The Fall of Saints (20 page)

We walked past the music rooms. I peeped in. The pianos were intact. As we entered the staff room, we were greeted by a short, plumpish woman in a blue habit and a deep blue dress over a light blue blouse.

“Sister Paulina, good to see you again,” Jane said as they hugged. “This is Mugure, also a former Msongari student. Mugure, Sister Paulina.”

Sister Paulina led us through to the dining room. The tables looked smaller, as did the chairs, telling me I had added a few inches to my height since those days. We sat at a table near the door. She offered us tea and chocolate cake. I supposed there was no need to ask about the fate of the cakes meant for Mary.

After a few pleasantries, Jane delved right into the reason for our visit.“Mugure has just come from the States. She is doing fieldwork on teen HIV, sex, and pregnancy. To that effect, she has been living in Kambera. But why don’t you tell Sister what you want?” she said to me.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” I said. “I have come across too many cases of teenagers and young mothers getting pregnant routinely. I met one young woman who gets pregnant three months after delivery. I was told of others who carry twins, triplets, even octuplets. There’s a common theme: They have been to or are connected with clinics and adoption agencies that mushroomed after the ban on your Alternative Clinics. And they are silent about the babies. I believe the roots of the problem, the mystery, are to be found in the closure of Alternative Clinics.”

“Sister Paulina,” Jane chipped in, “I believe that the Alternative Clinics were fine, clean, with absolute integrity in their operations. They offered immaculate services, if I might put it that way.”

“That’s why we are here. To see if you can answer a few questions,” I said.

She listened intently, her eyes on us all the time, but with no reaction. Now she said, “It depends on what you want to know. I haven’t followed up on all the things that have happened since our closure.”

“Why do you think they let you go?” I asked.

“I was the leader. I am not aware of any other reason,” she said humbly but obviously choosing her words carefully.

“Sister, if I might say so, those who wanted you out had ulterior motives,” Jane said.

“I did my part. I still believe we were doing the right thing.”

“Why do you think the Church came out so aggressively? It’s not as if the state had a strong case against the Alternative Clinics—that is, if they had one,” I persisted.

“I really don’t know. But yes, they were a bit rough,” she said, and laughed as she stirred sugar into her tea.

“Why do you think the Alternative Clinics were banned?” I asked her directly.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Do you think Alternative Clinics may have been doing something that could be construed as out of the ordinary?” I tried again.

“Not to my knowledge,” she said, shaking her head. “As far as I was concerned, we were helping those girls. I don’t believe in abortion myself, never have, so I couldn’t possibly have condoned that, you know?”

“I know, Sister, I know. The way Father Brian came out blazing, it’s like he knew something.” Jane said.

“Why do you think Father Brian testified against the clinics?” I asked.

“It’s very hard to know people’s hearts. Only God knows.”

There was nothing for us to say after that. We hadn’t learned anything new. The conversation had simply raised more questions. As we stood to leave, I said,“Sister, I understand that you had an audience with the pope at the Vatican?”

“Yes, but it’s not a matter I can discuss.”

“He must have talked to you about the secret document, asked you questions, given you a fair hearing?”

For the first time, I saw something cross her face, a slight movement of her brows. Her lips trembled a little. I don’t know but I believe she was holding back tears. Then she composed herself. “I cannot talk about it.”

“Sister, I believe the clue lies in that document. And Father Brian is at the center of it. I have personal reasons to believe that Father Brian may be an evil presence. Anything you can tell us about him, your observation, your gut feeling, little things, might help save lives.”

I noted that she did not deny or confirm or even say, as she had done with the questions about the Vatican, that it was a matter she could not discuss with us.

“It was really nice having you here,” she said to Jane. “Thank you for all you did, God will reward you. And thank you for bringing the visitor.”

She led us to the door. Jane was very quiet. Her failure to protect the Alternative Clinics still weighed heavily on her, and meeting with Sister Paulina had clearly awakened the pain. For me, Sister Paulina came across as a genuine person who had tried her best to be honest without maligning anybody with a turn of phrase or tone of voice. But she could not mask her pain. She stood at the door as if undecided whether to follow us or go back inside. Then she called us back. “The document contains a vision of evil. Only it was not our vision. Please find the document and stop the evil, if it has not already started.” She went back in the house as if weakened by the weight of her statement.

Jane and I drove most of the way back in silence. Jane broke the quiet when we arrived outside her gate. “I suppose the Vatican had to let her go. What with all the scandals involving priests in America, Europe, everywhere, pedophiles even, the Vatican could not afford another scandal.”

We found Wainaina at Jane’s house and briefed him.

“What made you ask her about the document?” Jane asked.

“You. It figured strongly in your story. Remember the picture that Brian gave me?”

I told them about the suited gunman back in the States and his demands that Zack give up the original document. Zack had spoken as if it were just one among many legal documents. But the document that the gunman demanded from Zack referred to a particular one signed at Shamrock. What was the connection between Zack, Brian, and the document? As far as I knew, Zack first set foot in Kenya on our honeymoon, which was confined to Mombasa. And except for numerous phone calls that could come from anywhere, Zack had depended on me.

It seemed to me that the document, whatever it contained, linked many people who were seemingly unconnected, at least judging by the few facts that we knew.

“We know that Susan, a Protestant, and Brian, a Roman Catholic, set up their agencies or clinics after the collapse of the Alternative Clinics. Were they coordinated acts, or did they emerge spontaneously out of the ashes? We now know that Alaska is ALASKA. It is also the mysterious Kasla. Has Brian ever been to America? Yet he is connected to the gunman. And the car chases and Mark and Joe? I suspect they are all involved. But it’s not enough for us to know that they are involved. We have to convince skeptics. Which means we have to connect the dots. We must trail Susan and Brian.”

“I am with you all the way,” Jane said with a smile. She could tell that I had made up my mind. It was as if she had seen her own daredevil in me.

21

“N
ot you guys again,” said the security guard after he opened the gate for us. Wainaina and I had waited until dark before we made our way to Reverend Susan’s offices at the Miracle Church. We had parked by the roadside, way outside the church’s premises. Our previous monetary handouts paved the way, and Kamau admonished us more as old friends than uninvited callers. He had company, he told us.

We took him aside, a few feet from the gate, and told him in low conspiratorial voices that we wanted access to the office. At first he refused, gesturing toward the company—too dangerous, what would happen to him if something went wrong—but I suspected these were Kamau’s negotiating tactics. We offered him some money. He said he would talk to his colleague. Even his friend wanted to eat. After a few minutes of haggling, we settled on a sum and paid him in dollars. “Just like the Americans!” he said, seemingly satisfied.

It turned out that he did not have the office keys, the rogue, but after a few more dollars—
baksheesh,
or tipping, as he called it—he offered to open the windows. “They are wide enough for an elephant to go through,” Kamau said.

Wainaina was all for it. He was an intellectual who could talk Kant with professors and cut through any bullshit or play dirty when necessary. We were happy to take the risk.

“Don’t mess the office up,” Kamau warned us, but it looked like he was enjoying his role in the conspiracy. He even lent us his flashlights so we wouldn’t have to put on the lights.

“Don’t do a Murdoch/
News of the World,
” I said to Wainaina lightly as we jumped into the office.

“Perpetrate crime to generate news?” Wainaina said.

“You could be out of a job,” I said, and we laughed nervously.

It turned out not to be an easy search. The table was cluttered with many papers and folders. Wainaina went straight to the filing cabinet. “Shit, it’s locked,” he said.

I tried the drawers next to the window. Scanning through quickly, I saw a brown folder and recalled Magda telling us about such a folder. I opened it and, with the flashlight, saw a list of names. “This is it,” I whispered to Wainaina.

We pored over it. The first list had about a hundred women’s names with an X or a Y next to each name. I assumed they were the owners of the wombs for hire. There was another list that, judging by the largely foreign names, contained the recipients of the babies produced under the contract. We knew Kamau would not let us pilfer it. “No problem,” Wainaina said, pointing at the copy machine in the next room. Just then Kamau tapped the window. Our time was up.

“We will be right out,” I said.

Wainaina was already making copies. After five minutes, the watchman shouted again. I promised him more money in exchange for another five minutes. Wainaina was almost done. I took the ten or so pages that he had not copied, and stuffed them in my bra and in the back of my jeans. Wainaina stuffed the rest inside his coat pocket.

“She is here . . . she is here,” the security guard shouted.

“Who?” I asked.

“Reverend Susan. Get out, get out,” he urged us frantically.

We heard a car honk. Wainaina and I rushed to the window. The file, the file, I remembered, rushed back, grabbed it, shoved it back where it had been, and followed Wainaina out the window into the flower bushes. The car’s bright lights shone on us as she drove into the compound. I felt the bushes shaking but then realized it was me.

From where we hid, I couldn’t see Reverend Susan clearly. But she had company. Three people. I heard footsteps. This was not good. Had the guards set us up? I held my breath as the footsteps came closer. They stopped by the window on the inside.

“You should always close these windows, Reverend, mosquitoes are plenty this time of year,” a male voice said.

All I could do was nudge Wainaina. I had recognized the voice. It was Daktari of the Supa Duka.

“C’mon, honey, leave the windows alone,” a woman called out to the doctor and chuckled. “We have a lot of work pending. I have lined up a few Hollywood stars. My singing tour has garnered me many clients, even in Rio. The demand for adoption is really very high.” Then they entered the offices.

This couldn’t be real. I felt light-headed. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know how long I stared, wide-eyed, trying but unable to say a word. Festival of Rags, yes, but this? Wainaina sensed something and put his arm around me. But how to tell him that the woman who spoke of beneficiaries of the wombs for sale was Melinda? Why, Melinda, why?

The watchman hovered over us and whispered, “Now.” We followed him out; his companion walked us to our car.

Melinda’s betrayal weighed heavily on my mind. Even when Wainaina gave me the loot from Susan’s office and I retired to my room, I felt so drained that I did not have the energy to look at the papers. Instead, I shoved them under some others. I wanted to lie on the bed in the dark to wrestle with my thoughts. Melinda, Melinda. She was part of this network of evil.

I never wanted to see her again. But there was no way I was going to connect the dots by hiding from the fight. I had to take it to them. I knew I would have to confront Melinda. But where, when, how? Then I recalled she was due to perform at the Festival of Rags.

22

T
his year’s Festival of Rags was being held at Manguo grounds, near Ngarariga, Susan’s birthplace. Manguo used to be a marshland, a habitat for varieties of birds, animals, and plants. But a shoe factory, with the blessings of the colonial state, had turned the marshes into a dump site for the poisonous waste from the tanneries. The marshes became inhabitable to birds and other forms of animal life; even more, useless as a catchment. But the grounds were flat and extensive and, in the dry season, could hold a crowd of thousands.

We parked outside the fenced field, one of hundreds in the huge space assigned to cars. Jane, who had never attended the annual event because, like Magda, she thought it mocked the poor, had been reluctant, but a smooch from Wainaina accompanying his “please” clinched the deal. I believed she also had a sneaking admiration for Susan’s will and ability to manipulate the male rules of the world.

Wainaina had brought a camera to take as many pictures as he could, but mostly of those around Susan. He was to secure a date to interview Melinda for the
Daily Star,
a prelude to one with Susan. I put on a pair of jeans and a tattered T-shirt. Jane wore a nice dress and a woolen shawl with a beautiful pattern of holes. Soon we were lost in the milling crowd of tatters and masks of misery. White and Asian visitors wore black masks, mostly, but their hair or a bit of their faces might give away their race and color.

Inside the makeshift stadium, miracle vendors in rags sold sunglasses that could shield the wearer from a satanic gaze; bottles with holy water blessed by Reverend Susan; T-shirts with emblems of the holy tree under which Susan founded the Miracle Ministries; bags and badges with pictures of Susan basking in rays that came from Jesus. At the podium were five men guarding a tree decorated with a white ribbon and a red carpet around it, a replica of the original tree. The tree had healing powers, and for a few hundred shillings, members of the public were allowed to touch it. The queue was long. A few women dressed in white wings of rags walked around burning incense to drive away evil spirits that may have lodged themselves among the faithful.