Boss Takes All (34 page)

‘We are Turkana and we fight like the warriors we were and will be again.'

They were psyched up for a battle. With them were four southerners who knew the way to the place and would have their own jobs to do when they got there.

‘Okay. You take care of the buildings and we will take care of the warriors.'

‘Murroni, with any luck there be few warriors, just watchmen who will scatter to the hills as soon as they see us coming. You will never earn easier money than you will tonight.'

‘My boys want there to be many warriors. They need the practice. See how excited they are! But this Boss, we can trust him to pay?'

‘Always. He is excited, too. He heard that you are a bit crazy. His heart is in it. You boys will be able to buy yourselves beer for the next two years.'

‘We will not waste the money. We have important work with our people.'

‘Suit yourselves, brother!'

‘And, Bwana, we are not crazy! Every one of these boys is special.'

There was no sleeping or nodding off on that journey. The young Turkana men had done small jobs in the city - hold-ups, burglaries, kidnappings - but they were convinced that in this country place they would have the chance to be real warriors again.

On the last bend down the Escarpment, the excitement mounted. No one had told them about the big lake in the valley. The large flat plate of water gleamed under a full moon, just like their lake at home.

The vans sped along the empty straight on the valley floor. At the first sighting of the lights of Naivasha, they began their final preparations, making sure that their weapons were to hand. As they passed over the level crossing, Murroni gave his boys an order.

‘Bend low. As we go through this town, no one must see you. We must not spoil our little surprise. Izzy, flash your torch to the vehicle behind. They must hide, also. And be ready. The time is very near now. When we stop, do not move until I tell you.'

* * *

There was plenty of life in the centre of town. The large trucks on their way north from the coast, carrying goods to Uganda and the Sudan, were parked on the wide dusty verges. The bars were open and doing a good trade. Music blared as it did into the early hours seven nights a week at this popular staging post.

A few minutes later, with everyone upright again on their seats, they pulled up in front of a pair of metal gates secured by a chain and padlock. One of the city boys made quick work of getting through this barrier with his heavy-duty bolt cutters. The vans moved inside and parked under a tree away from the large, flat slab of concrete. The passengers waited inside on the lookout for the smallest signs of life in the shadows around them.

There was life, but the two askaris on duty had fled to shelter as soon as they spotted the white vans pulling up in front of the gates. Following instructions, they dialled the number of the police station. From there calls radiated to other parts of the town. The askari's mobile was kept open just in case there would be more news to pass on.

The vans emptied quickly and four Turkana stood guard while equipment was unloaded. Still there was no sign of anyone to give them a fight. Murroni sensed disappointment.

‘First job is to dig holes under the concrete for the dynamite. That will wake them up around here. We'll leave the fire till later. Keep you weapons close to you. They could be all watching and waiting. And keep the noise down!'

In strategic positions around the block the energised warriors dug ferociously.

‘Hey! Hey! That's plenty big enough. Now go and find some rock to hide behind, a hole, anything, that shed, but not too close! Try that old wall close to the fence.'

The charges were set and the deep silence of the night was broken by the distant sound of vehicles moving towards them from the town. There was a mixed reaction from the raiders. The city men older and more experienced calculated that they could finish the job and have an even chance of getting out of the compound and making the two hundred metres to the A104 without being discovered.

‘Change of plan. Get back to the vans. Tell drivers to start up. We could be in luck here. We are ready to blow.'

Murroni's men despised this cowardice.

‘No! We stand and fight.'

‘Crazy savages! The job is done. Pick up your money and go home. Have a real war up there. Dead men do not collect their wages!'

‘Go, but leave one vehicle for real men! We are not afraid of blood!'

‘Nor us, as long as it belongs to somebody else! Right! Here comes the big bang!'

Six explosions were simultaneous and the shattered pieces of concrete flew high and the dust and earth flew higher. A final blast caused the store shed to collapse and burst into flames. Behind a single stone built wall, the remnant of a farmhouse built by a failed English farmer eighty years before, they were protected for the few vital seconds against the lethal blast and the chunks of concrete tumbling back to earth.

Car headlights were cutting through the darkness much closer now as the two white matatus skidded to their right as they left the compound in a panic.

The confused shouts and screams of the Naivasha men in the convoy of cars racing out of town signalled their fury and frustration that they had failed to protect their new dream project. They had been too casual, too lazy and let their children and women down.

‘Henry, we saw those matatus pass us.'

‘I swear there was nobody inside. I was watching carefully. Damn the beer!'

‘Yeah, damn the beer. That's our problem. Blame somebody, something else.'

‘Mother of God, look at that! I pity the one who will have to tell the Kamau girl.'

‘McCall! Anyway I bet she's guessed. Everybody in town heard that noise.'

The dozen cars and pick-ups pulled up on the verge outside the compound. The disconsolate men stepped out and moved to the chicken-wire fence. With their fingers grasping the fence, they stared, incredulous, through the smoke and dust.

‘Oh, no, I forgot! My uncle and cousin were supposed to be on duty in there tonight.'

‘Someone was in there. That's where the police got the message from.'

‘I'm going in.'

‘We're with you. The cowards have run off by now. See, no matatus.'

In the restored silence of the night, names were shouted in a tangle of a dozen voices. When no reply came, the men scattered in different directions to search. But it was a search that was short-lived.

The wild screams coming at them out of the darkness to their left shocked them into silence and for a few seconds drained the energy out of their legs. The crazed pack fell on them, jabbing with the sharp points of their spears or swinging the broad, shiny blades of their pangas. The sudden frenzy of violence terrified them into running for their lives. When the cries of pain of companions began, their own anger erupted into fierce retaliation. They hurled jagged pieces of concrete, picked up pieces of planking and rushed forward, ignoring the hurt of their wounds. Toe to toe, hand to hand, the savagery of the battle rose in a crescendo of fury of strained limbs and outbursts of obscenity and the agonised pleas for mercy from those fell under the weight of blows from a superior enemy.

The crack of pistol shots fired somewhere outside the tight ring of noise, dust and bloodshed brought a lull which grew into a prolonged cooling of the urge to fight on. Led by Inspector Caroline Miggot and Sergeant Hosea Kabari, still holding his pistol above his head, a crowd moved forward warily.

They laid the dead and the badly injured in separate lines on the dusty mix of grass and gravel away from the broken heart of the ruin of the hospital. Nobody had escaped unwounded. Those well enough to walk were herded into a group and forced to sit down in a circle, watched over by newly arrived Naivasha men. Other local men had been asked by the inspector to guard the closed gates to make sure that none of the hundreds gathered outside could get in. Tom and Rebecca McCall were led through. Rebecca was beyond tears as they moved forward trying to take the full impact of the horrors around them.

‘Caroline, this is a place of healing and peace. Why …' She heard cries of men in pain coming from close by. ‘People have been hurt here?' Her eyes were staring in disbelief. She quickened her step and put her hands to her mouth when she saw the line of men stretched out on the ground lit up by the flames of the fire burning more quietly now.

‘How many have died?'

‘Many. We think twenty-five at least. Fifteen are from the town. The rumours are that the others are tribesmen. But, please, Rebecca, come away.'

‘No. I must look at everyone here.'

She began her slow passage, stopping by each body and whispering what Tom and Caroline took to be a prayer. But her words were an apology, heart-wrenching grief for the men and for herself.

Tears filled Caroline's eyes. She knew that a deeper pain was about to strike her friend and that she could not warn her nor protect her from its impact.

‘Oh, no! Please God, no!'

She fell to her knees and grasped the ankles of Iolo Jones, the ‘almost doctor' from Wales. The tears streamed until the pain of cramp seized the muscles of her stomach. When Tom managed to lift her to her feet, she insisted on continuing her walk along the line, supported on her husband's arm. Her words were no longer spoken in a whisper.

‘Please, forgive me. I have been so foolish, so arrogant. If only I could start again!'

Tom held back from saying a single word to her. He knew she would be unjust to herself and he was reconciled that he would not be able to follow her down to the lowest depths of her grief.

Caroline, on the busiest, most stressful night of her time in the police, moved to the group of men suffering minor wounds. She was shocked when a hand grasped her arm tight and pulled her ‘round. Nimosi Murroni, his face disfigured by an empty eye socket, his clothes filthy with dust mingled with dried blood, looked her in the face and pointed towards Rebecca.

‘Who is that person? I think I know her.'

Caroline pulled herself free and stared at her assailant. She replied coldly.

‘Rebecca …'

‘Kamau, the singer. Yes, of course. Why is she here?'

‘Someone has just destroyed her dream. Perhaps the someone is you!'

‘Her dream?'

‘The hospital she wanted to build for her people here.'

‘Hospital? Then they lied to us.'

The single startled eye would have unnervered someone less strong than the experienced police inspector.

‘I must speak to her. Now!'

Caroline was spared the dilemma of making a decision. Tom and Rebecca were moving towards her. Murroni took his chance.

‘Rebecca Kamau, my life has ended here tonight. My body is standing and you see my lips moving, but inside I am dead.'

Rebecca took Tom's hand and looked at the stranger, alert and composed.

‘So you are telling me that this is your work. I think you have done all your speaking. I pity you'

‘And I, too, can still feel pity in amongst the sea of shame. So many good men taken. Someone lied to me, but my lie is greater. Since I was a child I have known violence, the taking of lives. When my family was taken, I thought I knew how to honour their memory. My dream was revenge.'

‘On innocent men like these, your people and ours?'

‘If he came to me at this very moment, death would be a friend. In truth, there are no words.'

‘No words.'

Rebecca turned aside and bowed her head. Tom, at a complete loss, looked to Caroline for guidance.

‘Caroline, you have far more work than I can imagine.'

‘Ambulances and doctors are on their way. Many policemen from the district. There will be no peace here for many days, perhaps never. But, take her home, Thomas. And, please, two small favours. Phone Paul and then Maria. There will be a tomorrow and we must try to prepare. But for tonight, let her emotions flow. Thank God for the warmth of family and friends.'

he media fest began early and spread far.
The Nation, The Standard
and local reporters from international outlets were in Naivasha before dawn. Television channels were allowed into the compound for half hour stints and low flying helicopters bearing news company logos confirmed to the people of the town that their suffering was a centre of attention for the second time within weeks.

The stories were graphic and, by and large, accurate. The photographs were suitably gruesome and persuaded editors to put them on front pages. Two east coast dailies in the United States managed to add personal touches. ‘Rebecca Kamau, as she was then, will be remembered as the singing sensation at concerts at the Flamingo earlier this year,' said
The New York Times
.'

‘Kenya born Debbie Miller, a graduate of MIT, designed the new hospital and is currently in Naivasha, supervising the early stages of the build,' reported
The Boston Globe
.

The Daily Nation
of Nairobi probed deepest in an effort to find causes. ‘One person stands out as the major link between three violent attacks this year: Rebecca Kamau. Julius Rubai, her fiance, was gunned down on the night of their engagement party at Muthaiga Club last May. She and her family had close links with the McCall family of Londiani whose flower farm and house were blown up just weeks ago, with a horrific loss of life. And now this, the destruction of the hospital she planned and sponsored. To us at
The Nation
, this common thread in the attacks seems to provide a rich vein of clues to help uncover the culprits. When we inquired on progress to police headquarters in the city, we were given the old chestnut comments of “No comment” and “We are following several lines of inquiry”. Hakuna matata, the boys in blue are hot on the trail.'