Softly Calls the Serengeti (27 page)

‘How can I get to see Kisumu Ndogo?' she asked, barely able to contain her enthusiasm.

‘Easy,' Joshua said with a shrug. ‘Come with me.'

‘Charlotte,' Mark said, before she climbed from the Land Rover, ‘is this a good idea? You're still a little shaken from what happened in Naivasha. Why not leave this until tomorrow?'

Charlotte's annoyance with Mark had diminished during the journey back to Nairobi, but she was in no mood to concede his point.

‘I'll be fine,' she said coolly. ‘It's just a quick tour today. Joshua will take care of me.'

‘Well, I guess you know what you're doing.'

Charlotte climbed out of the Land Rover and joined Joshua at the side of the road.

‘Take care of Charlotte, okay?' Mark told Joshua.

‘Everything is okay, Mr Mark. She is safe with me.'

‘See that she is.' Turning back to Charlotte, he said, ‘What time do you want me back here?'

She looked at her watch. ‘It's one now, so let's make it around five.'

‘Five it is. I'll be here on the dot.'

He said goodbye, and she watched as he spun the wheel, taking the Land Rover into a U-turn, over the far kerb and bumping down again into Kibera Road.

‘Now, Joshua,' she said. ‘Let me see this Luo village you call Kisumu Ndogo.'

 

As Riley drove down Kibera Road, his mind roamed around ideas for his article, which was seldom far from his mind. The
various themes were now in place and he was increasingly drawn to the personal aspects. He knew his search for Jafari would be prominent among them.

The Circularian organisation was central. It seemed to Riley to symbolise the dichotomy between the compassion of the legitimate charitable institutions and the greed of those such as Gideon Koske, who he suspected was using his political position to scam funds for a non-existent charity.

He was approaching Kibera Gardens Road and decided to refresh his memory of the dilapidated orphanage, which he would feature as an example of how foreign funds, sent from private donors, were not being used as intended. He drove down to where the slab-built huts sat in mute witness to his arrival and studied the building, etching the details of its structure in his memory. The oblong window openings in the bleak façade gave the place the appearance of a mournful clown.

He thought back to Melissa's suggestion of visiting the orphanage and the child they helped to support. His memory was a little hazy, but he seemed to recall they were standing on the beach at sundown, as they often did in Bali.

‘Why don't we just up and go somewhere?' Melissa had said, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head on his chest.

‘Good idea. Where?' he'd replied.

‘Somewhere we haven't been.'

‘That leaves quite a wide field, my darling.'

‘How about Africa? We could go and see little Jafari.'

‘Who?'

‘Oh, Mark! Our little waif, of course.'

‘In Kenya? Oh, yeah. We could do that.'

They were silent then, and he'd remarked that he thought the sunset was beautiful.

‘Beautiful? I'm not sure I'd describe it as beautiful,' she'd said. ‘Perhaps more like
magnificent
.'

But they weren't Melissa's words. They were Charlie's, spoken only a few days ago in reference to the Great Rift Valley, not Kuta Beach.

As he turned to leave, his eye was drawn to a corner of the garden where a metal sculpture of a child stood with hands and feet within the rim of a wheel or large circle. It was quite tall, about the actual height of a five-year-old, and he wondered why he couldn't remember it from his first visit. Then he noticed the grass had been cut—not mown, but hacked into shape, probably with a machete as was the practice in many gardens around the city.

The windows had also been cleaned. He could see a figure moving about inside.

He was stunned, and quickly went to the door and knocked.

A woman wearing a plain white pinafore over a pink blouse answered. She had a rounded, matronly shape and her shining black face was illuminated by a surprised smile. Another woman was standing over a cot in which a child lay among a clutter of plastic toys. There were four children in the room, all little more than toddlers.

Riley stood in the doorway, speechless. He didn't know what he had expected to find, but this scene of domestic accord was not it. His surprise must have been obvious.

‘Can I help you, brother?' the woman in the white pinafore asked. ‘You seem to be looking for something.'

‘Yes. No. I mean, I am. Is this the orphanage?'

It was a stupid question.

‘I mean, is this the Circularian orphanage?'

‘It is. And I am Sister Veronica and this is Sister Margaret. Can we be of assistance, Mr…?'

‘Riley,' he said, and took a deep breath. ‘I, um…'

‘Please,' the woman said, ‘won't you take a seat, Mr Riley?'

‘I think I should,' he said, pulling a chair out from the table.

He looked around the room he'd previously seen as derelict. It was now spotless, with lightweight cotton draw-curtains on
the windows, a half-dozen neat cots, chairs and the table, which was long and looked like it might have once been a conference table. One corner of the room was set up as a kitchen with a bench-top stove, microwave oven and a set of shelves holding a range of white crockery with animal cartoon motifs. The floor was covered with cheap but clean vinyl tiles.

Sister Veronica placed a cup of steaming tea before him and he thanked her.

They began to chat and he asked her about the Circularian religion. And why, for instance, they were in the orphanage business. Very soon he realised his mistake. The Circularians had at least one thing in common: boundless enthusiasm for extolling the principles of their belief. Sister Veronica began with
two-pi-r
and went on to explain the many incidents in history that demonstrated its power.

‘Do you know, Mr Riley, that as soon as mankind discovered the world was round, we entered the most fruitful period in human history? All the great mathematical theories, scientific discoveries, magnificent inventions, followed.'

When he managed to drag the conversation around to the orphanage, Sister Veronica insisted it was all part of the same philosophy.

‘The circle is the symbol of family life,' she said. ‘When we see an orphan, we know we must complete the circle for the helpless child, so we find a home for the little ones, like these,' she said, indicating the babies. ‘But the older children, well…sadly, no one seems to want them, except for the older boys. Mr Koske is particularly successful in placing the difficult ages after about seven. The other organisations are quite envious of our successes.'

‘So, how does he manage it?'

‘Mr Koske has an arrangement with people in Somalia who find homes for them.'

‘And you don't mind that he sends the children to an unknown future?'

She shook her head. ‘The children are known to God. We are happy that they are able to begin their journey to happiness.'

‘Happiness? How do you know? They may become child labourers, or worse. Don't you have some follow-up?'

‘No, Mr Riley. Completing the circle is all that's required. To…follow up, as you call it, would mean we are distrustful. We trust in God and the circle. All who do are favoured in the eyes of the Almighty.'

‘So you don't know where the children go?'

She shook her head and smiled. ‘We simply know they go on to complete their circle of life. These little ones commence that journey tomorrow.'

Riley sighed. It was pointless to continue the discussion. He was beginning to understand the term ‘blind faith', with all its limitations. He gave up, but some questions remained unanswered.

‘I was here a couple of weeks ago,' he said, ‘and the place was deserted. More than that, it looked as though it had never been used.'

‘That's correct, Mr Riley. We close the orphanage when we have no children to place. These items wouldn't last long in an unoccupied house in Nairobi,' she said, indicating the various appliances. ‘We have them put into storage until Mr Koske takes another group of children from our headquarters in Mombasa.'

‘I see…'

‘Mr Koske is simply wonderful the way he can find homes for our children. They come in for a few days and then they fly away like butterflies to begin their new lives.' She was beaming with pride. ‘In between times, Sister Margaret and I work with other organisations in Kibera.' She peered into his teacup. ‘More tea?' she asked.

‘No, thank you.'

‘So tell me, Mr Riley, now that you know about us, are you interested in joining the Circularians?'

‘I have to admit, it's not the reason I'm here,' he said.

‘Then why are you here, if I may ask?'

‘I was hoping to find one of your children, by the name of Jafari Su'ud—a boy of about twelve or thirteen by now, I suppose.'

‘Long gone, I'm afraid. As I said, the older boys are always quickly placed. I believe Mr Koske has a contact in Wajir who is always looking for Muslim boys to place with Arab families. But you've come from so far away—how did you hear about us?'

Without a thought of where the conversation might lead, he told Sister Veronica about Melissa and their discussion in Bali, but became diverted and found himself talking about their meeting in the supermarket; of how he'd loved her at first sight.

‘Oh, that's so sweet,' Sister Veronica said. ‘Did you hear that, Margaret?' she asked her colleague. ‘Love at first sight.'

The other woman nodded and, smiling, took a seat beside Sister Veronica.

Riley became immersed in the details: the wedding photos on surfboards, their marriage ceremony. He roamed into recollections of other happy days in Australia, and smiled as he recalled the fun they'd had learning to windsurf; how Melissa would shriek with delight when she finally remained upright for long enough to catch the wind and run with it. The story meandered back to Bali and the day they'd discussed travelling to Kenya to see their foster child.

‘It's the reason I'm here today,' he said. ‘Melissa and I had been talking about coming here to find Jafari for some time.'

‘And I can see it was the love you share with your wife that brought you here. But where is she? Where is your wife, Melissa?'

As usual, he found a way to avoid the question. He strung more memories together, but soon he was recalling that terrible night in Bali: the forgotten hat; the ear-shattering explosion; the horror of Jalan Legian.

Sister Veronica's hand went to her mouth.

He recounted the long moment of shocked disbelief; the mad, blind dash to where he'd left Melissa, and his frantic search for her among the ruins. And suddenly Melissa was in his arms—a lifeless, broken body.

Tears brimmed and he forced them away. His story was finished but he felt unsure if he'd told the sisters how much he'd loved his wife. He told them anyway.

The two nuns sat side by side, tears tumbling down their cheeks.

He was exhausted. Empty.

But it was over.

 

Kazlana sat in her empty office, reading the civil aviation report again. It all made sense now. Her father would never have landed the Cessna near the Somali border unless he had a compelling reason to do so. He had arranged a meeting with Abukar to get details of whatever he suspected was going on at the Nakuru medical facility, and Abukar had murdered him. Which meant she could never avenge her father's death—Abukar was beyond her reach.

She dropped her head into her hands and groaned in frustration.

Her mobile phone rang. She ignored it.

A moment later the telephone at her receptionist's desk buzzed. Who could be calling her office on a Sunday? She pressed the answer button.

‘Antonio!' she said. ‘How are you? Is everything all right?'

‘
Cara mia
. You are a very difficult person to find, no? Everywhere I am calling you, here and there, and now I find you in your office! Never mind. I have some news about your father.'

‘You do? I've been going crazy here. I can't understand what—'

‘Kazlana. Stop. Listen to me. I do not have a lot of time. Your
father had a rendezvous north of Wajir. That is why he landed where he did.'

‘Yes, I know. It was with Faraj Khalid Abukar.'

‘No. It was not.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Because…I was with Abukar that day. Neither he nor his men were involved.'

‘Then, who?'

‘Ah, that is the difficult part. I don't know this person, but my information is that he's—how you say?—a big noise in Nairobi.'

‘Antonio, wait. What are we doing? We shouldn't be discussing this on an open line. You know how it is.'

‘There is no time. I leave for Somalia tonight.'

‘I don't want to hear the name. For your own sake, hang up now.'

‘I don't have the name, but maybe you can find it yourself. This big noise came here in a government helicopter. They arrived on—'

‘Antonio! For God's sake, stop. I'm hanging up.'

Shaken and annoyed by Antonio's recklessness, Kazlana went immediately to her computer. Logging on to the
Daily Nation
website, she drummed her fingers while the archives page took an age to download. There was another agonising wait after she'd searched for news reports for the day her father's plane crashed.

She perused every article on that day and every day of the following week, but there was nothing about a member of the government arriving in Wajir. Maybe it just wasn't newsworthy.

She was about to close the site, but on a hunch called up the page covering the day before the crash. There it was. A small piece in the
Gossip Around the Nation
column:

Wajir. Thursday. Despite all the chest-beating the government is doing about the need for economising, our spy in Wajir has informed us that a government helicopter with one official
aboard arrived in Wajir today. Junior government minister Mr Gideon Koske was on a flag-flying mission. Anyone would think there was an election in the wind!