
‘And I’m to keep an eye on you. He’s relying on me to advise him when you are ready to test yourself against his boys in Limuru. Maybe even to play in a trial game.’
‘To test myself? Did he see my goal in the first half?’
‘I don’t know.’ Koske sucked at his teeth, then inserted a finger into his mouth to dislodge something stuck between them. ‘Perhaps he did.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Hmm…What did he say? Oh, yes. He said he thought you had played well, particularly since you were not properly dressed.’
‘Properly dressed?’ Joshua repeated, searching his mind for an explanation. He dropped his eyes to his shirt and shorts before it dawned. In his haste, he’d forgotten to put on his new boots.
Mayasa had found some free time after work and headed to the football ground where Joshua and his team-mates were playing. This time she searched for Joshua’s sandals and found them under one of the benches. She guessed they were his as he was on the pitch playing in football boots.
He cut an athletic figure, darting through the packs, sprinting down a wing with the ball almost on a string. His team distinguished itself by playing without shirts. She admired the long lean muscles on his back and thighs, shining with sweat.
At the end of the game she remained guarding his footwear as he had a conversation with a man on the sidelines. He seemed pleased as he headed her way.
‘You are a good askari,’ Joshua said. ‘I hope you’re not looking for bribe money?’
‘Why not?’ she said, smiling in return. ‘This is the second time I have guarded your precious sandals, and look! They’re still here.’
‘More than that. You don’t know it, but you’ve also been guarding something worth even more than my sandals,’ he said with a conspiratorial grin. ‘Look!’
He reached under the bench and from a hidden ledge produced a shiny black mobile phone.
‘It’s the latest-model Motorola!’ she said.
‘It is.’
‘But you can’t get them on a pre-paid plan. How did you pay for it?’
Having asked, she immediately regretted it. It was none of her business if he’d stolen it, in which case she didn’t want to know.
‘Mr Koske gave it to me,’ he said as he pushed buttons on the new phone. ‘See? I can get the internet on it…somehow. I’ll have to ask someone, but I have it.’
‘Koske? Gideon Koske?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘No…but I’ve heard of him. Isn’t he, like…a thug?’
‘He’s a businessman,’ he said. ‘And one of us—a Raila supporter.’ He peered at her intensely. ‘You are a Raila supporter, aren’t you?’
‘Um…yes. I suppose so.’
‘Good.’
‘But I’ve heard Koske has people going around taking money.’
‘He’s a businessman. Of course he takes money.’
She was about to add that her father said that Gideon Koske took money for keeping people’s houses safe when it was he who made them unsafe in the first place. But she didn’t want to argue. Joshua was not listening anyway, engrossed by his new mobile phone.
‘Listen! Here’s the new one from Beyonce.’
‘How did you get that?’
‘My friend showed me. I can get any new song I want.’
Mayasa watched as he pushed buttons and ran through an impressive list of features, but she remained troubled by his involvement with Gideon Koske. It wasn’t only her father who thought him a thug. She’d heard others say the same thing.
‘What did you have to do for Koske to get this new phone?’ she asked.
Joshua pushed a few more buttons before answering. ‘Is there something wrong about earning money?’ he asked aggressively. ‘Don’t you earn money at Adams Arcade?’
She was taken aback, but managed to respond, ‘Yes, of course.’ She was about to leave it, but decided she had to say what was on her mind. ‘But I don’t earn it by threatening poor people.’
‘He sells plots in Kibera. There’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘He sells plots he doesn’t own. He pushes people to pay him money to avoid getting beaten by his thugs. But you must already know all this, Joshua. Anybody who lives in Kibera knows it.’
Joshua’s expression darkened. ‘Yes, I live in Kibera. And so do you. But you’ve got a job and maybe your father has a job too, so he doesn’t have to go looking, looking every day, and pay a hundred shillings to the gate askari even to ask for a job. And another hundred bob to his foreman if he gets work. So he can carry cement bags all day and then take home a hundred if he’s lucky. And me. Look at me, selling newspapers and silly toys on Uhuru Highway. What does that buy me? A can of Coke and a Wimpy. Not now. Now I have money.’
‘I know all that. Do you think I don’t know about these things? My father…’ She abruptly changed tack. ‘I work, and we get help from my sister’s husband, but still we have nothing.’
‘Then don’t tell me how I should get my money. You and your fancy Kiswahili. Don’t tell me who I should know and what I should do. I do what I must.’
Mayasa’s inclination was to fight back, but she liked Joshua and knew she was pushing him too hard. ‘All I’m saying is, you should be careful around Koske. My father says he’s a dangerous man.’
‘Your father! Who cares about your father? In Kianda you have more than anyone in Kisumu Ndogo. What does your father know about my life? He’s like my father—all the time telling me what to do. And questions, questions. All the time: what are you doing? Who are you speaking to? That’s why I left home. Now you are sounding just like him. It makes me mad!’
He snatched up his sandals and stormed off.
Mayasa watched him go, wondering why he thought he was the only person suffering in Kibera.
Kazlana gunned the red Audi R8, fishtailing it out of the Wilson Airport car park. At the busy Langata Road intersection she dashed through a gap between a truck and a bus, earning a blast from both. She laughed. Then she planted her foot, overtaking everything before she hit the lunchtime traffic jam at Nyayo Stadium and was forced to a crawl along Uhuru Highway.
Her flight to Mombasa had been enjoyable, as flights always were for her, but a waste of time. The odd little administrator of the Circularians, Horácio Domingues, had revealed nothing of interest. The one curious fact she had learnt was that the Circularians didn’t have an established meeting place but did their charity work within the local community. In particular, they provided support for local orphans until they found homes for them.
She’d also found out that her father had flown a number of missions to Nakuru for the Circularians, but never to Wajir. She’d hoped to find a link between her father’s death and the mysterious disappearance of the orphanage children, but it had been just another failed hunch.
Driving was so different to the freedom she enjoyed while flying. That morning on her return to Nairobi, and on a whim, she’d changed course and flown over the blue gem of Lake Chala with the great hump of the sleeping elephant, Kilimanjaro, blocking her path. She’d tested the Cessna, climbing the eastern flank at tree-top height until the engine screamed in protest, then circumnavigated the glacial peak three times in memory of her father, who’d introduced her to flying. The glaciers had shrunk from the days she had flown over them with her father, but were
nevertheless brilliant, reflecting the sun in long, dancing rays.
She could still recall the ecstasy of that first moment, at age eight, when she’d realised that she had control of the aircraft. She had made it tilt and dip, veer and climb, and felt a blast of power that sent a fire rushing through her veins. It was as though in defying the universal force of gravity, she had accumulated enormous reservoirs of energy that had to be dissipated before she could unwind. As a child she was unmanageable for hours after landing. Her father said it was the pure essence of freedom that flying gifted to some individuals. Whatever it was, the sensation had endured, and Kazlana came to realise in later years that it was closely associated with sexual arousal. She could be a ruthless and demanding lover following a flight. On the rare occasions when she had a man in her life, she would not let him rest until the pent-up sexual energy was spent. Not many men could handle her under those circumstances. Consequently, her relationships were short-lived.
At the next roundabout she veered off the highway, taking the narrow road above the Railways Golf Club. She cursed when she came upon an overloaded matatu lumbering up the hill. The washouts along the edges of the winding road made passing difficult, but she dropped the Audi into first, sending the rev counter into the red with the motor screaming. An oncoming sedan swung out of her way and into the ditch. The matatu driver trumpeted his anger or delight—it was hard to know with matatu drivers.
She hung an illegal right turn into Valley Road and a left down Nyerere, where she drove on the wrong side of the double lines until she reached the university roundabout, and headed for the market.
The Nairobi City Market in Muindi Mbingu Street reeked with the sickly sweet odour of decaying produce. Men wearing long colourful kanzus or plain white dhotis bustled down the crowded aisles carrying heavy shopping bags or sacks of vegetables. There were many sari-adorned Indian women with gold-studded nostrils, Swahili women in floral kangas, and others with eyes darting within black purdahs. Among the traditionally garbed women, chic office workers hurried to buy ingredients for the evening meal.
The stall-owners hollered prices, implored shoppers to stop, to try, to buy their produce. Boys scurried between the stalls and car park, carrying cardboard boxes for the tips. Beggars in tattered rags chose more direct methods, thrusting their grubby hands at well-dressed shoppers but seldom receiving more than a harsh word.
Kazlana, immaculately dressed in blue suit pants and a white cotton top, was not shopping. She was looking for Ahmed, one of the small band who sold information rather than goods. Ahmed’s specialty was simple observation. He would follow a client’s target and report on their movements. It paid to know who was doing what to whom in the shady world in which Kazlana operated.
She found him at his ‘office’—beside a dumpster at the rear of the market.
‘Habari, mama,’ he greeted her.
‘Mzuri. Habari yako?’
‘I’m very fine,’ he answered. ‘I have what you want. You ask me to know about this fellow Koske. There are many here who know this man. He has many friends also, but not in this place.’ He inclined his head to indicate the market. ‘Many friends in suits. They stay in KICC building, but not interesting to you, I think. But one man, I know him. This one you maybe find interesting. I know him from the streets.’ His eyes flitted about like a nervous cat. ‘He is bad. Dangerous bad.’
‘What has he been doing that is of interest to me?’ she asked.
‘I see him one day come to old Bank India building. He stays at his car, waiting, waiting. Then he watches this mzungu man, sometimes he has mzungu lady too. He follow them. Where, I do not know. I cannot follow. But one time I see them go up Valley Road.’ He shrugged. ‘That is all I can see.’
Kazlana would not have normally been interested in some thug stalking a rich tourist, but Ahmed’s reference to the old Bank of India building piqued her interest. The building was now the National Archives and she knew Mark Riley was often there.
‘What did these wazungu look like?’
‘Mzungu man. Tall. Wearing blue jeans, not suit. Beard like mbega monkey.’
Kazlana couldn’t help but smile. Ahmed’s likening of the colobus monkey’s short black chin-hair to the three-day growth that Riley wore was quite astute.
‘And the lady?’
‘Pretty like you. Same height,’ he answered. ‘You know them?’
Kazlana nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘Tsk tsk,’ he said, shaking his head and sucking his teeth. ‘You maybe tell them watch out. This bad one he follow them. Kill many people already.’
Sitting in the midday traffic jam, with six lines of vehicles attempting to cram into three lanes, Riley had time to reflect on Kazlana’s phone call. The message was simple enough: they needed to talk, she said. But it was the way she said it, in her lilting, accented voice, that made it so irresistible.
Arriving at her office building twenty minutes later, he strode past the security desk to the elevators, his sneakers squeaking on the highly polished vinyl floor tiles. As he watched the indicator climb slowly to ten, he recalled their recent meeting. He’d felt vaguely aware of her interest in him then, but had been frequently wrong on such matters in the past. It was a long time since he’d been with a woman and he was out of practice. Nevertheless, a woman like Kazlana had all the hallmarks of trouble.
She received him in her office and went immediately to the matter she wanted to discuss with him. ‘We’re in the same line of business, you and I.’
‘We are?’ he said, watching her arrange herself gracefully in the chair next to his at the low coffee table.
‘You are researching a newspaper article, and I am researching a crime.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s another thing we have in common,’ she said, following her thoughts. ‘Our searches are leading us to the same person.’
‘Now I’m definitely confused. I’m looking for a child in an orphanage.’
‘I know what you’re doing, Mark. I also know something about the person who runs that orphanage—Gideon Koske. I have my suspicions about him, and you need to be aware of the risks if you go further with your investigation of the orphanage.’
He was about to speak, but she put her finger on his lips. ‘It’s not important for you to know how I know about him. It is the nature of my business to know such things. Our company has often operated on the edge of the law. Many times my father crossed that boundary and, as a consequence, became involved with crooked characters. I don’t know the reason he flew to Wajir, but when I find the answer to that question I will have found the reason for his death—and the person who killed him. I’m suspicious that he died because of his involvement with Koske’s orphanage, but I can’t be sure at present.’
She was silent for a moment before continuing. ‘Koske is watching you, Mark. I’m not sure why, but I imagine he suspects you are getting too close to finding out something about his orphanage. Something he does not want known.’
Mark shook his head. ‘It’s too bad if he’s upset. I’ve decided to write an article on dodgy operations like the Circularian orphanage. If I can get a tie-in with the UNICEF hearing, all the better. By the way, I was wondering if you might be able to get me a press pass into the hearings?’
‘Okay, I’ll help you get your pass,’ she said. ‘Maybe we’ll be able to help each other. But remember what I said about Koske. I’ve heard that the man he’s hired to keep a watch on you has a reputation for violence, possibly even murder.’
CHAPTER 13
In the silence of the reading room of the National Archives, Riley tried to concentrate on his research papers, without much success. The conversation he’d had with Kazlana in her office worried him in spite of his bravado.
He’d been surprised to learn that she’d gone to Mombasa to check on her father’s files there and to speak to Domingues. She’d said she’d found nothing to connect the Circularians to her father’s death. Riley thou
ght it odd that she’d even considered it a possibility.
He found Charlotte and suggested they take a lunch break.
‘How’s the research going?’ he asked once they were seated with their food.
‘At this early stage, I’m pleased,’ she said. ‘Luo oral history is so rich. Even today, their customs have a great effect on their political and social lives. For instance, many Luos won’t join the military or the police. They fear that if they kill someone and are unable to be cleansed within the required time, they’ll be damned for life.’
‘Even in self-defence?’
‘Not necessarily. The Luos were very aggressive and successful warriors—there was no dishonour in defending someone or something personal. But a wanton attack causing death is an abomination. The killer can’t return to his home until he’s been cleansed. If he does, the curse of the dead will be on him and his whole family for generations.’
‘What does this cleansing consist of?’ Mark asked, glad to be distracted from his own concerns.
‘A medicine man can provide an antidote—a manyasi—but it doesn’t work unless the person admits he was at fault.’
‘Something like a Catholic’s confessional?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And this is what you want to study while we’re up country?’
‘Yes, but I really need someone who’s familiar with the Luo people—a guide. Preferably a Luo with connections in the Luo homeland around Kisumu.’
Riley nodded, but he had returned to thinking about his conversation with Kazlana, which had been playing on his mind.
He knew nothing about Koske, nor the power he could wield should he seriously want to prevent Riley from carrying out his research into the Circularian orphanage.
He found it hard to gauge what credence he could put in Kazlana’s opinion that he was in danger as she was obviously convinced her father’s death was no accident and possibly obsessed with finding those responsible. The situation could have affected her judgement but, unlike him, she was familiar with the shadier side of business dealings in the country.
