Softly Calls the Serengeti (31 page)

As Joshua dashed along the narrow aisles, searching among the stalls, he knew he might not find Mayasa. He hoped she had fled at the first sign of the trouble. If she hadn't, she would be in serious danger.

The vast throng very quickly emptied the stalls of any worthwhile trophies and, as Joshua had feared, the organisers immediately started a fire at the far end of the market. He headed towards it to be sure Mayasa was not in the vicinity, but then he saw smoke rising from the opposite end. And then more at each of the remaining two quadrants. The looters were well
organised; they wanted to quickly and comprehensively destroy everything in the market. Retribution on the Kikuyu stall-owners had been a long time coming. They meant to leave nothing for salvage. Anyone left behind would be trapped by the raging fires converging towards the centre.

Joshua dialled Mayasa's number on his mobile phone. In perfect Swahili, her soft voice thanked him for calling and asked him to please leave a message.

A shrill whistle pierced the pervading noise.

A gang of Joshua's Siafu friends rushed by him, yelling at him to run. ‘
Polisi! Polisi!
' they shouted as he stood, immobile.

Through the forest of stall racks and struts he could see a column of the dreaded GSU police—helmeted and with batons drawn. A sound like a shot rang out.

Joshua took flight, dashing after his Siafu team-mates until they were all clear of the market. They ran as a pack, crossing the last of the bitumen and dashing into the almost impenetrable density of Kibera, where they knew the GSU was unlikely to pursue them.

Joshua paused at the entrance to the alley. He could see his friends quickly disappearing into the maze, but he hesitated. Burning Toi Market while people were still about had been reckless, and because everyone in Kibera knew he was a member of the Siafu gang, he was implicated.

Joshua ran on, choosing to take another alley and an escape route of his own.

 

Mayasa stood among the crowd of onlookers watching Toi Market burn. Around her were stall-holders who had lost all their goods, and residents who had lost access to cheap food, second-hand clothing and household products. The looting was well underway, with many in the mob competing for the best prizes. They ran from the burning market carrying boxes of
stolen goods. A boy of around ten emerged from the flames, carrying a puppy.

Joshua was nowhere in sight and Mayasa was pleased. She couldn't bear the thought of him being involved in an act of such mindless destruction.

With the heat of the flames on her back, she decided to make her way home. Her father would not be happy that she had gone against his wishes, but she needed to call Joshua, which she planned to do as soon as she got there.

Not far from Toi, where the strip of bitumen that had once been a public road petered out into a narrow, muddy path, two men rushed from the burnt-out shell of a
duka
and grabbed her from behind. She tried to scream, but one had a hand clasped over her mouth, while the other man grabbed her legs. They carried her back to the bitumen where they threw her into the boot of a car.

Her muffled screams barely made it out into the daylight.

It was late afternoon by the time Riley parked the car. It had been a trial to find a way out of Kibera without risking another confrontation with the police manning the barricades. The Land Rover had proved its credentials as Riley forced it over a rocky rampart and onto a playing field along Ngong Road.

He locked the vehicle and examined the new damage to its door skirts and undercarriage. The steering had felt a little heavy and it was likely that the front end had been damaged during their cross-country detour. He would worry about it in the morning.

He took Charlotte's arm as they climbed the steps to the hotel. ‘Are you okay?' he asked.

She nodded. ‘Better.'

‘Care for a drink?' He motioned towards the bar.

‘Yes, but can we have it upstairs? I'm a wreck, and I just want to freshen up and be comfortable.'

Riley mixed the drinks, listening to the faint patter of water as Charlotte took her shower. It reminded him of his days with Melissa, when she would come in from the gym, sweating a treat. She'd shower and put on her white terry-towelling robe and join him for a sundowner on the deck. He loved her in that robe. His knowledge that she was naked underneath it generally meant they had only one drink before tumbling into bed.

Riley had finished his whisky and soda before the shower stopped. He was making another as Charlotte came from the bathroom, her hair wet, wearing a white terry-towelling robe.

‘I hope you don't mind,' she said. ‘I didn't take a change of clothes into the bathroom, and anyway…it's just us.'

‘Yes,' he said, his drink poised halfway to his mouth. ‘It is. Just us, I mean.'

She accepted the wine he handed her and touched her glass to his.

‘You're still a little shook up,' he said.

‘A little, but, oh, this wine is going to help.'

‘Cheers.'

She took a sip and smiled at him.

He removed the glass from her hand and placed it on the bench top. He drew her to him and lightly touched his lips to the firm flesh at the nape of her neck. Her hair was wet against his cheek. He moved his mouth up to the line of her jaw, then to her lips.

Charlotte responded slowly, very slowly, to his kiss, but then she pulled back.

He took a moment to study her expression, which he found hard to read, but came forward again, finding her lips more open and inviting. She let his tongue touch hers, but again she backed away.

‘Mark,' she said, ‘I'm not at all sure about this.'

‘I know, I'm sorry. You've had a rough day.'

‘It's not that, it's…Well, yes, I have, haven't I? Perhaps I should just call for a sandwich and have an early night.'

‘You should. Yes, that's a good idea.'

He waited for her to say more, but she didn't. The silence grew and Charlotte tried to divert attention from her embarrassment by taking a mouthful of wine.

‘Well…I'll leave you to it, shall I?'

She nodded.

At the door he said, ‘Night, Charlie.'

‘Good night, Mark.'

 

As Charlotte closed the door, she immediately regretted letting Mark go. She wasn't sure why she had backed away from the
moment, but now, with her dismissive tone still hanging in the air, it was impossible to undo it.

Perhaps it was the overwhelming circumstances of the day, as he'd suggested. It had been frightening, but Mark had been wonderful. She hadn't realised it at the time, but as soon as she saw him arrive in the Land Rover, she knew she would be safe. He had the ability to invoke confidence. It was a feeling that had been missing in her relationship with Bradley.

She wondered, too, if she was concerned about Mark not having recovered from the death of his wife. And there was Kazlana. She had no idea what existed between Mark and her, but she knew she was in no mood to enter into a contest for Mark's attention.

She took her wine glass to the seat at the window and watched the traffic crawl up Valley Road from the city, headlights reflecting off the wet tarmac. The office buildings and hotels beyond the gloomy space that was Uhuru Park sparkled in the darkness. The city seemed oblivious to the rampaging violence that was occurring just a few kilometres up the road.

She took a sip of wine and swirled the glass, admiring the various shades of red as the liquid caught the light.

The events of the last twenty-four hours had shifted her attention away from her main objective, which was to complete her research. She resolved to put the political situation and the violent protests from her mind until that objective was reached.

Anything that might develop between Mark and her would have to wait until the end of the trip; if it were to happen at all.

 

‘Good evening, this is John Muya with the latest news.

‘The President of Uganda, Mr Yoweri Museveni, has congratulated President Kibaki on his success in retaining the position of Kenya's head of state. The message comes as a
surprise to most commentators as the outcome of the elections is still a matter of some dispute. Mr Museveni is the first and only national leader to make such an announcement, and has infuriated members and supporters of the Orange Democratic Movement, who claim that Mr Raila Odinga received the most votes but has been cheated of victory.

‘Police are mobilising in the Kibera district, where there are fears of an escalation in the unrest that has been occurring over recent days. A number of people have been injured in violent attacks and there have been many accounts of property damage.'

 

The news swept through Kibera like wildfire. Supporters of Raila Odinga felt that the Ugandan president, by personally congratulating President Kibaki on his win, had stabbed Odinga in the back.

The Luos turned to the only manifestation of the neighbouring country within their reach—the Ugandan railway, which passed through Kibera on its journey from the Indian Ocean port of Mombasa to the landlocked country on the distant shores of Lake Victoria. The railway was Uganda's lifeline and everyone in Kibera knew it.

That night, a mob attacked the iron rails in a fury. They used iron stakes, poles and sticks, as if the lines were an incarnation of the foreign government.

Joshua received text messages to join them, but when he arrived on the scene he could see nothing but chaos. The efforts to tear up the tracks were uncoordinated and futile. He sent out a call for the Siafu to gather at Kamukungi, where the railway tracked through the only open space in its path through Kibera. About thirty young men assembled. Joshua took charge, leading a raid on the railway maintenance shed, which yielded tools to attack the rails more vigorously. Many others, who saw the footballers working with such purpose, joined their ranks.

Joshua organised his followers into smaller crews, then joined one that worked furiously for hours with one of the precious few pinch-bars. They had only ten keys to show for their work. After another four hours and with over a hundred helpers straining to prise loose the keys on each of the iron-hard wooden sleepers, they had managed to rip up just one rail length. They rolled it into the ditch at the side of the track and gave a roar of satisfaction that filled the night.

But Joshua was less than impressed. It was slow, dangerous and exhausting work, made more difficult by a drizzling rain that caused the pinch-bars to be slippery. The key his small crew had been working on for some time refused to budge. Joshua, exhausted, was forced to admit defeat. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and handed the bar to one of his team-mates to continue the struggle. He then walked along the length of the rail to see how his companions were going. He could see they too were making only slow progress.

Each rail had two keys to hold it to the sleeper. There were over two hundred sleepers to a length of rail. It would take the whole gang the remainder of the night to remove just one more rail. This would never do. He had seen the railway maintenance gangs, with their mobile cranes, power tools and rams, remove and replace a rail in an hour or so. The loss and disorder they wanted to cause Uganda would therefore be very short-lived.

Joshua studied the rail section more carefully and realised everyone had missed the obvious answer to their problem. At the end of each length of rail, a pair of fishplates bolted the sections together. Therefore, by removing just sixteen fishplate bolts, a whole section of rail would be detached.

He dashed back to the maintenance shed and found the long spanner he needed. Gathering his crew around him, he explained his strategy. They soon had the fishplates off, but couldn't budge the complete length. Joshua gathered more and more men to the task, until everyone who could take a hold was aligned along the length of track. With a mighty effort, they
lifted the iron rail and sleepers—keys intact—from the bed of ballast and carried them away to the cheers of workers and spectators alike.

Soon they had two kilometres of line uprooted. Uganda was cut off from the Indian Ocean—her connection to the world.

As the cheers and whistles reached a crescendo, Joshua pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. He wanted to share the moment with Mayasa, regardless of the hour. Again he received her voicemail message. His euphoria evaporated and his concerns for Mayasa's well-being grew.

 

Joshua had always been the leader of his football-club cadre of Raila supporters, but his scheme to effectively demolish the railway line was so successful he became an instant hero to all those fighting for an Odinga victory. Mobile phone calls and texts expounded his brilliance. Those who were not present on the night but knew him came to congratulate him. Those who didn't know him sought him out. He added another score of contacts to his address list. Each new contact had his own long list of supporters, whom he could call upon in response to Joshua's communication.

Joshua received a flurry of text messages and, having given up on his attempts to call Mayasa, he searched among them for a response to his anxious text. He again received no word from her.

Shortly after the removal of the railway tracks, rumours spread through the mobile phone network that Odinga would be making a public appearance at Uhuru Park. Joshua sent out a broadcast text message to advise all his network of friends and supporters to gather on Ngong Road to march en masse to the park. The concatenation of networks—Joshua's and others—created an avalanche of text messages that flooded Kisumu Ndogo and beyond, so that very soon all of Kibera and most of
Nairobi were aware of the rumour and the call for numbers to attend the march.

Tens of thousands converged on Ngong Road, cramming it from kerb to kerb. They carried makeshift banners and placards with crudely painted slogans. Joshua had under his control over a hundred young men, but there were thousands of women, children and old people in the march too, keen to hear and see the man who would bring about the change in their lives that they so desperately wanted.

Awaiting them at the city end, above Uhuru Park, were the police with their water cannons.

A senior police officer addressed the crowd with a powerful loudspeaker. His voice carried into the heart of the huge column, appealing for calm and for the marchers to disband peacefully.

Joshua's group wanted a confrontation and tried to drown him out by loudly chanting ‘No Raila—No Peace', but the loudspeaker blared over them.

‘Attention, please,' the officer said. ‘This is an illegal gathering and it is my duty to bring it to an end. There is no rally in Uhuru Park. I repeat, there is no rally in Uhuru Park. The media have confirmed this. It is a rumour. So I ask you all to go home or else I will be forced to break up this illegal rally by whatever means at my disposal.'

The majority began to waver, glancing at their fellow marchers in some uncertainty. Others used their mobile phones to confirm there was nothing happening in Uhuru Park.

Joshua and his group kept shouting that the police had never been trustworthy. ‘He lies! He lies!' they cried. ‘No Raila—No Peace!'

But slowly the crowd melted away, leaving only the angry young men to face the water cannons and teargas.

 

Joshua sprinted ahead of the slower runners fleeing before the pursuing police baton charge. There were many bloodied heads around him, but he dodged and weaved, avoiding the vicious blows until he and his followers were safely among another mass of protesters on the fringe of Kibera.

The GSU, a paramilitary wing of the military, formed lines along Kibera Road, with grim-faced, riot-ready men staring down the protesters.

A rock bounced off a policeman's acrylic riot shield. It was soon followed by a torrent of rocks and abuse.

Teargas canisters exploded and then, quite suddenly, there was the
crack
of a firearm.

As if as one, the rioters paused in their assault, listening; uncertain.

Joshua couldn't be sure where the shot had originated, but a second shot—more powerful than the first—came from the police lines.

There was a roar of enraged disbelief from the ranks of the protesters, who began to pelt the police with renewed vigour.

As Joshua stooped to gather more ammunition, his young companion, who a moment before had stood shoulder to shoulder with him, dropped to the road like a sack of wheat. He lay there motionless. Joshua gaped, expecting to see him leap to his feet and reveal his joke, but as he stared at him, a dark stain spread across his back. Joshua rolled the young man over. The bullet had hit his chest, making a gory mess of it and his Che Guevara tee-shirt.

The protesters fell into disarray as more and more shots were fired and bodies dropped or the wounded screamed in fear and pain. Joshua ran into the nearest alley as a bullet pinged through the air near his ear.

Small groups re-formed from among the protesters, but now there were others too—young men Joshua had never seen before, who came swarming from elsewhere in the slums. But these newcomers did not confront the police. They were more
intent on creating chaos and the opportunity to plunder anything of value.