by Frank Coates
He approached the information desk with trepidation. ‘Mayasa Shaban,’ he told the nurse when she asked who he wanted to see.
‘None by that name,’ she said, and looked beyond him to the queue. ‘Next!’
‘Are you sure?’
She glanced at him. ‘None by that name,’ she repeated impatiently.
When he remained where he stood, refusing to move, she added, ‘The unidentified patients are in Ward 6C. Next!’
The stench hit him as he came from the stairwell onto the sixth floor. The injured lay among the dead and dying, many on wheeled litters crowding the corridors. He could go no further as he fought his rising panic. Every molecule in his body shrieked at him to flee.
A male nurse, a fellow Luo, asked him why he was there.
‘I am looking for my girlfriend,’ he said. ‘They have no record of her coming to the hospital, and they thought…’
‘Those we have here have no ID and are too injured to speak,’ the nurse replied. ‘You can come with me while I do my rounds. If you’re lucky you might see her. Or maybe it would be luckier if you don’t.’
Joshua followed the young man as he attended to the worst of the injured. He explained that most of the injuries were caused by blunt instruments such as clubs and hammers; others were slash wounds, generally caused by machetes or pangas.
‘Many of our fellow Luos are attending with slash wounds to the penis and genitals,’ he said.
Joshua stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘Forced circumcisions. Some of the worst cases have been emasculated.’
Joshua put the thought from his mind. He was already having difficulty concentrating on the faces he passed, hoping and dreading he would find Mayasa. The injuries he saw made him physically ill. Many of the victims were damaged beyond being recognisably human. How anyone could survive such physical abuse was unimaginable. Twice he had to fight the gorge that came to his throat in a rush. On a third occasion, at the bedside of a young girl so mutilated by burns that the skin hung from her limbs in sagging sheets, he was unable to contain it and threw up.
At the end of the round he was exhausted. The nurse agreed that Kenyatta National Hospital was the most likely medical facility for Mayasa to be at, and since she was not among the admitted patients nor those in a coma or otherwise incapable of identifying themselves, he tactfully suggested Joshua try the next most likely place to find her.
Joshua thanked the young nurse and walked from the ward on rubbery legs.
He had to believe Mayasa was alive, because he knew it was beyond his capacity to visit the City Mortuary.
Joshua heard the door bolt slide and a moment later Kwazi’s face was in the doorway.
‘You are looking even uglier than me,’ Kwazi said as he caught sight of Joshua’s drawn features.
‘You got my text?’ Joshua asked.
Kwazi had a mobile phone, but seldom used it or admitted to it when he did.
‘I did. Are you mad to come out when the day is full of smoke and crazy people?’
‘Mayasa was at her sister’s house and she was supposed to meet me at Toi Market, but I couldn’t find her.’
‘And now your friends have burnt the market,’ Kwazi said with disgust.
Joshua didn’t reply.
‘What makes you think she was at Toi?’
Joshua related their mobile phone arrangements.
‘Then if she was not there, she must be safe. Did you call her?’
‘Yes, many times. No answer.’
‘Probably no credit. Did you go to her sister’s house?’
‘No. Her father called the sister and she’s not there. I’m worried.’
‘She must be on her way. She will come home when this madness ends.’
‘It won’t end until Raila is declared president. Did you hear that he has been arrested?’
‘How did you hear that?’
‘The texts. Everybody’s talking about it. We will not allow it,’ Joshua said.
‘Rumours. Always rumours. There’s nothing on the radio.’
‘We’re planning more for tonight. You’ll see. We won’t rest until he is declared the winner.’
‘And more burning. How are we going to eat without the market? And the police are letting no one past Kibera Road. You and your friends are making big trouble for all of us.’
‘Someone has to fight.’
‘Don’t you understand? While you and your mad friends are fighting, many others are dying.’
‘In all Luo history, people have died. People die when they fight for what is right or for what is theirs.’
Kwazi’s eyes blazed. ‘Why have you come here?’
Joshua was ready for another attack, but Kwazi’s question brought him abruptly back to his immediate problem. Nobody knew Kibera like Kwazi, and nobody had as many contacts within its serpentine streets and alleys.
‘I can’t find Mayasa alone,’ he said as his shoulders dropped and the anger drained from him. ‘Kwazi. Help me.’
Joshua returned home in long shadows, the sun red on his back. The air was still and smoke clung tenaciously to the jumbled line of rooftops that marked the western boundary of Kisumu Ndogo.
When he entered the house, his father seemed surprised to see him.
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked Joshua.
‘No.’
‘I have irio and sukumaweeki,’ Simon said.
He turned on the gas bottle and put a light under the pots. Neither spoke until Simon dished out the cornflour mash and greens.
‘Thank you,’ Joshua said.
‘There’s more if you want.’
‘No. It is enough.’
‘Are you not well, my son?’
Joshua didn’t feel well at all. At the hospital he’d seen sights that he knew would haunt him for a long time.
‘I’m well enough,’ he answered, unsure how much to share with his father.
It was only during his long walk home that he’d been able to identify the reason for the numbness he felt, and the need to share the pain. The trauma at the hospital had been bad enough, but the sickness came from the realisation that he had to take some responsibility for causing such a disaster.
He wanted to see a new order in Kenya that gave people opportunities to share in the wealth of the country rather than having it purloined and distributed among the few in positions of power. He truly believed that Raila Odinga was the man to deliver that. Now, even if Odinga did get into State House, the price had been too high. Many innocents had been killed, injured or had lost homes and properties. The fight to win Odinga his stolen presidency had sown hatred in the community. The cause for which Joshua had fought so hard was irretrievably lost.
He could now see that people like Koske had used people like him to grab even more for themselves. And if, as a consequence of his involvement with Koske, he had put Mayasa at risk, it would be a stone that would bear down on him for the rest of his life. The burden seemed too onerous to shoulder alone, and, although he’d often had difficulties understanding his father, he needed to share it.
He had to start by explaining his relationship with Mayasa. Simon listened sympathetically.
‘I’m worried about her,’ Joshua said. ‘She hasn’t called and she’s not at her sister’s house. I don’t know where she is.’
‘It’s the gangs and the looting,’ Simon said. ‘It’s the young men like you who are causing all this trouble! The police have gone crazy because of you.’ As he spoke, his anger increased. ‘You and your hooligans, running around, burning people’s houses. Looting. Raping.’
‘I don’t do those things! I am not one of them.’
‘You are a supporter. What is the difference?’
‘Those people are not with us. We are supporters, yes. But our fight is with the government. We have no need to fight our own people.’
‘Who do you mean when you say “our own people”? Are the Kikuyu your people?’
‘Of course not. I�
��m speaking about our Luo people.’
‘There! That’s why there’s trouble. Don’t you see? We have nothing and yet we steal from each other. We loot and burn each other’s houses. It must stop.’
‘It can’t stop. What about 2002?’
‘What is different between 2002 and today? You say it is wrong to fight our own people now, but it was the same only five years ago.’
‘No. The Kikuyus did terrible things in 2002.’
Simon took his seat at the table beside his son. ‘What terrible things are you speaking of, Joshua?’
‘The fire that killed my mother and my sisters, of course. How can you forget?’
‘I don’t forget. I live with that memory every day of my life. But you don’t understand—’
‘What don’t I understand?’ Joshua demanded.
‘That night…the night you came home from football…the night of the fires. They were everywhere. Flames to reach the sky. Haki ya mungu. And Joshua…I saw the men who started the fires. I saw them.’
‘You saw them? You were already there when I arrived. You told me you didn’t see anyone. That they were gone before you came to find the house on fire.’
‘No. I saw them running away.’
‘Then why were you standing there? Why didn’t you chase them?’
‘I didn’t chase them, no. Instead, I tried to get into the house—’
‘You didn’t chase them! What kind of man are you? My mother, my sisters—burnt to death by those Kikuyu cockroaches. And you didn’t want to chase them.’
‘Joshua. Stop.’ Simon held up his hand. ‘Listen to me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The looters were not Kikuyu.’
Joshua stared at his father. ‘What are you saying? Of course they were Kikuyu. You have always said they were Kikuyu. Who else would burn down a Luo house?’
‘Did I ever say they were Kikuyu? No. But I let you think what you would, because it was easier to let you, a young boy, believe they were the enemy.’
‘Then if it wasn’t the Kikuyu, who burnt our house?’ Joshua demanded.
The tension in his father’s face fell away. He suddenly aged in the dim light of the naked globe.
‘We thought we were safe in Kisumu Ndogo,’ he said. ‘Your mother was a Kikuyu, but everyone in Kisumu Ndogo knew she was my wife and they respected that. But these Luo boys came from outside Kisumu Ndogo. They were headed to Laini Saba to loot the Kikuyu dukas. They saw your mother. They chased her. She ran into the house. They locked her and the girls in.’
Joshua’s heart thumped in his chest. He didn’t want to voice the terrible words that flew into his head. ‘Are you saying…?’
‘I didn’t chase them. There was no need. The Luo boys came forward days later when they realised their terrible mistake.’
Joshua thought of a dozen questions. Who were these Luos? What were their names? Why did they do it? Where are they now? But he realised nothing—no information, no punishment, no answer—would change the terrible facts. He only had one question for his father.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘The Luo were your champions. I couldn’t make your sadness worse by telling you the truth. We don’t have much in Kibera and I could see how important it was for you to believe there was a Luo homeland where everything was perfect. You even imagined your home was in the Serengeti, which to you was the perfect place for your perfect homeland. I wish I had been a part of your dream. I foolishly fought against it instead of joining you in it. When I was a boy, I had a dream about being a warrior. When I lost that dream, I gave up. I’ve been afraid to dream ever since.’
His father stood and put a hand on Joshua’s shoulder.
‘Joshua, why not go to the Serengeti? See it. Stay there if you can. If it’s not the place you want it to be, you can come back to Kibera.’
CHAPTER 36
Mayasa had overcome her initial paralysing fear, but whenever one or more of her captors came close to her in the first few hours of her confinement, she had difficulty breathing.
The one she’d named the Lieutenant was of medium height and build and wore a large silver ring in his left ear. He had a soft, clipped voice and his eyes bored into Mayasa. She felt sure he could read her every thought. In Koske’s absence he was obviously in charge.
The second was heavyset and had a wide, open face. She called him Bull, not because of his size and physical menace, but because of his placid brown eyes. When he was guarding her, she had few concerns.
The third, who seemed to be responsible for bringing food and drink, was a lanky, acned youth of about twenty with broken front teeth. He was slow of speech and unkempt, and he couldn’t meet her eye each time she caught him smiling or, more correctly, leering at her. Mayasa named him the Jackal, and feared him the most.
The two older men passed the time teasing the Jackal with terrible stories of the demons that still inhabited Kibera. They said they were the ghosts of long-dead Nubian soldiers who had been horribly disfigured during World War I, their faces melted by noxious gases. Anyone who saw them was driven mad with terror, they said. They were merciless, particularly the Lieutenant, who whispered his frightful descriptions into the Jackal’s ear until he was gibbering with fear.
The orphanage door was bolted and the windows had curtains that closed out the daylight. A TV set in an alcove adjoining the small kitchen droned on regardless of the time of day or night. Mayasa would have found it difficult to keep track of time without it, although she was occasionally able to catch a glimpse of daylight when the Jackal was sent out or returned from an errand.
When Bull was left in charge, Mayasa tried to elicit information from him. He was wary of answering her questions, but she soon concluded he knew very little about why she was there.
After becoming more accustomed to the situation, Mayasa only truly felt uncomfortable when the Jackal found too many opportunities to be near her. When occasionally he brushed against her, she felt her flesh crawl.
A hundred and ten heavily armed police wearing flak jackets and helmets piled out of trucks on the outskirts of Kibera in the morning hours. The alleys thundered with the sound of their boots as they jogged towards Kamukungi to fulfil the government’s promise to restore railway services on the Mombasa–Kampala line.
Word quickly spread by mobile phone calls and texts. The gangs poured from the settlements and congregated along the policemen’s path, to harass and throw stones at these representatives of authority.
The officer in charge despatched a squad of policemen to scatter the troublemakers who kept up a running battle in the surrounding alleys. Residents fled indoors as the sounds of combat drew nearer, slamming and locking doors behind them.
In the closely confined alleys, the crack of a crude home-made handgun panicked a member of the police squad, who released a burst of AK-47 bullets in the direction of the shot. The main police contingent, now on the high ground at Kamukungi, responded. As the panic spread, they indiscriminately fired high-velocity ammunition into the neighbouring Kibera dwellings, penetrating layers of timber-clad walls and thin corrugated-iron roofs.
Dede, the cobbler, squatted at his last with a mouthful of tacks, tapping at his customer’s red high-heeled shoe. The shoe’s owner, Linda, sat on a cement block, watching him work. Her parents had been customers for years and, like many clients, she had been having her shoes repaired by the grasshopper for almost all her young life.
Dede lifted his head when he heard the first crack of rifle fire. It took some time to realise what it was, but when Linda stood, hopping on one foot to see what was causing the commotion, Dede warned her to keep low.
Another sharp report sent a bullet twanging off the iron roof of his duka. The next passed straight through Linda, leaving a hole his fist could fill as it exited. Dede leapt from his stool to catch her as she fell. He bent over her as she lay in the mud beside the path outside his little shop, her lifeless eyes staring at him.
Dede wrung his hands in a
nguish and danced about from one foot to another.
Another weapon snarled.
‘No! No!’ he shouted, coming from under his corrugated-iron awning and brandishing a fist at the police on Kamukungi hill. ‘Stop! You are killing us!’
The next shot hit him in the thigh, shattering his femur and cutting the femoral artery. Ten minutes later, his cowering neighbours found his dead body lying in a pool of blood and mud beside Linda, his sixteen-year-old customer.
A knock at night on a Kibera door was a sound seldom welcomed. It could mean a neighbour in trouble, or a friend or family member struck down by a dangerous illness. It could be a disaster or a death.
After a day in which Simon had seen his innocent neighbours harassed and beaten, people’s houses burnt, and had heard on national radio unbelievable stories of people hacked down for no other reason than that they were of the wrong tribe, the knock on his door stopped all conversation.
Simon searched his son’s face for a sign that the caller was expected, but found no such consolation. Nobody would be about on such a night.
The knock came again. More insistently.
Simon stood and walked slowly to the door. He opened it a peep and, in the dim light coming from the bare electric globe behind him, he recognised Gideon Koske. There was another, larger shape in the background. For a few moments he couldn’t speak; could scarcely breathe.
‘Nini nataka hapa?’ he asked. ‘What do you want here?’
Koske said he would speak to Joshua.
‘He’s not here,’ Simon lied. ‘I haven’t seen my son in weeks.’
‘I said I will speak to him.’
The voice was menacing. The figure in the background moved forward so he could be more clearly seen in the light.
Joshua placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. ‘I’m here,’ he said.
Koske gave Simon a withering look and jerked his head to indicate that Joshua should step outside.
Simon put a hand on his son’s arm, an unconscious gesture born of fear. If Gideon Koske wanted to speak to his son—indeed, wanted to do as he liked to him—there was nothing, no law, no power in all of Kibera, that could stop him.
