Kitafe

by Michael Ray

  ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘Good, good … scotch?’

  ‘Just a small one, thanks.’

  The Colonel poured him half a tumbler, added a dribble of water and passed it over.

  ‘So, how was the match?’

  ‘Aren’t you joining me?’

  ‘No, a bit early. The match?’

  ‘Good entertainment, three-two to the Leopards.’

  ‘Of course, though if you were enjoying it so much, I’m surprised you left after the first half.’

  ‘How long have you had someone following me?’

  ‘Just the last two weeks; how is James Obuya?’

  ‘He wants me to write a piece in the newspaper for him.’

  ‘That would be about the general strike?’

  ‘You know about it?’

  ‘And have you?’

  Graham hesitated. ‘I have a list of his demands, they’ll be in the paper tomorrow, at which point I will be proclaimed a traitor by the Whites and if I wasn’t already, would certainly be banned from the Racing Club.’ He handed over a copy of the sheet that James had given him the previous day.

  The Colonel looked it over and nodded his head. ‘He hasn’t left much out has he?’

  ‘No, not that I can see.’

  The Colonel put the list in his In Tray and smiled at Graham, ‘I’m impressed, particularly if you’ve finally got Bradley interested in local politics.’

  ‘Bradley has always put his readers first, and they aren’t. I think he’s had an attack of pragmatism, and finally realised the way things are going.’

  ‘Excellent, do you think you’ll be seeing Obuya again soon?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘And when has he set the strike for?’

  ‘Next Wednesday.’

  ‘Naturally, we will have to break it. There will be rioting and the army are already preparing to take over the radio station and airport. Of course he already knows that. I’ll try to keep the casualties to a minimum, but some of his people might get hurt or killed. There is one thing that may help things along a bit; the Governor is intending to ban public meetings of more than twenty people starting on Wednesday, so it might be as well if the strike could be before then; it would give me less of an excuse for being heavy handed. Tuesday perhaps? And if his march through the City could be in the morning … not too early, perhaps after morning coffee, say half past eleven?’

  Graham looked into his glass of scotch, then looked up at the Colonel. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Doing what Mr Theakston?’

  ‘Using me as a go-between.’

  ‘Because I truly love this country and believe it or not its people. When are you going to write your next piece about Henry Ngai and his Liberation Army?’

  ‘You’re worried about them?’

  ‘That march the other night was a wake up call. We realised the strength of his support in the North, but having that lot turn up in the middle of town was a bit of a surprise.’

  ‘It was just a publicity stunt, you know that.’

  ‘That’s what all protest marches are. Obuya and his followers I can deal with, but Ngai is a different matter, his politics are based on superstition. We can’t negotiate with superstition, we can only hope to stamp it out.’

  The Colonel lent back in his chair then, to Graham’s alarm, took a revolver from a desk drawer and started to examine it. ‘The march in town might have been a publicity stunt, but his army attacked a mission up country yesterday.’

  ‘Not Brother Sebastian’s?’

  ‘No, a Methodist mission.’ The Colonel put the revolver on the table and looked up. ‘He tied both the missionary and his wife to stakes, built a bonfire about them and burnt them alive. Apart from the children, everyone else had their throats cut. Any child between the ages of eight and thirteen disappeared.’

  Graham was silent, his eyes dropped to the table and looked at the gun.

  ‘Do you know how to use one?’ The colonel asked.

  ‘I spent two years in the army trying to avoid the things.’

  ‘A little difficult I would have thought.’

  ‘I can use a rifle, but I’ve never touched a revolver.’

  The Colonel passed it over. ‘The principle’s the same, you point it at someone and pull the trigger. The gun makes a loud bang and with luck the person you’re pointing it at falls over.’

  Graham shook his head, ‘no thanks, I’d rather not.’

  ‘Well if you change your mind let me know. What I don’t understand is why he attacked a Methodist Mission. As far as I’m aware the Methodists are Christian.’

  ‘Because in his eyes they’re heretics; his theology is based in the fourteenth century.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Father Sebastian is a Dominican monk and has a large library about the Dominicans that Ngai has read from top to bottom. The Dominicans were a mainstay of the Inquisition, so Ngai has concluded that if he is to set up a religious state, he has to use his army to clear out everyone the Inquisition would see as evil.’

  ‘And who would they be?’

  ‘Those that don’t believe in and support the medieval doctrines of the Catholic Church.’

  ‘Just about everyone then.’

  ‘Just about everyone in town; in the countryside it’s a different matter. The man has charisma; if he tells them he has God on his side, they’ll believe him and they’ll go over to his cause by the tens of thousands, believing to be absolute everything he tells them. They won’t understand it, but they will believe it. He’s started the biggest recruitment drive for the Catholic Church this country’s ever seen.’

  ‘The Pope will be pleased.’

  ‘What does he want the children for?’

  The Colonel didn’t reply but deliberately placed a folder on the desk in front of Graham. ‘I’ve got a meeting with the Governor, but stay for a while if you want to. I’ll probably be about thirty minutes.’

  Graham gave him a puzzled look as the Colonel got up.

  ‘Thirty minutes, which means I’ll be back at a quarter past twelve. No doubt you’ll have left before I return, so I’ll bid you farewell now.’

  The Colonel left, firmly shutting the door behind him.

  Graham turned the folder around, the cover was marked “Classified.” He opened it, stared at it in horror for a few minutes then started to take notes.

  *****

  In the club that evening Amani had started on one of her endless stories about the hotel she worked in. Jonathan listened on politely while Graham sat and thought. He had learnt to deal with these stories early in their relationship, sometimes they went on for twenty minutes. Amani never expected you to remember them, there was no examination at the end. All that was required was agreement when asked.

  ‘It’s true isn’t it, Graham?’

  ‘Yes love, of course,’ he replied automatically. It was something about two American men at the hotel she worked in …. he stopped thinking about the intelligence report he’d seen that morning.

  ‘I thought they were some sort of businessmen, the way they dress, but some of the people they were meeting! Shamba people, no money, bad clothes and they smelt. Then these Americans, they disappear. I know where people who leave go, they go to the airport or they go on a safari, you can always tell. These men though, they pay their bills and they sneak out, like they were leaving without paying, disappearing one night, but they pay and then they disappear.’

  ‘Dark suits and dark glasses?’ asked Graham. ‘Tall, white shirts, black tie and a haircut Yul Brynner would be proud of?’

  ‘You know them, Graham?’

  ‘I’ve seen them around.’

  ‘Ah, your mysterious American friends from the cafe;’ Jonathan said. ‘I wonder where they’ve gone?’

  ‘I doubt they’re after big game and they didn’t strike me as farmers. Come on Amani, I need some kip.’

  ‘Don’t interrupt me Graham, I am talkin
g to Jonathan.’

  Graham picked up the remains of his beer and wandered over to the table where Paul was sitting, deep in conversation with Jean, the Seychellois.

  ‘Just escaping for a moment’s air,’ said Graham. ‘Amani wants to talk to Jonathan about something.’

  ‘Your shout then,’ Paul said.

  ‘Thank you, not for me,’ said Jean. ‘It’s time to dream. Bonne nuit.’

  Graham held two fingers up for the barman.

  ‘Actually I’m rather glad I’ve got you alone old chap, I wanted to talk to you about something. Jean’s been helping me find Ngai.’

  ‘Generous of him, are they good mates?’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘You mean they might be good mates. You think he’s busy selling him arms?’

  ‘It’s not profitable to talk about such things. I’m going to meet him tomorrow.’

  ‘Ngai?’

  ‘No, Jean arranged a meeting with his number two, David Kabonero, I’m hoping that might lead to Ngai.’

  ‘Your going into the lion’s den?’

  ‘Of course not, well not his camp anyway; just a bar out in the wilderness, The Black Cat. I’m permitted to bring up to three other bona fide reporters. Are you interested?’

  ‘Thanks for the offer but I’d prefer to stay alive.’

  ‘I have assurances that no journalist will be threatened or hurt.’

  ‘I’m not talking about Ngai, I’m talking about Amani; get assurances from her and I’m in.’

  ‘I thought you aspired to be a proper reporter?’

  ‘I am a proper reporter.’

  ‘Sport is not proper journalism.’

  ‘We are going,’ Amani said, coming over to the table. ‘Jonathan is giving us a lift.’

  ‘But I’ve just got a round in!’

  ‘Well I’m going, you stay if you want to,’ and she walked away without waiting for an answer.

  Graham started to get up to follow her, just as the beer arrived. He sat down again.

  ‘That’s better,’ Paul said, ‘we don’t want the girls telling us what to do. Actually there was another reason I wanted you to join me, we could take your car.’

  ‘You’re kidding, how far is it?’

  ‘Aa hundred miles or so, I’d rather not use a taxi this time, the last driver was an idiot. You get mileage don’t you?’

  ‘Only enough to cover the petrol and then I have to argue about it and usually lose. What’s wrong with your car?’

  ‘It’s not mine, I’ve got a new Land Rover on order, but until that turns up I’ve got the MG on loan. Nice car, but hardly suitable for dashing about on dirt roads, it would probably disappear down the first pothole. I’ll pay for the petrol and you can claim from Bradley as well. You can double your money.’

  ‘I went to see Harding earlier today.’

  ‘Congratulations, for what reason?’

  ‘He wanted to leak some information about Ngai’s army. Officially they’re a load of crazed madmen, who’d be better off learning to tie their shoelaces than running a war; unofficially he’s worried, very worried. He left me alone in his office with an intelligence report. It would seem that several tribal chiefs have taken up with Ngai, and Ngai himself isn’t quite the buffoon we’ve been led to believe. Also, he’s in control of more of the country than the official handouts claim.’

  ‘I thought you looked a little out of sorts, anything else?’

  ‘He’s training eight year olds to use Kalashnikovs, eight year olds! Other kids are being trained as living mine sweepers in case the British decide to defend the capital with fields of land mines.’

  Paul put down his beer and looked seriously at Graham. ‘Which is why you’ve got to make a decision, whether you’re a serious reporter or not. This is the sort of thing that has to be exposed, it’s what the pointy end of journalism is all about.’

  ‘I am a serious reporter, just not a serious war reporter … and at least ten thousand refugees escaping the Belgians have joined him. I don’t even begin to understand how Harding gets the information.’

  ‘He’s head of intelligence old boy, it’s what they do. There’s been a steady trickle of refugees escaping Ngai for him to interrogate, and I would imagine he has men planted in Ngai’s army.’

  ‘And the Governor? Why hasn’t he allowed the report to be released,?’

  ‘He’s worried about public opinion bullying him into starting a war, and consequently he’s probably in denial over the report. If we can show him that the real threat is Ngai, and if we expose the prevarications of State House as being the bluster that it is, then you can go global. If you expose the horrors that Ngai is imposing on the children, you’ll be able to leave Bradley, get any job you want and name your salary.’

  ‘As well as being declared a traitor by the Governor and probably kicked out of the country … assuming I’m still alive.’

  ‘If the intelligence is correct, it will be the Governor with a boot up his backside. Have you written a piece about the leak for the Standard?’

  ‘I passed it over to Bradley this afternoon. He told me I was living in cloud cuckoo land and gave me some reports on the latest debutante ball to précis, I think he was worried though.’

  ‘He’s probably got Government House leaning on him. If you get an interview with Ngai, if you can provide evidence to show what he’s up to, Bradley won’t be able to ignore it. Don’t bother to ask him, just leave a note.’

  ‘No mate, seriously, I really can’t. I’ve only just got back into Amani’s good books …’

  … a loud thud, tables and glasses shaking, light reflected from clouds briefly silhouetting trees along the wall of the compound … and then complete silence swiftly followed by all the neighbourhood dogs barking.

  ‘What the …!!!’

  Suddenly sober, Paul got up and grabbed his jacket. ‘It’s a bomb, it’s got to be a bomb!’

  Graham lurched after him as Paul ran for his car.

  ‘It came from near where you live.’

  Graham didn’t answer.

  Paul accelerated down the hill, and a couple of minutes later they were outside the remains of Graham’s house. Jonathan’s car was parked there, one door open, bits of debris covering it.

  ‘Stay here,’ Paul ordered.

  Graham ignored him and ran towards the house.

  ‘Get in the bloody car!’ Paul grabbed him from behind and forcibly escorting him back, pushing him into the passenger seat and slamming the door shut. He returned to the front of the house. What remained of Amani and Jonathan lay to one side of the door, recognisable only from the shreds of clothing. The front of the house had been largely destroyed, exposing the front room, a couple of chairs tipped over, a sideboard covered in broken glass and rubble. The Fire Brigade arrived, but there were no flames to put out, so they cordoned off the house and pointed their headlights at it. An ambulance parked by the fire engine, but there was no one to speed back to the hospital. The medics got out a couple of sheets, did their best to cover the bodies then stood and chatted to each other, unsure what to do next.

  Harding turned up and on seeing Paul, came over.

  He glanced at the sheets on the ground.

  ‘Graham?’

  ‘No, Jonathan Green and Graham’s wife, Amani.’

  ‘Damn … where is he?’

  ‘In my car.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  Paul pointed at a cross planted in the ground to one side of the house. ‘They’ve left their calling card.’

  They walked over to take a closer look, ’You were going up country tomorrow weren’t you?’

  ‘I was planning to.’

  Harding shook his head, ’well you’re not any more, I doubt you’d have met Ngai anyway.’ He pulled the cross out of the ground, briefly inspected it then tossed it to one side.

  ‘No, but I thought David Kabonaro might turn up.’

  ‘There’s too much building up here. Did Graham do anythin
g about the report?’

  ‘He wrote it up, but Bradley’s sticking to the official line.’

  ‘Damn the bloody Governor and his fairytales; still, this might shake him up a bit. You know David Kabonero don’t you?’

  ‘Not really, the last time I saw him I was ten, we attended the same primary school. Then I was shipped off to England to be brought up in the ways of my betters, and never saw him again.’

  ‘He went on to Brother Sebastian then joined the King’s African Rifles at the same time as Ngai. He was ahead in the promotion race until he was thrown out for insubordination. As the youngest NCO, he had to give the loyal toast. He was drunk and made the suggestion that toasting Her Britannic Majesty had something to do with putting her on a bonfire. He was lucky just to be thrown out.’

  ‘I’m glad to see he’s got a sense of humour though.’

  ‘We think Ngai’s moved his headquarters further south. He’s probably no more than four hundred miles north of here. He’s also far better equipped than before, they’ve got training camps across the border and they’re thought to have at least fifty Bedfords for transport; at least that’s as many as the British army have admitted to losing.

  “Fifty! And no one noticed?’

  ‘Of course they did! They’ve had the hell of a job with logistics.’

  ‘Any sign of refugees from the West?’

  ‘They seem to have vanished, but they’re not just refugees, they’re all from the same tribal group as Ngai.’

  Harding ignored warnings from the firemen and walked into the remains of the living room. He paused to stare at a cheap print of the Scottish Highlands, incongruously untouched, hanging on the middle of the far wall, had a cursory look around and returned to Paul.

  ‘The army is planning to draw a line roughly two hundred miles north of here, and evacuate everyone north of it. They’re expecting Ngai’s army to arrive at the river then stand on the other side, waving their spears, while being mown down by machine guns.’

  ‘They’re idiots.’

  ‘Unfortunately they’re our idiots. At present the Governor thinks it more important to clamp down on Obuya in case his strikes and protest marches frighten the locals.’

  ‘Doesn’t he see Obuya as a way out of this mess?’

  ‘No, unfortunately he sees him as the main cause of it. Did you get any more out of Jean Vert?’

  ‘He’s mostly acting as a go-between for anyone wanting a couple of dozen rifles or a few machine guns, but nothing bigger. I asked him if he could get hold of an M16 for me, he didn’t seem to think it would be that much of a problem, though most of his goods appear to be British Army issue, probably going out the back door in exchange for cash. If you want to pay him a visit, he’s staying in one of the guest rooms at the Stardust. Has the US Embassy commented on those two Americans?’