Black Mischief (23 page)

xcitement was bubbling at the next meeting of the Big Twelve at the Pink Palace. The mood at these gatherings was always dictated by the state of mind of Mister Abel Rubai, the man from the Kenya Hills. His colleagues were not usually aware of the true reason for his bonhomie, but they were happy enough to see the smiling face and glad they would be able to voice opinions without the risk of having to endure a withering put-down if they unwittingly gave offence to their esteemed leader.

‘Gentlemen, it was interesting to see so many of you at the recent funeral of the good Doctor Mboya. Unfortunately urgent state business prevented me from being there for the ceremony. As you know, an attempt was made on my life as I was arriving. The thug, an activist from an anti-government group that hides out in that vast sewer of humanity wounded my good lady.'

‘I hear that CID have a number of promising leads.'

‘True, Alfred, but we have to thank God that she is back on top form.'

In a brief pause, he shut down his concerned husband mode and took up his patriotic statesman role.

‘I have news, but first let me confess that Mboya's passing was not a complete surprise to me. He was warned that setting up a clinic like that was going to lead to trouble. The whole operation was small scale. You help a few and you upset many more by creating resentment. “Why them and not us?” Health, education, law and order etcetera can only be handled on a big scale by governments and their agents. Too many busy-body do-gooders and in no time the position of the state is undermined.

‘I have been informed by reliable sources that another anti-state, shall we say, plot, is beginning to take shape. I won't go into detail now other than to say that any danger to state is likely to show itself in the constituency of Nakuru South.

‘I need your help here. After the retirement of Simon Nyache, there will, of course, be a new member up in that area of the Rift Valley. I want your approval that our candidate will be my son Reuben. He is young, vigorous, well-connected.'

The business of approval took less than a minute, another proof for Abel of how swiftly democracy can move in Africa when the need arises. Papers were duly signed. A final proposition was soon on record. Reuben Rubai was to make his first visit to the Naivasha area as prospective MP.

When the meeting had finished, Abel sat on alone at the empty table. His mood was sombre. He was tired. Perhaps he should take Sally on a holiday, make it up to her, even if he dared not tell her what he was making up for. In Paris she could go wild in the shops, only Sally never went wild about anything. She had said more than once that she would like to visit the churches of Rome, but he knew for a fact that there would be lots of steps, so perhaps not a good idea to go when she was carrying the boy in her belly.

He had slept with another woman, been unfaithful to Sally. For most of the men that had just left the room this would not have been a problem. Far from it. He would have admitted that he had enjoyed the experience. But there was this obsession about keeping control at all times. The pretty little friend of Reuben had drawn him into a mess of careless behaviour. Why had he given her that heap of money?

She had come back into the farmhouse. How much had she heard? How much? No control again. She would never have dared to speak about what she had heard. But, on balance, best to take no chances. Uchome would see to it all.

But, but, but she had chosen to hide away. It did not take him long to work out a chain of danger. McCall, the election, Serena and, at the end, Miller and Komar. Even if they did get wind of his conversation, hakuna matata. No one would believe her. Hearsay, his word against hers. But all this would be so … inconvenient. Two lawyers would smack their chops to have even this tiny morsel to chew over. No doubt there would be lies printed up in
The Nation
and
The Standard
. She must go and soon.

On that same afternoon as that meeting, Rebecca Kamau and Maria Kabari were together in Bertie Briggs' guesthouse, not far from the edge of the lake. Heavy rain was creating what Rebecca called ‘the beautiful African noise' on the mbati roof, so the two women carried on with their jobs without trying to speak to each other. The unused cottage had been finished with good quality materials and ready for use as an office, headquarters.

The heavy shower stopped just as Maria was boiling a kettle for a mug of milky chai. They took their drinks and sat on the wicker chairs out on the small veranda. The air was fresh and the damp plain leading down to the lake was lush with thick, rich grass. At first, the far shore was out of sight as the grey curtain of rain moved steadily across the lake towards the heights of Eburu and beyond.

‘Hosea has put in his papers for a transfer to a station somewhere in the Rift. There are vacancies for sergeants in Gilgil and Navaisha.'

‘What do the girls think about that?'

‘For them, closer to Nairobi means closer to paradise. Also, if it comes quickly, it will be two more votes in the election for Thomas.'

‘He will need every vote he can get.' Rebecca's tone was subdued. ‘He believes he cannot win. Rubai money and favours will count for a lot. Papa thinks so, too.'

‘I think Thomas is right.'

‘But you will still vote for him.'

‘Of course. Serena gives us hope for the future. Paul will make a good president. And you would make a good candidate for Nakuru South. You would win.'

‘Win?'

‘Rebecca, you are a beautiful, talented woman. Most of the red-blooded men in the country are half in love with you. The women love you even more.'

‘Maria, why do you say these crazy things?'

‘No, not so crazy! Let me explain. Thomas is going to be in the election, whenever Mr Big decides that there will be an election. Am I right?'

‘Yes.'

‘Now, maybe Thomas will win and become the Serena man for Nakuru South. Maybe he will not win. But if Rebecca McCall was the candidate, then, for sure …'

The two friends were in a state of high animation. Maria was pumped up by the logic of her argument, Rebecca by its absurdity. Maria had not yet reached the end of her reasoning.

‘Darling, give me a minute and then decide if I am crazy. Mama Ngina, they name streets after her in every big town in this country. Why do the people do this? Because they love her. Mostly they love her because she was the president's wife. What was her great talent? Being herself, a big, lovely lady with a huge heart. There has never been another woman like her. Until now. Until Rebecca Kamau. You are beautiful. Everyone in this country knows your story. They could make a film about it. Even the Yankees know you are something special. You are a woman and you have topped all the men in this country. And here is the big point. You give our women … hope. Hope.'

Rebecca looked away in the direction of her faithful friend, Old Longonot. She was embarrassed, outwardly by the praise from a woman who was the wisest woman she knew and inwardly for a sense of disloyalty towards Thomas himself. Once or twice thoughts had forced themselves into her head against her will. A woman MP for Nakuru South, highly unlikely. A young white bwana, impossible in these times.

But Maria was not finished with her words of persuasion.

‘The hospital, Rebecca.'

‘Maria?'

‘Think about it. Mister Big and his boys give out lots of money and make promises that they never keep. Serena can show the people the field where the hospital will stand.'

‘That would help Thomas also.'

‘Yes, but would it be enough?'

‘Perhaps not, but that is the road we must take.'

euben Rubai was excited. He was riding in the back of one of his father's Mercedes. There was a chauffeur and a single bodyguard in front and, by his side, Frank Kisaro, the best Mister Fixit in the party. Kisaro had been given his orders. He must guide and coach the next MP for Nakuru South through the day. ‘He's very green, Frank. Light touch, light touch. Got me?'

Reuben read the situation differently. At last his father had learned to trust him enough to send him out on a big job on his own. Papa wanted him to take along some office boy just in case he needed advice on ‘protocol and procedure'. Reuben had picked up the expression from an article in
The Nation
and he was determined to work it into a conversation sometime soon.

The one formal meeting that had been arranged was with the town mayor and the council. That done, Papa had advised him to wander around, ‘meet people, make contacts and ask questions.'

The crucial piece of information that he had been given by one of the Rubai spies in the workforce at Londiani was that the young screwball boss and his soft-headed father had flown up to the farms up in the foothills of the Big Mountain and would be out of the way until evening.

It was still midmorning, but Reuben was bored with the business of shaking hands with strangers. He never once asked someone to vote for him when election time came ‘round. That would have been too much like begging for favours. The social conscience of his youth, his desire to help ‘losers', as he now described them, had given way to the Rubai trait of helping himself first and then, if there was a little something left over, well perhaps he might find a use for that later.

‘Take a right here. See that sign, “Londiani Farm”. We'll take the road the trucks use. That way we won't get the car covered with dust. Frank, I want to have a word with some of my voters. Smart idea, huh?'

Frank replied with a bland smile. He had known from the start that he was not going to enjoy the job of escorting this spoilt moron for the day. This one was just as bad as the boss's dead kid. But he had worked out a strategy for number one son that would work just as well with this know-all. Say little, smile a lot, keep agreeing with all the big ideas. Above all make lots of mental notes and write a few handy quotes in his little fat book. The boss would be expecting a report.

Reuben was more impressed than he would have admitted when he stepped out onto the huge concrete apron where three large Londiani trucks were parked. Three of the eight-wheelers were being washed down and everywhere he looked, he saw signs of neat practices and efficient work. He sent the bodyguard to find the manager, the boss mechanic or whatever they called the bwana in that part of the farm. Farm? Factory more like!

A small young man in blue overalls turned up and introduced himself.

‘My name is Donald. I'm the junior foreman in the motor pool. How can I help you, sir?'

‘Well, Mister Duck, I will soon be the MP for the district. I want to speak to the flower people.'

‘You mean the field workers. If you would —'

‘Don't try to be smart with me, Mister Duck, or you could soon be promoted to ex-junior foreman!'

It was curious how, after he had been accepted by Papa as son and heir, and successor to the beloved Julius, Reuben seemed to have also inherited the cool dude way of speaking of his elder brother. It made him feel impressive. South Bronx or Brooklyn, he would not have recognised either, but he had seen the films and that was good enough for him.

Eventually, he found himself with his mentor, Frank, standing outside the office of the head foreman.

‘Looks like a nice chair in there. I think I'll just …'

‘No, Bwana, there are important papers in this office. The boss would not like it.'

‘Oh, too bad. But if you'll just move over.'

‘No, Bwana! Do not make me use the violence.'

Reuben was deeply insulted at such a threat. He thought of putting his bodyguard on the job, but the big, barefoot man in shabby clothes barring his way had a wild look about him. The half smile on his face suggested that he would relish a challenge. Frank Kisaro would have advised caution but said nothing. This kid would have reported such advice and made it sound like weakness, and weakness did not appear on the Rubai register of good behaviour.

* * *

‘You don't recognise me, do you, preacher man? ‘