I Built No Schools in Kenya

by Kirsten Drysdale

  About the Book

  In September 2010, Kirsten Drysdale was tricked. Her friend called with a job offer too curious to refuse: a gig as a dementia carer for a rich old man in Kenya. All expenses paid, plenty of free time to travel or do some freelance reporting. There seemed no good reason to say no … so she got on a plane.

  Only Kirsten’s friend hadn’t given her the full story. On her arrival in Nairobi she discovered the rich old man’s family was fighting a war around him, and that she would be on the front line. Caught in the crossfire of all kinds of wild accusations, she also had to spy on his wife, keep his daughter placated, rebuff his marriage proposals, hide the car keys and clip his toenails, all while trying to retain her own sanity in the colonial time warp of his home.

  Meanwhile, the Kenyan army was invading Somalia, Al-Shabaab was threatening terror attacks, the East African bodybuilding scene beckoned, and Kirsten discovered she had long-lost cousins running a bar on the other side of the city.

  I Built No Schools in Kenya is a travelogue-tragedy-farce about race, wealth, love, death, family, nationhood, sanity, benzodiazepines, monkeys and whisky.

  It is almost entirely true.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Prologue: The Nine Iron

  1. The Situation

  2. The Place

  3. The Routine

  4. Alice

  5. The Wife

  6. The Club

  7. The Great Escape

  8. The Ruse

  9. Fiona Returns

  10. Blood & Beers

  11. The Final Straw

  12. Touchdown Take 2

  13. Shortcomings

  14. Fun Run

  15. Nytol

  16. Things Fall Apart

  17. Pammy

  Epilogue: Reckoning

  Imprint

  Read More at Penguin Books Australia

  Prologue

  THE NINE IRON

  Nairobi, Kenya – November 2011

  The man whose murder I’ve been asked to prevent is trying to kill me. His name is Walter, and he’s coming at me with a nine iron. He’s threatened me before, but it’s different this time. I can tell by the way his jaw is set and the unusual quickness in his hips. This time he really, really means it. And the guy survived a lion attack once – that unlucky cat’s taxidermied corpse is hanging on the dining-room wall, glass-eyed proof that Walt is not a man to be messed with. I could do with some back-up but, as per usual, there’s no one else around when I need them.

  I whistle for Walt’s ‘pedigree cur’, his ‘mucky dog’, his ‘lovely mutt’. She usually licks him calm, but right now she’s busy haranguing the troop of monkeys in the trees at the bottom of the garden, hackles up and teeth out, not paying me any attention. The guard hut at the front gate is empty: Patrick, the askari, has gone to have a crack at the monkeys too. He lobs gravel from the driveway at them with a handmade slingshot, while the monkeys return fire with small red berries. He flinches and ducks, swearing in Swahili and struggling to reload. The monkeys are winning this round.

  Walt is coming at me with a nine iron because I won’t give him the goddamn car keys. He’s always trying to get his hands on the goddamn car keys, but he’s not allowed to drive anymore. He doesn’t know what year it is or what country he’s in; how’s he supposed to make it through Nairobi traffic unscathed? Not to mention the rest of us.

  A call to prayer sails out of a nearby mosque. I glance towards it, my eyes catching on a bamboo thicket where two owls have made a nest. Half an hour ago, Walt was fondly showing it to me. Before his mood turned dark, the wrinkles on his face were crinkle-soft like crepe paper. Now, they are sharp and hard and angry around his eyes, and he is starting to frighten me. ‘Give me those keys, you little bitch!’ he spits, showering my face in tiny droplets of fury that cool my skin as they dry in the sunshine. Well, he’s not fucking getting them.

  I hold my arm behind me and shuffle backwards with my fist clenched tight around the little jangle of metal. The bright red plastic Peugeot tag is peeking out from between my second and third fingers. Walt sees it. He lines up the nub of my wrist with the polished toe of his golf club. There’s a backswing.

  ‘Walt, wait!’ I plead, relieved when he lowers the club slightly.

  I’m fuming that he’s got a club to swing at all. After the garden hoe incident, his daughter, Fiona, sent an email ordering us to remove all ‘potential weapons’ from Walt’s reach, including golf clubs. Apparently she’s already locked the garden tools away in the shed and hidden his walking sticks under my bed. Talk about cold comfort.

  Fiona is in charge around here even when she’s not around – which is most of the time, given she lives in England. She rules via text message fiats and email edicts and makes semi-regular site inspections, visiting every couple of months. I don’t know who left the golf clubs out today, but Walt spotted them on his way to the garage. On his way to attack whoever he suspects has been driving his car without his permission.

  Through the kitchen window I see three staff members with their faces pressed to the glass, eyes and mouths wide in shock. This scene must be vaudeville to them. A pink-faced pair of loons, sixty years apart, running in circles around the driveway.

  ‘Esther!’ I hiss to the maid at the window. ‘Esther, get James. We need help!’

  The faces peel away from the glass, and I hear Esther call for James. He’s one of the few people Walt will listen to when he gets like this.

  ‘Bwana! Bwana!’ James comes running from the garden. He wipes the rich red soil off his hands down his navy overalls as he calls gently to Walt.

  But Walt doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s still glaring at me and coming at me and waving that nine iron at me.

  My right heel butts up against the garden bed. I manage to stagger to the other side of the Peugeot, putting it between me and the madman. Fuck breaking an arm over this shit.

  That’s when I hear the Mazda engine idling at the gates. It’s Walt’s wife, back from her golf game, but Patrick isn’t there to open up: he’s still slinging rocks at the monkeys. What a bloody racket. Patrick shouts at the barking dog, ‘Hapana!’ The Mazda’s horn blasts: bip-beep! The muezzin calls ‘Allahu Akbar!’ James pleads, ‘Bwana, kuja hapa – bwana, tafadhali!’ but Walt ignores him, peering into the Peugeot.

  ‘Ah-ho-ho!’ he says in a tone of bitter vindication. ‘I see you’ve all been out and about again.’ He must have noticed the odometer reading has increased by several thousand kilometres, proof that someone’s been joyriding in his car since he last parked it however many decades ago in his mind. ‘Well, no more, chaps,’ he announces, grabbing the locked door handle.

  Patrick fires one last rock at the monkeys, and finally lopes back to the gate in long, uneven strides. He jams the slingshot into the back pocket of his uniform, rattles the keys out of another and unlocks the padlock, then he pulls the gates open. ‘Jambo, memsahib! Karibu!’ he says, saluting the grey-haired white woman in the passenger seat and nodding at her African driver.

  The Mazda pulls up around the side of a bougainvillea, and Walt’s wife climbs out. ‘Hell-ooooo, my darling!’ she calls to him, as he adjusts his grip on the end of the club and lines me up again. ‘Are you having more car trouble?’

  He pauses mid-swing to squint at her, but he doesn’t see his wife of forty years. He sees an old lady in a sun visor. God, I feel for this woman.

  Turning to me, she asks the bleeding obvious. ‘Oh dear, is he having another one of those “turns”?’

  I hold the car keys up in silent reply, as we hear the thwack of a nine iron bouncing off laminated glass.r />
  It might be time for me to resign again.

  1

  THE SITUATION

  Nairobi, Kenya – October 2010

  So here’s how it is: I’m a live-in carer for Walter Smyth. He is very rich, very old, very sick and very senile. Over the next eight years, dozens of people will occupy this role. Most of them won’t last long. Some of them will literally run away in the dead of night after just a few weeks. In comparison, I’ll be here quite a while. Eleven months all up. But I don’t know that yet. I can’t imagine what’s to come.

  Walt doesn’t know it, but he has employed three women to look after him. There’s me; there’s my mate from high school, Alice; and there’s Millicent, a sweet old woman who is very into God. The three of us tag-team around the clock in eight-hour shifts, supervising Walt’s meals, his morning walks, his medication, his showers, his shits and his sleep. Alice and I are also supposed to spy on his wife, Marguerite, for his daughter, Fiona, who thinks Marguerite’s trying to kill him, even though she’s not. I didn’t know the whole imaginary-murder-surveillance thing was part of the job description until I got here.

  Millicent is an old family friend of the Smyths, a fellow former colonial, a couple of decades Walt’s junior. She blends in a bit better than Alice and me. We’re in our mid-twenties and come from Mackay, a town in regional Queensland. We’ve had to learn the ways of this world.

  The Kenyan household staff are just getting on with things as best they can. There’s Esther, the maid, James, the gardener, Khamisi, the cook, Peter, the driver and Patrick, the security guard. There’s also David, who looks after the granny flat out the back, and Frank, the night shift guard – but we don’t see as much of them. Most of them have been working for the Smyths for a very long time – though I don’t think it’s ever been quite the punish it is now that Walt’s sick and surrounded by a team of meddling mzungus. Not that they ever complain.

  Walt’s house is in one of Nairobi’s nicer suburbs. It’s one of the area’s older, more modest homes, surrounded by hedge-hemmed mansions boasting tennis courts and swimming pools. Someone very important has a place just down the road – in the evenings you can hear their helicopter coming in to land. When I jog past their high gates I’m watched by camera lenses and rifle sights, and barking dogs that scare me over to the other side of the road.

  As for Walt himself – well, he’s an anachronism. An old-school colonial from early establishment stock. His father was one of the first white men out here, one of those guys you imagine arriving with a sack of Union Jacks slung over his shoulder, marching along in a pith helmet from the coast to the Nile, laying claim to land with every few steps on behalf of the Empire and promising to ‘civilise’ the ‘natives’, as though there’s anything ‘civilised’ about subjugating people in their own country. On Walt’s mantelpiece is a photograph of Teddy Roosevelt when he came to Kenya on a hunting safari in 1909. Except it wasn’t called Kenya back then; it was still the ‘British East Africa Protectorate’, one of the many pink patches on the map.

  So you see, these people are a big deal around here. At least, they used to be. Modern-day Kenya barely knows or cares that they exist. Old colonials are literally a dying breed.

  Walt has so much money it will never run out. It’s partly inherited and partly self-made. He was a farmer, of tea and coffee and cattle. I’m told by the household staff that he worked hard to turn unproductive land around, and was nearly bankrupted doing so. Daniel arap Moi, Kenya’s second president, admired Walt’s farm so much he compulsorily acquired it from him in the 1980s. Walt was lucky to receive a good price. Independent Kenya, for the most part, made a point of being relatively gentle with its former colonial masters. Whether that was for better or worse depends on who you speak to.

  Anyhow. Now Walter Smyth’s in his eighties, and his mind is falling apart. He’s got vascular dementia: a demolition team of tiny strokes and little wrecking balls of sticky protein are destroying his brain, leaving a rickety frame of consciousness behind. Walt grasps at the past and hallucinates much of the present. His body isn’t quite as shaky as his mind, but he does have a pacemaker and a dodgy liver and kidneys that need keeping an eye on. Most days, Walt thinks he’s in England, where he lived half his life. He thinks it’s 1942 and he’s collecting Second World War bomb shrapnel from the fields near his school. Or he thinks it’s 1985 and his mother has just died and he needs to get his suit ready for her funeral in Dover. Some days he does think he’s in Kenya – but that it’s 1956, in the middle of the Kenya Emergency, and he’s up on the tea farm, and needs to drive to the city for supplies, and might be attacked by Mau Mau terrorists on the road to Nairobi, and so needs to find his guns. He never thinks it’s 2010 and he’s already at his house in Nairobi, the one he’s had for thirty years. Even that lion hanging on the dining-room wall doesn’t jog his memory. You’d think it would – he’s got scars all the way down his legs from its claws. Those yellow teeth were sunk deep into Walt’s foot when he finally managed to unjam his rifle and send a bullet through the side of its skull. Now the lion watches him eat, its jaw frozen in a silent roar.

  There’s no good reason for my being here (though there are plenty of bad ones). I have no nursing experience. All I know about dementia is what I saw as my grandmother’s mind crumbled to dust in the latter years of her life: the way she would conduct orchestras at the dinner table using chicken bones as batons, or cut pictures of puppies out of tissue boxes and glue them to the back of her couch because they were ‘sweet’.

  More than anything else, this whole story is the result of cosmic timing.

  In September 2010, I’d just started working in television, back home in Australia. But Hungry Beast – the show I worked on – had finished and we weren’t sure it would get another season. Having uprooted my life and moved to Sydney for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of working for Andrew Denton, I was in a weird place. In one sense, I felt I had the world at my feet. But I wasn’t at home in Sydney. I was lonely, a bit lost, and in hindsight probably mildly depressed.

  Just as I’d decided to move back to my family’s farm in Mackay for a while, Alice called from Nairobi with a somewhat intriguing proposal. She’d been hired by the Smyths through a carers agency while she was living in London, and when they decided to return to their home in Nairobi, she agreed to go with them. But the job was too much for one person alone – they needed more help.

  ‘They just want someone white, female, slim and switched on,’ she said.

  ‘Those first three seem a bit … icky, dude.’

  ‘No, no, no – it’s not like that. The thing is, we’re living in the house with Walt. So even though he doesn’t know what’s going on, we need to look like people he might have had in his home throughout his life. That’s why they can’t hire black carers – he’d never stand for it. And he’s terrible with fat people. Would comment on their weight all the time. Like, repeatedly, ’cos he forgets what he’s just said. It’d be way too awkward. But with me, he just assumes I’m some friend of the family or whatever. You’d fit right in.’

  ‘He sounds like a total arsehole.’

  ‘Oh no, he’s really quite sweet! Well, most of the time. I mean, obviously he’s a bit racist. And sexist. But that’s to be expected. He’s a product of his time! And look, he can get a bit cranky and frustrated now and then, but it’s easy enough to calm him down by flirting with him and making him laugh.’

  ‘Mm,’ I said, slightly revolted. ‘And all we have to do is make sure he doesn’t run off and get lost?’

  ‘Yeah it’s cruisey as! You pretty much just have to help him get dressed in the morning, sit and read the papers with him on the patio, and make sure he takes his pills. He can go to the toilet on his own and all that – it’s just keeping him company, really. Giving him someone to talk to, ya know?’

  ‘So, does this guy know he’s got carers? I mean, how did he hire you in the first place?’

  ‘His daughter, Fiona, is o
rganising everything for him. She’s the one who found me through the agency. Walt’s wife – that’s Marguerite – is still in England. She’ll come over to join us in a few weeks.’

  ‘Right … And how long are you planning to stay?’

  ‘Just a few months, then I’ll go on safari. Fiona wants me to help recruit other carers ’cos we really need to have someone on duty at all times and she’s really keen on Aussies. Reckons we’ve got the “thick skins and nous” for the job.’

  I can see how someone might draw that conclusion from Alice. She is one of the most robust people I know: a Muay Thai kickboxer with no time for nonsense and niceties, while remaining empathetic and perceptive. She’s like a kindly nurse with a six-pack. But I did think it seemed odd to apply that singular character assessment to an entire nationality. And to bring someone to the other side of the world without vetting them first.

  ‘Doesn’t Fiona want to interview me or anything?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah, she trusts my judgement! So you’ll do it? They’ll fly you over and everything. It’s a decent daily rate and you won’t have any living expenses – all meals are provided, unless you want to go out of course. And you’ll be able to go travelling around a bit too, in time off.’

  Well. There were a few hurdles for my conscience to clear. Taking a job I’d been offered explicitly because of my skin colour? That job being to care for a man whose riches were partly colonial spoils?

  I pondered, then I did what white people are so good at doing: I pushed all those niggling issues into the corner of my mind. I told myself it was hard to refuse a proposition this odd. But a few additional factors pushed me to accept it. Maybe, I told myself, I could get a bit of journalism work over there. Pitch some articles, bone up on my writing. Yes! It would actually be a career move. I also happened to have good friends – a couple – working for the Department of Foreign Affairs, who had just been posted to the Australian High Commission in Nairobi. Knowing I’d be able to tag along with them in my free time made the prospect of developing a social life and making good contacts in the country much more likely.