Hour of the Red God Page 4

  And then he hears it, distant, echoing. A man’s voice.

  —Get me out of here, he says to Kiunga. I’ve heard enough.

  Kiunga reaches down and hauls his colleague out.

  —Could you hear him?

  —I could hear something. Shouting. I think he was speaking Kikuyu. The only word I could make out was Maasai.

  Kiunga laughs. He holds the phone up to his ear.

  —He’s still shouting. He’s saying that there’s a terrible smell of goat shit in this tunnel. It must be because there’s a Maasai at the other end of it.

  Mollel takes the phone. The shouting stops, and he hears the hoarse voice of Wainaina on the other end: —Kiunga, can I stop now?

  —Not yet, Mollel tells him. Just keep shouting.

  He hands the phone back to Kiunga and bends down to replace the drain cover. —Are you just going to keep him shouting down there? asks Kiunga.

  —Why not? Mollel chuckles. —He can handle it. He’s a noma.

  5

  They leave the old askari with a promise that they will return to look around inside the premises, and warn him not to tamper with the drain cover.

  It is now dark. Time to go back to K Street.

  In the car on the way there, Mollel goes over what they have learned about Orpheus House. Old Githaka told them that it had been empty for a few months. For about twenty years previously it was run as a women’s shelter or refuge—a sort of safe house for those wanting to escape from prostitution. A year earlier, the charity had run into financial difficulties, and the house had been taken over by the church of George Nalo.

  Nalo, Mollel has heard of. The pastor is something of a celebrity in town. Billboards proclaim his mission, and you can hardly avoid him on the television. He has a mega-church out in Embakasi and is renowned for his social projects.

  According to Githaka, the site is sitting idle while the funds are finalized for redevelopment. Mollel wonders what a site like that would be worth. He really does not have a clue. Millions of dollars, probably, hundreds of millions of shillings.

  * * *

  —Can we stop for a bite to eat, boss?

  As usual, Mollel has forgotten to eat, and the realization makes him feel a kind of queasy emptiness—not hunger. Time to take his pills, too.

  They stop at Nelly’s Country Inn on Koinange Street. The quaint name belies the bustling, functional interior: strip lights on the ceiling, worn linoleum on the floor, red plastic benches in the booths. The Country Inn is something of a Nairobi legend. It bears a sign above the counter that says ESTABLISHED 1970. NEVER CLOSED.

  True enough. Mollel has been dropping in there for as long as he’s been a policeman, even before, when he was a private askari on night shifts. There is something about their chai masala—spiced, milky tea—that no other café can replicate. Perhaps it is the patina of the ancient urn from which it is poured, surely a survivor, like the formidable ladies behind the counter, from the first day of business.

  * * *

  Kiunga grabs two high stools at a bar that faces the front window, an ideal, if somewhat conspicuous, location for scoping the street. —I’ll have a plate of sambusas, says Kiunga to the waitress. Make it ten, mixed. And a tangawizi to drink. Mollel?

  —Chai masala and a bowl of matoke.

  —Is that all you’re having? No meat? I thought Maasais ate only meat.

  Mollel shrugs. —It’s all I feel like.

  He does not mention that lately his medication has made him feel queasy after eating anything but the blandest food.

  The clientele in Nelly’s changes from hour to hour. During the day, it’s almost respectable, making a good trade from office workers and shoppers looking for a snack. In the early evening, a student crowd tends to congregate, lining their stomachs with platters of greasy meat before an evening of beer. A group of high-spirited young men are spilling out from one of the booths now, making a lot of noise but not offending anyone. Later, the place will attract some of the street’s more notorious residents: the call girls taking a break and having a gossip between clients. Somehow they know to stay away during the day, and Mollel wonders whether the management has warned them to steer clear or whether mingling with respectable folk makes the girls feel uncomfortable.

  —That was excellent, says Kiunga, wiping the remains of his last sambusa around the plate to pick up the end of the pili pili sauce. He pops it into his mouth and swallows with pleasure.

  —You’ve not touched yours.

  —I’ll make it last, says Mollel. I want to stay here while you go talk to some of the girls.

  —Smart thinking. No need to crowd them. I’ll be back in a bit.

  When Kiunga has left, Mollel removes a packet of pills from his pocket and carefully counts out his three for this evening: one of each of three different kinds. He places all three on his tongue and washes them down with his lukewarm chai. Then, without relish, he starts spooning back his gray matoke.

  * * *

  For half an hour or so, he watches Kiunga approaching the girls on the street. At this time of the evening they tend to be alone rather than in groups. Soon Kiunga has moved out of sight. Mollel continues to watch the girls at work. They clearly have a relationship with the askaris who guard the shuttered-up shop fronts. Even in his own night-watchman days, fifteen years ago, Mollel recalls, these spots on Koinange Street were well prized among the guards. It may seem boring, dangerous, and cold to sit all night on a stool in front of a steel shutter, with little more than a truncheon and a transistor radio. But there is a lucrative sideline to be had. The askaris let the girls stash their belongings with them while they go off to stalk the sidewalks. Some turn up wearing long coats—presumably to avoid attention on the matatu—which they fold and leave beside an askari’s stool. It’s discreet, but the askaris always charge something for this cloakroom service, often payment in kind. They offer other services, too. Protection. Pimping.

  As for the johns, their uniformity is the only surprise: all middle-aged, in their forties, fifties, or sixties. Mostly paunchy. Mostly African, but a lot of Indians, too. They seem to share a relaxed, businesslike attitude regarding the whole transaction. They pull up in their cars looking for a face they know or a figure that takes their fancy. They chat awhile with the girl leaning into the passenger-side window. Then she gets in, and they go. Where? Mollel wonders.

  * * *

  As ever, it’s the details that fascinate him. The Indian man who pulls up in an SUV, child seats in the back. The fat, bald African who seems to consider—then reject—at least ten girls before choosing two to disappear with. And the way in which the girls carry on their trade: the teamwork, the way they look out for one another, the surreptitious glances at licence plates and monitoring of suspicious activity, the scrutiny of the johns by the ones left behind.

  * * *

  Mollel is becoming convinced of a few basic truths. One, only junkies work alone. All the other girls maintain a network of friendships and alliances for their own convenience and protection. Two, if his victim had been working this street, she’d have been known about, at least by someone. And three, if she is known here, it is likely that these girls know her killer too.

  * * *

  Kiunga comes back into sight. He’s had enough time to cover the length of K Street and is returning to speak to any girls he missed the first time around. At the same moment, Mollel notices another car pull up, a large silver Toyota Land Cruiser. Pretty new, slick without being ostentatious. He checks out the driver: a white man. No particular surprise there. Mollel can’t see much of the face, as the man is wearing sunglasses, despite the darkness. A shock of white hair and flabby, pallid cheeks. The man is leaning over his steering wheel, scrutinizing the girls on the sidewalk. There’s something different in his approach. He seems nervous, cagey. Not so brazen as the other johns. He hasn’t stopped the car, but continues to crawl slowly along the edge of the road. As some of the girls approach his passenger-side win
dow, he waves them away and keeps rolling. He’s looking for a specific person. But he won’t ask anyone where she is.

  Mollel gets up and darts for the door. Kiunga is standing on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, about to be overtaken by the man in the silver car. Mollel calls to him, —Stop that car!

  Kiunga looks over, then up at the car. He puts out his hand. The driver sees him, guns the accelerator. —Hey! Police! Stop! But Kiunga has to step away from the curb as the car speeds past him. Mollel runs across the street to join him, and together they watch the car hit the lights at the end of K Street, jump the red, squeal left onto University Way, and drive out of sight.

  —I got the plate, says Kiunga. Shall we go after him?

  —We’ll never catch him. We’ll have to follow it up later.

  —I got a quick look at the driver. Looked like an old guy. A mzungu.

  * * *

  Mzungu: white man.

  * * *

  —I thought so, too, says Mollel. He takes out his notebook and gives it to Kiunga to write down the number, which Mollel tallies with his own reading.

  —Now, if this were a movie, says Kiunga, I’d pick up my radio, put out an APB, get the driver’s name off the central computer, have him hand-delivered to Central for questioning.

  —Yep, says Mollel. But this is Nairobi. And we don’t have a radio, can’t put out an APB, and getting his name means waiting until Monday morning, going down to the motor vehicle licensing office, and hoping the clerk there will be in a good enough mood to fetch the card for you rather than making you go through the files yourself.

  —Another job for Wainaina?

  —We’ll see. I want to go back to the park and see who he’s rounded up.

  —You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? asks Kiunga.

  Mollel is surprised by the statement. —I’m just doing my job, he mutters. But even as he says it, he realizes how good it feels to be doing proper police work once more.

  —Well, we’re not ready to call it a day yet, says Kiunga. I got a lead from one of the girls. Looks like it’s going to be a late night for us.

  6

  The lead is a rendezvous. According to Kiunga, one of the K Street girls had seemed edgy and upset. She had broken away from the others and briefly told him to meet her at midnight in a more private location.

  —Are you sure you want me there? Mollel laughs.

  —Are you kidding me? replies Kiunga. I don’t need to pay for it. Besides, she knows I’m not a john. And the way I see it, there are two possible reasons she’d want to get me alone. And for either of them, I’d want company.

  He’s right. If she has information on the case, Mollel wants to hear it. And it’s always possible that this is a trap, a scam to lure Kiunga into a secluded place and have him robbed—or worse.

  They’ve rolled around to Uhuru Park once more, looking for Wainaina. The night is warm, but as they draw up near Little Mombasa, Wainaina is rubbing his hands exaggeratedly.

  —If I’d known I was going to end up on the night shift, I’d have worn a coat, he says reproachfully. Oh, and thanks for leaving me hollering up that pipe. Must have been ten minutes before I realized you’d hung up the phone.

  —I see you have someone for us, says Mollel. Beside Wainaina is a small, stooped figure wearing a floppy hat.

  —Oh, yes. I got a terrific eyewitness. Saw everything.

  As Mollel comes up to the two of them, he recognizes the small man. Kiunga knows him too.

  —Superglue Sammy, says Kiunga. Great. Shall we take him down for an ID parade? Maybe look at some photos? Hell, why don’t we buy him a box of crayons, he can draw us a sketch?

  —You’re both very funny, says Sammy, removing his hat and turning his sealed eyes toward them. But you don’t need to see, to see.

  * * *

  Superglue Sammy is a well-known figure on the streets of Nairobi’s downtown district. He is usually to be found outside one of the city’s main banks or department stores, his brimmed hat in hand, eyes shut to the world.

  Sammy is a young man, barely in his twenties—all those years spent on the streets. Mollel thinks he can recall seeing him there as a baby or a toddler, his mother holding him up into the faces of passersby, presenting his shuttered eyes as a plea for alms.

  As the years passed, the mother-and-son begging team drew a measure of success, perhaps too much, because they attracted attention. First there was a group of doctors from the Nairobi Hospital who wanted to send the boy for specialist treatment—an offer that the mother always refused. Then there were rumors, and following the rumors, the journalists. One day the Daily Nation had a big splash on the mother who superglued her baby’s eyes shut to increase his begging appeal. She denied it: the pots of discarded glue found all around her shack in Kibera were the result of her own addiction, she claimed. She was a loving mother who had nothing else in her life but her little boy, whom she looked after impeccably. Certainly his portion of the tiny shack was clean and comfortable. There were even some toys. Jealousy, she said, motivated the allegations.

  The child—then a boy of six—was taken away. The good doctors found the skin of his eyelids fused to his corneas, some said because of the glue; others suggested a prenatal infection. Either way, there was nothing to be done. The closed lids at least had the benefit of concealing the useless jelly beneath.

  So they sent him back to Kibera, but his mother was not there anymore. She’d become so lonely without Sammy that she’d downed a bottle of the illegal local spirits, chang’aa, poured all her glue into a plastic bag, and stuck her head into it.

  After that, Sammy went back to doing the only thing he knew—and he has been on the streets ever since.

  * * *

  —So, Sammy, says Mollel. Tell us what you heard last night.

  —Okay. Follow me.

  Sammy leads them away from Little Mombasa, into the park, parallel to the large, wide-open space at the rear of the gardens. During the day this is a car park; at night it is empty. At the far side is the drainage ditch where the girl’s body was discovered. Wainaina and Mollel both turn on their flashlights, which they use to pick their way down a narrow path, winding through shrubs and hedges alongside the open ground.

  —What do you notice about this place? asks Sammy.

  —I don’t notice a damn thing, replies Wainaina, inadvertently flicking a branch back into Mollel’s midriff. It’s pitch-black!

  —Exactly, says Sammy. And yet I’m leading you. See why I like to sleep here? It’s safe, secluded, and I can hear anyone coming. Karibu nyumbani.

  The phrase means welcome home, and Sammy has stopped before a large ornamental fan palm. He ducks behind it, and the three policemen follow. They find themselves in a small sheltered spot. The ground is dry, it is perfectly secluded, even comfortable. Mollel, certainly, has slept in much worse places. In a hollow by the palm’s base is a blanket and a small stash: some clothing, a radio.

  Kiunga peers through the leaves.

  —There’s a clear line of sight to where the body was found, he says. Clear line of hearing, I should say.

  —Ringside seat. Sammy grins.

  —What did you hear?

  —Let’s get out into the open. I don’t want your dirty police boots ruining my fine carpet.

  * * *

  Together, they go by a different route through some more bushes and come out in the deserted car park.

  —I stay there a couple of times a week, Sammy explains. Saves the matatu fare back to Kibera. Always Friday nights, as I need to be at my spot early on Saturdays, to get the shoppers, right? So I’m pretty familiar with the usual activity here. You get quite a few cars coming in, parking up. I hear the springs creaking, the moans. Even the money changing hands.

  —No one here tonight, says Mollel.

  —They’re not going to bring their johns here now, are they? The place is cursed.

  —What about last night?

  —Last night. Now,
that was out of the ordinary. Before I go on—he reaches out and touches Kiunga on the arm—could I trouble you for a cigarette?

  —What the … Kiunga lifts his sleeve and sniffs it. —Is it that obvious I’m a smoker?

  Mollel and Wainaina laugh. Kiunga grudgingly takes a packet of Sportsmans and some matches from his pocket and hands a cigarette to Sammy, offering the pack to the others too, but they refuse. He strikes a match, holds it up for Sammy to share the flame.

  Their faces glow and flicker in the matchlight.

  Sammy breathes the smoke deeply and exhales with satisfaction. —Where were we?

  —Last night.

  —Ah yes, last night. Well, last night was a strange one. About eleven, these buses started arriving. They woke me up. I counted them—four buses. They were here until three. I know that because I listened to the radio afterward, until it started raining.

  —The K Street girls are doing them by the busload now? jokes Wainaina, but the others ignore him.

  —When they unloaded, they sounded like school buses. You know, all the feet? But these weren’t kids. By the sound of the boots, I thought at first they were policemen.

  —What makes you think they weren’t?

  —I know they weren’t. First, because you lot are here asking about them. I reckon you’d know about it if it was your own boys. Second—no offense—they were too disciplined to be policemen. The buses were full, I reckon, but they all got off and lined up in just a few minutes, no talking, no joking, just a load of whispered orders. I heard them spread out, sounded like they were in teams. As if they were checking the place out. Then I heard them marching about. Back and forth, and around.

  He takes another long drag from his cigarette.

  —Four buses? asks Kiunga skeptically. That’s two hundred men at least. Our night patrols would have seen them.

  —I thought there were no night patrols in the park, Mollel remarks.

  —They’d have seen that sort of activity from the street! says Wainaina.

  Mollel looks around. Easily visible above the trees are the lights from the office blocks of the city. Closest is Nyayo House, the home ministry headquarters, but there was no chance of any civil servant being at his desk at that time of night to look down into the park. At ground level, though, the highway is not visible, except for the occasional flash of light through the foliage.