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  FOR KATYA

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Preface

  The Origin of Death

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  A Note About the Author

  Copyright

  PREFACE

  This novel is set in the run-up to and the immediate aftermath of the Kenyan election of 27 December 2007.

  Amid claims of vote rigging from both sides, the incumbent president, Mwai Kibaki, was sworn in on 30 December, immediately sparking protests and violence across the whole country.

  Some of the worst violence was seen amid the slums of the capital, where long-standing ethnic tensions rose to the surface.

  This book is a work of fiction. The time line is accurate, and most of the locations are real. But it is not intended to be a factual portrayal of events. Rather, it is an attempt to capture the spirit, energy, and courage of this remarkable city, Nairobi, that I call my home.

  It is thought that between 800 and 1,500 Kenyans lost their lives in the post-electoral violence. Countless others lost their homes and livelihoods and experienced terror and deprivation. This book is a tribute to the memory of those who perished and to the resourcefulness of those who survived.

  THE ORIGIN OF DEATH

  In the beginning there was no death. This is the story of how death came into the world.

  There was once a man known as Leeyio, who was the first man that Naiteru-kop brought to earth. Naiteru-kop then called Leeyio and said to him, “When a man dies and you dispose of the corpse, you must remember to say, ‘Man die and come back again, moon die and remain away.’”

  Many months passed before anyone died. When, in the end, a neighbor’s child did die, Leeyio was summoned to dispose of the body. When he took the corpse outside, he made a mistake and said, “Moon die and come back again, man die and remain away.” So after that, no man survived death.

  A few more months elapsed, and Leeyio’s own child died. So the father took the corpse outside and said, “Moon die and remain away, man die and come back again.” On hearing this, Naiteru-kop said to Leeyio, “You are too late now, for, through your own mistake, death was born the day when your neighbor’s child died.” So that is how death came about, and that is why up to this day, when a man dies, he does not return, but when the moon dies, it always comes back again.

  —Traditional Maasai story

  1

  SATURDAY, 22 DECEMBER 2007

  The sun is at the vertical, and shade is as scarce as charity on Biashara Street. Where it exists—in shop fronts and alleyways, like cave mouths and canyons—life clings: eyes blink, and patiently they watch.

  They see a man and a boy walking along the sidewalk, the boy turning every third or fourth step into a skip to match his companion’s rangy stride.

  The man, in concession, has stooped slightly to maintain a conversational height. Their posture suggests that if either reached out a hand, the other would grasp it, but for their own reasons, neither will offer. They are father and son.

  —But where would you ride it? the father asks wearily. It’s evidently a long-running conversation.

  —Anywhere! says the boy. I could go to the shops for you.

  —Adam, this is Nairobi. You go out on your own on a bike, you’re going to get killed. Have you seen the drivers here?

  —Then around the compound. Grandma’s house. It’s safe there. Michael’s got a bike. And Imani, too, and she’s only seven.

  The tall man pauses in his stride, and the boy runs into the back of his legs. Something has disturbed the man: immediate, palpable, yet indefinable. The sense of trouble about to strike.

  Just for once, thinks Mollel, just for once, I’d like to turn off this instinct. Be able to enjoy going shopping, enjoy spending time with my son. Be a member of the public instead of a policeman.

  But he can’t. He is what he is.

  —That’s the one I want! says Adam, pointing at the shopwindow.

  Mollel is vaguely aware of a display of bicycles inside, but he is watching a reflection suspended in the glass: a group of teenage girls, all gossip and gum, mobile phones wafting like fans, handbags slung over shoulders like bandoliers, and from the shadows, other eyes—hungry now—emerging. Watching without watching, getting closer without moving in, the men nonchalant yet purposeful, disparate yet unified, circling their prey. Hunting dogs.

  —Go inside the shop, Mollel tells Adam. Stay there till I come back for you.

  —Can I choose a bike, Dad? Really?

  —Just stay there, says Mollel, and he pushes the boy through the store’s open door. He turns. It’s happened already. The group of men are melting away, the girls still oblivious to what has just taken place. He clocks one of the guys walking swiftly from the scene, stuffing a gold vinyl clutch bag—so not his style—under his shirt.

  Mollel takes off, matching the hunting dog’s pace but keeping his distance, eager not to spook him. No point in letting him bolt into a backstreet now. Pace up a beat, narrow the gap. Quit Biashara Street. Cross Muindi Mbingu. Weave through traffic—ignore the car horns. Busier here.

  The hunting dog is in his late teens or early twenties, judges Mollel. Athletic. His shirt has the sleeves cut off at the shoulders, not to expose his well-developed arms, but to ease its removal. The buttons at the front will be fake, Mollel knows, replaced with a strip of Velcro or snaps to confound any attempt to grab the bag snatcher’s collar, leaving the pursuer holding nothing more than a raggedy shirt, like a slipped snakeskin.

  While Mollel weighs his strategy—a dive to the legs rather than a clutch at the torso—he realizes that the thief is heading for the City Market. Got to close the gap now. Lose him in there, he’s gone for good.

  Taking up an entire city block, with more ways in and out than a hyrax burrow, on a day like this the market’s dark interior is thronged with shoppers escaping the sun. Mollel considers yelling Stop, mwizi! or Police!—but calculates that this would lose him precious time. The thief leaps up the steps and deftly vaults a pile of fish guts, pauses a moment to look back—showing, Mollel thinks, signs of tiring—and dives into the dark interior. Mollel’s gaunt frame is just a few seconds behind, his heart pounding as he gulps lungfuls of air even as his stomach rebe
ls at the powerful reek of fish. He hasn’t done this for a while. And he is enjoying it.

  It takes his eyes a moment to adjust. At first, all he can see are tall windows high overhead, shafts of light like columns. Noise fills in what eyes cannot see: the hubbub of negotiation and exchange, the squawking of chickens, the multitudinous laughter and chatter and singing and hustle and bustle of life.

  And among that hustle and bustle—a bustle, a hustle that should not be there. He sees it now as well as hears it, just a few stalls ahead. Figures tumbling, voices raised in protest. His quarry.

  Through a gap in the crowd he sees the thief. He’s scattering people and produce behind him in an attempt to obstruct his pursuer. No point going down that aisle. Mollel looks left and right, plumps for right, rounds a stall, and starts to run down a parallel row. Although he’s keeping up with his prey, he’s not going to catch him this way. Ahead, he sees sacks of millet stacked loosely against one of the stalls. It’s his chance. He bounds up, one, two, and is atop the stall, balancing on the boards that bound the millet.

  A howl of protest rises from the woman behind the stall as she swipes at his legs with her scoop. —Get down from there!

  But he is already gone, leaping to the next stall, hoping the rickety wood will take his weight—it does—and run, leap, again—it does.

  A better view from here, and a clearer run despite the efforts of stallholders to push him, grab him, drag him to earth. He rises above the hands, above the stalls, intent only on the pursuit.

  The fresh, clean smell of peppers and onions cuts through the dusty dryness of millet. Easier to negotiate. Mollel bounds across the stacked vegetables, skipping, skimming, recalling chasing goats across mountain scree when he was a child. Momentum is everything. Each footstep expects you to fall. Cheat it. Be gone.

  Outraged yells fill his ears, but he feels that the great hall has fallen silent. There is no one in it but him and the fleeing man. Distance between them measured in heartbeats: arm’s reach; finger’s grasp.

  And then the thief is out the door.

  Mollel suddenly finds himself standing on the final stall, surrounded by furious faces. They barrack him and block him; hands reach for his ankles. He sees the back of the thief’s head about to melt into the crowd outside the market. He sweeps his arm down, feels hair and hardness—coconuts—beneath his feet. Another goat-herding trick: if the animal is out of reach, throw something at it.

  The coconut is out of his hand before he even thinks about it. It describes a shallow parabola over the heads of the stallholders, through the square, bright doorway. He even hears the crack, and he relaxes. He has time now to produce his card and clear the way to the doorway, where a circle has formed.

  The crowd is now eager, anticipatory. The rear doorway of the City Market is inhabited by butchers’ stalls, and the metallic smell of blood is in the air.

  The people part before him, and Mollel steps into the ring. The thief is on his knees, dazed, gold handbag dropped to the ground, one hand rubbing the back of his head. The smashed coconut has already been snatched by a pair of children in front of the circle who suck on the sweet flesh and grin at Mollel. Free food and a floor show. What more could you want?

  —You’re coming with me, says Mollel. The thief does not respond. But he staggers groggily to his feet.

  —I said, says Mollel, you’re coming with me. He steps forward and takes the thief by his upper arm. It is wider than Mollel can grasp and as hard as rock. He hopes the guy’s going to remain concussed long enough to drag him downtown. If only he had cuffs—

  —and then the arm wheels away from his, Mollel just having time to step back to take a little force out of the blow that lands on the side of his head. No concussion—the faintness feigned—the thief now alert and springing on his heels. A lunge—missed—at Mollel. The crowd cheers. He is strong but top-heavy, this fighter, and the policeman judges that a swift shoulder ram would push him once more to the ground. Mollel seizes his chance, head down, body thrown at his opponent’s chest, but he misjudges the timing, and the thief parries him easily. Mollel feels a sharp, agonizing pain in his head—everywhere—stabbing and yanking, the pain of capture, and of submission.

  His opponent laughs, and a roar of approval comes from the crowd. No partisans, these. Mollel feels his head jerked from side to side, up and down. There is nothing he can do.

  —I have you now, Maasai. The thief laughs.

  He has put his thumbs through Mollel’s earlobes.

  * * *

  The bane of his life, those earlobes. Long and looped, the flesh stretched since childhood to fall below his jawline, the i-maroro are a mark of pride and warriorhood within Maasai circles, but an object of ridicule and prejudice elsewhere. He knows many Maasai who have had the loops removed, but somehow the stumps sing of regret to him, and their ears seem just as conspicuous as his own.

  One advantage, though: no one is going to grab them by the ears. The bystanders are convulsed in near-hysterical laughter; he can expect no help from that quarter. They have never seen a policeman led by his ears, like a bull with a ring through his nose. Even the thief, his face now leering at arm’s length, seems hardly able to believe his luck.

  —All right, so this is what we’re going to do, Maasai, he says. We’re going to walk together, slowly, out onto K Street. I’m not going to rip your pretty ears off. And you’re not going to come after me. If you’ve got it, nod your head. Oh, I’m sorry, you can’t, can you? Would you like me to nod it for you? Yeah, that’s right!

  Quite a comedian, this one, thinks Mollel as his head is tugged up and down. The thief enjoys the audience. He even swaggers somewhat as he holds the policeman captive—glancing at the crowd, relishing his moment of fame. Let him, thinks Mollel. Means he won’t be ready for what I’m about to do.

  What he does—brutally, swiftly—evinces a sympathetic groan from all the men in the watching crowd. They have no illusions about what a size-ten police-issue steel-capped boot can achieve when brought into such intimate contact with its target.

  Almost tenderly, the thief lets go of Mollel’s ears. His eyes look into the policeman’s with a look of heartbreak and agony. This time, Mollel knows he’ll have no problems bringing him in.

  2

  —If this was China, the Chinese woman sobs, we not mess around. We get this sorted out!

  —Well, it’s not China, says the desk sergeant. This is Kenya. Here, we do things properly. He licks the tip of his ballpoint and starts writing in a large ledger. —Work permit number?

  —This not about me; this about my landlord! He take my money and change the locks! Who am I supposed to sleep with tonight, huh?

  In the general merriment caused by this statement, Mollel catches the desk sergeant’s eye over the heads of the throng. He is glad it is Keritch—no awkward questions. He just gets a quizzical look as the desk flap is lifted to allow him through. As Mollel leads his prisoner down the corridor to CID, he hears Keritch sighing once more: —Work permit number? And has anyone got a pen that works?

  * * *

  Central Police Post. It’s a long time since he’s been here. Nothing’s changed. The smell is of sweat and fresh paint—it’s easier to paint the walls every couple of years than to clean them daily. The single-story building was once a homestead and now sits dwarfed by the massive modern buildings around it. It’s a sleepy, rustic image totally at odds with the constant activity within, presenting an aspiration of a Nairobi benignly overseen by one colonial-era bobby on a bicycle, which was probably the case when it was built. And it couldn’t be further from the truth today.

  * * *

  —Well, well. Maasai. Brought a gift for us, I see?

  Mollel directs the prisoner into the CID office. Decrepit office furniture and overflowing filing cabinets are squeezed into what was obviously once a bedroom. Mwangi sits at his same old desk, feet up, reading the Daily Nation. Grizzled, cynical, slightly grayer of mustache.

  Mo
llel approaches and flicks up the front page.

  —What are you doing? Mwangi asks.

  —Checking the date. It’s the only way I can tell whether you’ve moved for two years.

  —I wouldn’t be so sure, says a younger man. Shirtsleeves, eating a sambusa, policeman’s mustache on the way. —He has it delivered to his desk these days.

  —Mollel, meet Kiunga. My new partner, says Mwangi. And believe it or not, Kiunga, this Maasai used to be my partner, too.

  —I’ve heard about you, says Kiunga neutrally.

  —Everyone’s heard about him, says Mwangi. Question is, what is he doing back at Central? Last I heard, he’d been busted down to traffic duty in Loresho.

  Kiunga laughs. —Is there any traffic in Loresho?

  —There’s a job to be done, replies Mollel. Overcrowded matatus, out-of-date car registrations. The occasional donkey-rage incident.

  —And now you’ve brought us Oloo, says Mwangi, looking at the prisoner. The boss will be pleased.

  —You know this guy?

  —Oh, we know Oloo. Nice handbag, by the way, he says to the thief.

  * * *

  —What the hell is he doing here? thunders a voice from the back of the office. Mwangi casts Mollel a scathing glance and slowly lowers his feet to the ground. Oloo, the prisoner, visibly relaxes.

  Otieno, the head of Central CID, has entered.

  —I thought I told you I didn’t want to see him in here again! he barks.

  He is an imposing man, tall and massive, his round, blunt head retreating into his thick neck. His inky-dark skin is pocked, and the color bleeds into the whites of his eyes, which are stained like walnuts. Otieno, a Luo in a profession dominated by Kikuyus, has developed a hide as thick as the ox he resembles, and a reputation for being just as stubborn.

  —It wasn’t us, boss. Mwangi coughs. —It was our Maasai friend here.

  Otieno turns to Mollel, seeing him for the first time. The wide face breaks into a dazzling grin—the last response Mollel had expected.

  —There is an old Luo saying, says Otieno, slapping Mollel heartily on the back, that an unwelcome visitor brings good cheer. They mean, of course, when he leaves. But this time, this time, my unwelcome friend, you might just be able to help me out. Get rid of this nobody and I’ll tell you all about it.