Never Say Never is a compelling story of a teenager's quest for education under the most difficult conditions. Daniel Muthini Njoki, the son of a poor, single mother, is arrested and taken to a remand home in Murang'a, then to Getathuru Reception Center. He is subsequently transferred to other approved schools: Kericho, Othaya, and finally Kabete, where he sits and passes the Kenya Certificate of Secondary Education. The doors to a university are now open. Although he is an innocent inmate, and although textual evidence points in the direction of the mother, the question of who engineered his arrest is part of what makes this work so interesting. The sum total is a superlatively well written novel about the difficulties, the challenges, and the hopes of getting an education in Kenya.
Ask the Stars won the Burt Award for African Literature in 2014. Below are sample pages.
Chapter 1
“Since you love fighting so much, bring a stick each. I will give you a chance to fight.”
I looked at my father in disbelief. He never minced his words and I feared his judgment. Without doubt we were in for a thorough beating. Within ten minutes we were back with the sticks.
“So this tells how much you hate one another,” he said testing the sticks. He said that we would fight following simple rules. We would cane each other in turns until the two sticks got broken into pieces. I was the first one to work on Njorua, my elder step-brother. I raised my stick and brought it down with force. His hands ran to his buttocks as we exchanged positions. I hated Father’s rules forthwith because it meant that I had to receive as much punishment as I administered. There would be no winner. By the third round I was ready to surrender.
“I don’t want to fight,” I said.
“Then take his position!” Father hissed. “Fighting is about inflicting pain, fighting is about maiming, even killing; fighting is no fun!”
“I don’t want to fight!” I wailed.
“We don’t want to fight,” Njorua said amid sobs.
“Are you cowards now? Are you so jerry? Fight!” I raised the cane with my two hands and brought it down with force. Njorua was all too eager to avenge himself. He caned me so hard I thought my short had got torn.
“Please forgive us,” I said crying. I shouldered the biggest burden of pleading with Father because by caning Njorua the punishment would go on. “We will never fight again.”
“Now, why were you fighting?”
“He called me omera.”
“What did he call you?”
“He called me bastard first.”
Father regarded us coldly for a long, disturbing Moment, then ordered us to look each other in the eye.
“Now that you have fought, what has changed? Possibly, you now hate one another more for inflicting so much pain on you, but you are still brothers. Why don’t you learn to live, why don’t you learn to co-exist? I am the law here and I say no fighting. If you must fight, join the army. Then you will have a worthy cause to fight for and get paid for your troubles. If you are willing to obey the law, I welcome you to your heaven on earth.”
Father ordered us to deworm the calf, which entailed tying it to a post, one person wedging its mouth wide while the other poured the dewormer down its throat. We were also supposed to fetch banana stems from the garden for the cattle. The wheelbarrow had a wobbling wheel necessitating one person to pull while the other pushed it.
I was resting after executing the tasks when it hit me. After ensuring that we have beaten the hell out of each other Father had cunningly ensured that we worked together. There was no way one person could de-worm the cow or ferry the banana stems. It required the two of us to agree and physically execute the tasks.
***
The animosity in the family had started two years before. We had just cleared supper when our father said, “I am so proud of each one of you; Stanley Njorua, the little hero, Titus Mutuiria the artist; Antonnina Karuana and Sarah Mwihaki, the little angels and of course my big-hearted beauty queen here. You make me whole. It has not been so easy, considering. We should have had this conversation a long time ago. Maybe you have heard what I am about to say. I take the blame.”
I had heard so many things I couldn’t figure out what Father was about to say. I waited with baited breath.
“I was married before I met your mother.”
That was news to me and my two sisters and brother judging on their expressions. I was ten years old, Njorua, being the oldest, was twelve. Antonnina was eleven and Sarah seven. I wondered why father considered it important.
“As fate would have it, my first marriage did not work. Nevertheless, God blessed it with two wonderful children. After the collapse of my first marriage, I met Mutumia Mutana and we decided to live together. She vowed to treat everyone as her own child. To this day, she has lived her promise and I greatly respect and adore her. Thank you my love. I cannot express strongly enough how proud of you all I am. We are family.”
Father stopped as if debating with himself whether to continue or not. He had our full attention now. His discourse meant that two of us had a different biological mother from the one we knew.
“Njorua, Antonnina,” Father went on, “I am sorry if you have heard this before. Your biological mother is Ascar Atieno. That is no cause for worry; Mutumia Mutana here is as good as your real mother. She cannot replace Atieno, but she can help you grow. It is God’s noble plan that we are family.”
The temperature in the room went several degrees lower. Apparently, the impact of Father’s speech had eluded Antonnina because she continued staring at him vacantly. If she had understood him then she did not reveal any adverse effect on her person. But Njorua was shaken to the core. He turned to my mother with tears welling then, without warning, bolted through the door. Our father followed in hot pursuit.
Jealousy invaded me. Why should anyone joyride on my mother? My step-siblings did not belong; they were unwelcome intruders. Why did their mother not take them along? Could my mother not find a man without a burden? Why had she played cheap? I felt betrayed.
Chapter 2
I wondered whether Father, a prudent man, had not foreseen the backlash that followed his ruinous revelation. Ours was no longer a family but persons entwined by circumstance. It was no longer a home but a battlefield. The easy, jovial atmosphere had vanished, succeeded by a charged aura full of mistrust, suspicion and veiled acrimony between the children. Njorua became withdrawn, irritable and overly possessive of his sister. He dealt with the rest of us only if and when the situation demanded it. My hatred intensified each passing day as I imagined life without the ‘joy riders’.
Our father, a gifted troubleshooter, did his best to repair the rift caused by his disclosure. He came up with a duty rota to induce interaction and to avoid what he called servitude. During holidays and over the weekends we cooked, did utensils, milked and grazed the cattle in turns. We were all trained to execute different chores at an early age. There were two teams that alternated. Father paired me with Antonnina while Njorua teamed up with Sarah. He assumed an autocratic stance to ensure the rota worked. In his own words, it was his kingdom and toeing the line was the only way.
Supper came at nine and was always taken at the dining table. Through the years each family member had acquired a customary sitting position. At the head of the table was Father. Going clockwise there was myself, Njorua, Sarah and Mother, Antonnina. We prayed for the meals in turn. Sunday school was a must.
To instill a sense of responsibility father bought two rabbits each for Njorua and myself. I hated the little creatures because of their gluttonous trait; they were ever eating, day and night. To make matters worse, I was expected to feed a dozen more in the 4K Club project at school. On his part, Njorua was so passionate about his new enterprise he had twelve rabbits within four months.
The school percussion band had made quite an impression on me and I came up with makeshift instruments; an overturned plastic container, an old sufuria, a plate and a rid stuck on a stick. On this day, I was busy hammering the instruments trying to produce an elusive rhythm when Njorua accosted me.
“Why did you do it?” he asked angrily trying to counter the clatter I was making. I kept the pot boiling, unperturbed, and he kicked my implements away. I sprang to my feet and faced him. Being older, he was taller and more energetic.
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“The question is why did you kill my rabbits?”
“Are you out of your mind? I don’t give a hoot about your rabbits, dead or alive.”
He hit me, a powerful jab in the stomach that made me double in pain. He planted his elbow on my back and I sprawled on the ground writhing in pain. I struggled to my feet crying. But my troubles were just beginning because Njorua stormed the kitchen and emerged wielding a machete. He looked savage and I knew he meant business. I bolted towards the gate shouting for help with my step-brother hot on my heels. I turned left and bumped into Father.
“Are you insane?” Father asked.
“He killed my rabbits and I will kill him,” Njorua shouted hysterically.
“Hand over your weapon,” Njorua handed over the machete, “and follow me,” Father ordered.
We walked to the location of the hutches. Despite Njorua’s attack on me, Father was characteristically collected, walking in long, powerful strides. Njorua’s rabbits, twelve of them, lay strewn about the small hutch, dead. Evidently, he had just arrived with a fresh load of herbs that was discarded on the ground. Father removed the dead rabbits from the hutch one by one, and laid them on the ground. He proceeded to remove remnants of the herbs they had been consuming and embarked on combing through them carefully. No one talked. Father’s attention went to the search compounding the silence. Finally, he got what he was looking for; a remnant of wandering jew.
“I usually check for that,” Njorua said rather too quickly, simultaneously pointing an accusing finger at me. “He introduced the herb.”
Father regarded him for a long Moment then turned to me.
“Did you?”
“Why would I …”
“Yes on no?”
“I didn’t.”
He turned to the fresh bunch of herbs discarded on the ground. He went on his knees and began searching through. Anyone not privy to the problem at hand would have thought he was enumerating them. He stopped halfway, having found the object of his search. This time he beat Njorua into talking.
“I know,” Father said with good humour, “you were going to check. Son, you are industrious, enterprising and passionate about your undertaking. My only worry is that you presume perfection. Error is to man, so they say. I appreciate your loss but you can’t just suspect and declare a death sentence on your brother. Only courts of law send people to death after thorough investigations and concrete evidence. Incidentally, what informed you of his guilt?”
“He hates me,” Njorua hissed.
“Did you see him introduce the herb?”
Njorua shook his head. “I was mad.”
“Rightly so,” Father said. “My advice is, never make a decision when you are mad. Apologise to him.”
My step-brother turned towards me fighting hard to face me in the eye. He couldn’t. “I am sorry,” he said mechanically.
“Good!” Father exclaimed. “To mark and celebrate the truce, we will have Korongo for supper.” Korongo – so called owing to his long, bow-legs – was the biggest cock in the homestead. After locating him, the three of us surrounded him to force him into the kitchen. He must have sensed his end was nigh because he clucked in alarm. Through sheer determination, he slipped between Father’s legs. The knowledge that we would have him for supper was enough to pump up adrenaline and Njorua and I fell hard on his heels. Sarah joined the chase and, a while later, Karobia, Njorua’s best friend. Korongo, in a spirited fight for dear life, flew over the fence, ran behind the house and into the garden begging for mercy. But the world had suddenly become too small for him. There was nowhere to hide and we finally netted him.
“That is the power of oneness,” Father said.
Korongo was pop-eyed, decidedly struggling to understand why we had suddenly become tormentors. He had never realised that our care, generosity and all was only meant to prepare him for this moment. A part of the compassionate me pitied him. The very thought of one’s death being a cause of merriment was fearful indeed. Little wonder there were vegetarians and animal rights activists. However, as I detached his head amid cheers, the festive part of me was dominant.
A blood jet landed on Sarah’s white dress and she cursed loudly, simultaneously releasing Korongo’s legs. Korongo was convulsing violently from pain. Now, with enough room to wriggle, he kicked the bowl holding his blood splashing it on my face. I wiped my face only to get a shocking scene. A headless Korongo had taken off! Having no sense of direction, he kept a straight course. He hit against the wall of the kitchen and lay still. The whole team, Father included, was dying of laughter partly because of headless Korongo’s stunt and my red painted face. I ran to the water tap to clean up.
I was just in time to see Tiger, the mongrel from the neighbourhood, dragging Korongo away. I raised the alarm but I was time bad because Tiger and Korongo disappeared through an opening in the hedge. We ran round the fence but Tiger was nowhere to be seen.
Emotions ran high as we came to terms with our loss.
“Next time Tiger steps in this compound I will kill him,” I said angrily.
“Shall that give back Korongo?” Father asked emerging from the house.
“He should die!” Njorua said.
“Shall it give back Korongo?” Father repeated more emphatically. The answer was obvious and it felt silly to respond.
“I thought so,” Father said. “Instead, our neighbour will seek revenge for his dog and the chain of revenge will carry on. Just learn to keep your eye on the prize.”
Father left to relieve Mother at the café.
I accosted Njorua and Sarah. “Why did you leave him?”
“I went to boil water to use to pluck his feathers!” Sarah said all eyes turning to Njorua.
“I was seeing my friend off,” he said defensively. In my view, Njorua was to blame for our loss. Instead of bonding us Korongo had opened a new battlefront. However, with my recollection of Njorua charging at me wielding a machete still fresh in my mind, I decided to bow down.
At supper time spirits were low as we ate kale and ugali at a time when we would have been eating chicken and ugali. Only Father and Mother ate as though nothing had happened. After eating to his full, Father belched.
“Thank you for a delicious meal,” he said and Mother beamed.
“I hope the following story will lift up your spirits,” Father said. “There once was an old lady who lived in misery. Her husband and two sons had been killed in land conflict with the neighbouring tribe. She was returning home late one day when she looked down and saw a coin. I am a lucky old woman, she thought. Her heart was full of joy as she bent to pick her prize. However, on picking it, her heart sunk. It was only a bottle top! ‘I am a cursed old woman!’ she lamented flinging it away. What she did not realise was that an enemy had been hiding in the bush plotting her death. As she bent to pick the bottle top, the arrow passed over her head. Was she lucky or unlucky? Don’t let Tiger weigh you down. It could have been worse.”
“Tell us another story,” Antonnina said and Father smiled.
“Several years ago, on a cold morning, a six month boy lay in a plastic basin gazing vacantly at the breaking dawn. He was drained, tired and red-eyed from crying because of hunger and fear that his mother would never return. His mother, a woman who did not deserve the gift of motherhood, had covered him warmly and left him at the dumpsites in the dead of the night. Only the moon and the stars had witnessed her repugnant act. Close by, two stray dogs rested their muzzles on their paws deep in thought, guarding him.”
Father consulted his watch. “It is getting too late. We will pick it from there.” With that he stood and left for bed.
We were walking out when Njorua accosted me. “He is not your father, Mr. Have-it-all. Yours ditched your mother when she got pregnant.”
Chapter 1
The court was full. The defendant, Robert ‘Bob’ Thuo, a wasted, twenty-year-old youth with the face of an older man, appeared oblivious to the storm gathering around him. His sunken, close-set eyes oscillated between the judge and the prosecutor finally settling on the audience. Grace Nduta, his wife, appeared shaken for reasons best known to her. Jeremiah Wira, his uncle, was in a trance. Why the heck was he muttering to himself? Then there was the audience, a pathetic, holier-than-thou mob that attended burials for a first-hand story. He couldn’t hate them enough.
Bob’s confidence that truth would set him free had long thawed to be survived by dread. The prosecution was painting such a twisted picture he was confused. Of late a few shillings’ worth of the poisons they called alcohol was enough to knock him out cold. Indeed he had woken up in the ditch a couple of times. Nevertheless, could he kill someone – his own father – and forget?
The prosecutor, Edwin Ponyi, a forty-something, six feet tall man with broad shoulders, wiped his face with a handkerchief, his eyes glancing at the stalled fan momentarily as if in a plea. His manner said it all: this was his stage and sending criminals to jail was his mission in life. On the stand was Elizabeth Watene, his star witness.
“What did the defendant say?” Ponyi asked.
“That he would kill Gitonga,” Elizabeth said.
All eyes were on the defendant who appeared subdued.
“Let’s go to the evening of the same day,” Ponyi said.
“I had gone out for fresh air when I heard raised voices coming from my brother’s house.”
“What did you hear?”
“Gitonga and Bob were quarrelling about a woman. Gitonga said that the woman loved him. Bob said that she was his wife. Gitonga said that Bob could have the woman’s body but not her heart. Bob said Gitonga would have neither because he would be dead within seconds. A commotion erupted and I wailed for help.”
“Who is the woman at the centre of the quarrel?” Ponyi asked.
“Grace Nduta, Bob’s wife. She was once Gitonga’s lover.”
All eyes turned to Grace who cupped her face in her hands.
“Go on.”
“Some neighbours answered my distress call and we set on forcing the front door. We moved to the rear door which is lighter only to find it open. Bob lay unconscious outside the door holding a hammer. We dashed to the sitting room where Gitonga lay sprawled on the floor, de- dead.”
It was the defendant’s time to question the witness.
“Why do you hate me so?” Bob asked feebly.
“This is not about love or hate; it is about what I witnessed.”
“You want to take my father’s wealth. I want the world to know that I didn’t kill him!”
“Do you have any question?” the judge interjected.
“I didn’t kill…!”
“Order! Order! Shouting will not give you better results.”
“I was ambushed. It is true!”
“Any questions?” The judge asked. The defendants shook his head. He was sobbing.
The next witness, a slender, tall bespectacled man in his fifties, was sworn in. His beard ran thick and wild, a momentous contrast with his bald scalp. He exuded the confidence of one who has walked a particular path a thousand times.
“Tell the court your name please,” Ponyi said.
“Alfred Shikuri your honour,” the man said in soprano.
“What is your profession, Mr. Shikuri?”
“I am a pathologist, your honour.”
“For how long have you been a pathologist?”
Shikuri scratched his scalp in recall. “Twenty-five years.”
Ponyi nodded appreciatively. “You must be very experienced, Doctor Shikuri.”
“Thank you, your honour.”
“Now, did you carry out an autopsy on Mr. Emilio Gitonga?”
“Yes your honour.”
“Kindly furnish the court with your findings.”
“But for a smashed skull the deceased’s body was fit enough,” the doctor said. “The damage on the skull must have resulted from repeated blows by a heavy, blunt object.”
Ponyi walked from the witness box to the defendant’s and, facing him, asked: “So, Doctor, in your professional view, what caused Mr. Gitonga’s death?”
The doctor cleared his throat. “The deceased died from excessive haemorrhage and brain damage. The blow at the back of the head impaired the medulla oblongata which controls the heartbeat, blood pressure and breathing among other vital functions of the body.”
Ponyi walked to the clerk’s table and picked a hammer in a polythene bag. It was introduced earlier as evidence.
“This, for the reference of the court is exhibit A. Now, Doctor Shikuri, you were requested to classify the blood on exhibit A. What did you find?”
“The blood group on exhibit A is O.”
“And what is the blood group of the deceased?”
“Blood group O your honour.”
“Thank you sir. That is all.”
The defendant had no questions for the witness. Silence ensued as the judge scribed away furiously. He stopped, removed his glasses and studied the court.
“Thank you for the business of the day,” the judge said. “Robert Thuo Gitonga versus the Republic adjourns until October 31st.”
His gavel landed on the table.
Chapter 2
Grace forced her way through the human traffic milling out of the courthouse. She knocked a tall man off balance who turned to look at his aggressor, his look carrying more amusement than annoyance.
“Slow, madam, easy does it.”
Grace turned to offer an apology and gasped. “Mr. Rumu! I am so sorry.”
“Grace!” Rumu shook Grace’s hand, his bulk towering over her. “You look dreadful.”
“It doesn’t get any worse, does it?” Grace said. “Bob is telling the truth, you know.”
“In a court of law truth is rarely enough particularly against a man of Ponyi’s experience.”
“I must do something. I just don’t know what.”
“You need someone to look into the mugging angle,” Rumu said scribbling an address and a name on a piece of paper. “He is the best.”
Grace studied the piece of paper, thanked Rumu and took off. She was a twenty-one year old mobile hour-glass in cream top and red skirt designed to conceal as much as it revealed. She fanned herself with the palm of her hand as she closed the road. An approaching car swerved to avoid her. She didn’t see it. She didn’t hear the driver’s obscenities either. Her mind was far, far away. She had made the wrong decisions once too often she was about to pay dearly. If Bob was convicted all would be lost. As matters stood, that was almost a certainty.
Kathare was a town on the move with new buildings and businesses mushrooming every day. It came as a surprise to Grace that a private detective had set up shop too. Nyota House stood off the main street; a three-storey relic with a steep staircase whose climb gave a low opinion of the intended saviour. She stopped for a breather at the second floor. The corridor before her was dim and empty. She walked half-heartedly and stopped at door no. 23. A fresh, handwritten tag read: GENIUS INVESTIGATIONS. She pushed the door and walked into a tiny office. At the middle was a small office table. On the table was an empty tray. At the table sat a man who struggled to his feet to welcome her. He towered over the small table, his frame bent forward seemingly too frail to stand upright. A quick look at his face suggested stupidity, but his eyes were alive, keen and intelligent.
He was drunk.
“Welcome to Genius Investigations,” the man said.
“I want to see Michael Sanse.”
“At your service.”
Grace’s eyes squinted. Her intended saviour, if at all the skeleton in front of her was Mike Sanse, could save nobody. If anything he himself needed saving. Rumu was wrong. She turned to leave.
“How was the honeymoon?”
Grace turned sharply to face the man. “Excuse me? Sorry I bothered you.”
Grace stormed out and hurried down the staircase into the afternoon sun. She felt bitter with Rumu and the world. How could Rumu pair her with a drunk to counter the police? Heavens, she could achieve more on her own. Come to think of it, she could go on a hunger strike, or even threaten to strip…
She dialled Rumu’s number. “How could you? Heavens, my husband’s life is on the line yet you send me to a wino?”
“Enough, young lady! You are abusing a man of honour. Mr. Sanse is the best detective I ever came across. But for him hordes of crimes would still be unsolved today. I have a testimony. Some years ago my son was kidnapped. The kidnappers wanted one million in cash. Well, I didn’t have that kind of money. I offered what I had, six hundred thousand but they insisted on a million. Sanse saved Christian. Don’t ask me how.” He stopped to let it sink. “There is something you should know. Mr. Sanse was ever a true professional. He loved two things in life: his family and work. He lost his family six months ago. He also lost his job.”
“How many kids?”
“Three.”
“All dead?”
“Yes. I personally financed his undertaking. Now, don’t question my judgement. If anyone can do anything then it is Mr. Sanse. Go back to him.”
Grace stood rooted. She felt as if she had physically hit a wall. The staircase was a sure turn-off, but it was the act of baring her soul to a drunk that made her weary. After a long thought she decided that she stood to lose little. She would only burn some fat, waste a few minutes and get her ego bruised. She had lost a lot already and was about to lose everything. She started up the staircase reluctantly.
Grace took time to re-appraise the office. That the man was drunk was a fact. However, everything else about him was remarkable. The grey Kaunda suit would have sat him better if he were five kilos heavier. His hair part was so perfect his hair could have been held in place with glue. On his left hand was an expensive Omex watch. A trilby hat was perched on the coat stand.
“Why do you think I am newly married?” Grace asked.
“Your ring has a gold-coat that fades easily. Yours is perfect. You couldn’t have lost one because your finger is thicker at the middle than the base.”
Grace had to smile despite herself. “I married two years ago. My finger out-grew the previous ring.”
“I see,” Sanse said solemnly.
“Mr. Rumu told me about your family,” Grace occupied a chair. “I am sorry.”
Sanse embarked on clicking his knuckles. His eyes had a distant look.
“How can I help you?” Sanse said.
Grace noted the strict business tone. “You must have heard about the murder of Emilio Gitonga. My husband, Bob Thuo, has been accused falsely of his murder. He was mugged on his way home.”
The sobs came and when they did it was an El Nino. Sanse leaned back on his chair, bored, and let her cry. Five minutes later she was drained.
“I am sorry,” she said. “My husband is all I have. I need you to look at the issue afresh.”
“Who would want your father-in-law dead?”
“I don’t know. He was a good man.”
Grace narrated what had transpired in court so far. She was stupefied as Sanse opened a drawer, took out a jolly comb and started combing his hair meditatively.
“I will take your case on one condition,” Sanse said.
“What condition?”
“In the event that your husband is culpable it will not constitute failure on my part.”
“Agreed,” Grace said.
“Where is he?”
“He is remanded at Kathare prison.” Grace said. “I will give you anything to set him free.”
“I will need a retainer.”
Grace ransacked her purse. “I didn’t plan for this. You will take what I find.”
“Five thousand,” she said handing Sanse the money. She left promising to top up the amount soon.
Sanse’s phone rang. It was Rumu.
“Tell me about Gitonga,” Sanse said.
“So you are on,” Rumu said. “I knew him through Kathare Orphanage. I have been to his place a couple of times. He lives with his sister and brother. The sister, Elizabeth, is tough and mean. Her son works for Gitonga’s firm, Gitonga and Sons Ltd. Gitonga’s wife died way back followed by two of his sons. As regards the murder you’ll need to dig to form your own opinion.”
“Of course.”
Sanse pocketed the jolly comb, perched the trilby hat on his head, closed the office and strolled out. He crossed the street and kept walking. He entered Busy Bee Bar. Pewa, the owner, glared at him.
“Don’t even try,” Pewa warned.
“Try what?” Sanse said placing some money on the table.
“This should go to your account.”
“Just give me a glass of Medusa,” Sanse was impatient.
Pewa bit his lip and closed his eyes hoping to muster enough hatred and strength to hold on to the money and order Sanse out. However, he had a weakness for his once best customer. Sanse had savoured the whole range, from best to the worst liquor. Eventually he couldn’t afford the cheapest. Sanse’s tab was already in excess of a thousand.
“If I must wait ten minutes every time you serve me will I ever be able to work to clear my debt?”
Pewa poured Medusa in a glass which Sanse had bought from home. Sanse drained the glass, received his balance, thanked Pewa and walked out.
Chapter 3
Bob looked pathetic in a torn, oversize prison uniform which had vertical black and white strips. Sanse was having a hard time conceiving a Bob-Grace intimacy. To him, love could be blind but something is always amiss when the beauty meets the beast. In turn, Bob studied him the way a rat studies a trap.
“I am Michael Sanse. Your wife hired me to look into your case.”
Bob shot him an incredulous look. “She did? What are you?”
“A private investigator.”
“I didn’t kill him. I swear…”
Sanse stopped him with his hand. “Just tell me what happened on Tuesday 16th.”
“I was ambushed…”
“From the beginning.”
“I arrived at one,” Bob started. “I have been away for over two years. You see, I always bragged that I am a millionaire in waiting…”
“About 16th.”
“Finally I gathered courage like the prodigal son of old. It was my 20th birthday and I had to reason with the old man. I was prepared to kneel before him and seek absolution. I knew I had made a mistake coming when my father refused to answer my greetings. He was very annoyed to see me. I was devastated when he opened his mouth.”
“What did he say?”
“That I should have died at birth,” Bob said. “That marked the end of my mission. Some people have told me they would have knocked the silly old man off right then. I simply told him what sprang to mind.”
“Namely?”
“That I felt like killing him.”
“Exact words?”
“I don’t know. I was mad.”
“We are talking about your life here.”
“Okay, exact words.” Bob looked uncertain. “He called me names and I called him names. We were two madmen. I left in anger. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I thought of killing myself. I walked and walked figuring the best way to die. At five I went to Kathare Bar hoping that the decision would be easier while drunk. I later moved to First and Last bar.”
“Whom were you drinking with?”
“At Kathare Bar I had a table all to myself.”
“First and Last?”
“Jimia, my father’s first cousin. There was Job, my father’s farmhand. I have never met the rest. You know bars; your look tells.”
Sanse’s eyes hardened. “What did you say at the bar?”
“I talked about the brawl with Father.”
“Did you say you planned to kill him?”
“I did. I was mad…”
“I know.”
“On the way home I was ambushed. I woke up to screaming faces, kicks and jabs. I went under again and woke up in hospital chained to the bed. There was a cop guarding me. The doctor was looking at me funny and told me I had been dead for hours.”
“Did you see the person who attacked you?”
“He came from nowhere and I was too drunk.”
“In short you can’t tell what happened between the time you left the bar and the time you woke up to a beating.”
“That’s right.”
“How splendid,” Sanse said. “How did you plan to kill your father?”
Bob stared at Sanse. “I didn’t have a plan.”
“Did you think of hitting him with a hammer?”
“No,” Bob protested. “I told you I was mugged.”
“Of course you did.”
“What progress have you made this far?”
“I just started, son.”
Bob had a faraway look. “They will hang me, won’t they? I know they will. I saw it in the eyes of the judge.”
“If you killed your father then…”
Bob’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “If I can kill I would have killed him years ago. What Father did was a replay of countless similar if not worse incidents over the years. Now I wish I killed him.”
And he started to cry. Like Grace, Sanse let Bob cry. “My childhood was a living hell. I had a father who wasn’t fatherly. He treated his servants better. He bought my brothers presents and left me out.”
Sanse left.
***
Sanse had driven home determined to read the letter which had arrived two days previously. Of course it carried bad news; he just didn’t know how bad. He had imbibed two glasses of Medusa on his way home yet he felt too sober to see his fate in black and white. However, much of his reluctance stemmed from his inability to avert the impending doom. He walked out planning to drink some more.
“Hello Mr. Sanse,” a boy in uniform greeted him outside the gate.
“Hello Alex.” The boy was in the company of Karembo, their house girl.
“Do you have a gun?”
“Only the police carry guns; I am not a police officer.”
“Was the man who shot Daddy and Jack a policeman?”
The question made Sanse regret having walked out of the house. A blue Suzuki drove up to them and stopped. Catherine, Alex’s mother, stepped out and planted herself in front of Sanse, her arms akimbo. She was young and voluptuous. She raised her hand to slap Sanse who grabbed it in the air.
“Why did you come into our life?” She said. “I am a widow at thirty for heaven’s sake!”
Sanse said nothing.
“Keep your distance!”
“By all means,” he said and let go of her hand.
“I hope next time they won’t miss.”
Catherine bundled Alex in the Suzuki and spent towards her compound. Karembo trailed the car dejectedly. Sanse retreated to his house cursing that black Friday six months ago for the millionth time.
It had been a long week and all Sanse had wished for was his family’s company. He had boarded a bus from Nairobi at three. When he arrived home at six his family was out. Earlier in the day he had assured Raymond, Catherine’s husband, that he would travel home. He was considering Raymond’s challenge to a game of pool when the nightmare unfolded. There was shouting, there was gunfire and yes, there was hell. Within five minutes the bodies of his wife Betty, his son Jack, his daughters Vivian and Emma, and Raymond, lay strewn on his lawn. A neighbour driving by knocked the assailant dead. Sanse identified him as Chei, a tough criminal he had arrested a week before. He was out on bail.
Sanse had had the feeling that Catherine disapproved of any engagement between her family and his. However, Raymond loved pool and Sanse was the man to beat. Again, Alex and Jack were inseparable. Now, with Raymond dead, she was like a spitting cobra. Sanse did not blame Catherine. His own life was shattered. He was on a free fall. Hell; how did one hold to their marbles after their world has collapsed? Now, six months after, the memories were still fresh despite a spirited effort to push them away. Not even booze could obliterate them. He doubted time ever would.
Sanse took the letter and tore the envelope. The letter read:
Re: Outstanding Arrears of Kshs 55,600.
The foregoing refers.
Despite our constant reminder the amount above has remained outstanding. Be advised that if the amount is not paid in full within fourteen (14) days we shall institute measures to recover the outstanding loan in full and penalties thereof at your own expense.
The letter was signed by the Branch Manager, Mercantile Finance Bank on 16th October 2007
Chapter 1
Senior Detective Cosmas Pai wished he had magic as Diana Ciuri came to a stop at his desk. Her round face was rendered picturesque by sleepy eyes and puffy lips. Her boyish frame couldn’t have weighed a gram above fifty kilos. To correct some of what she perceived to be God’s mistake she had dyed her hair brown and bleached her skin.
Diana continued to stare at him.
“Detective Pai, have you ever rescued a kidnapped victim?”
Pai had succeeded once and failed twice. “Every kidnapping is unique.”
“How do you live with yourself? You couldn’t protect my husband and now you can’t find him.”
Pai wondered how so petite a figure could house so much nastiness. How was he going to make her understand that solving a crime was not exactly like fixing a cup of instant tea? Her husband possibly bolted to escape her wrath!
Pai felt relieved when the office phone rang. His relief was short-lived.
“Sorry,” he said replacing the receiver. “I have to leave.”
“Oh, I get it. A more pressing matter has come up.”
Pai lost his patience. “Yes. There is a body at Thima River Bridge.”
Diana collapsed on a chair. “Man or woman?”
Pai busied himself tidying up his desk.
“I want to see the body. I’ll wait outside.”
A sea of eyes bore into Pai as he stopped for Diana outside the gate. Her entourage was growing bigger by the day. Tomorrow it will be the whole village, Pai mused. He turned down a couple of requests to ride along.
Evidence of previous day’s chaos littered the small town; placards, broken window panes, burned tyres. If a disappearance could generate such heat the town would burn if the body at the bridge was Oscar Ciuri’s.
Neither of the two spoke during the twenty-minute drive.
Thima River was the largest river in Kathare. The ten-metre long bridge was built ten years previously after its predecessor was swept away by the El Nino rains. A sizeable crowd had gathered on the bridge and either side of the river to form a human crime scene tape. A Regular Police officer was barking himself hoarse trying to push the crowd back. Pai ordered Diana to remain in the car and elbowed his way through the crowd wondering what attraction people found in a corpse. His legs grew shy of carrying him further two metres to the body. It lay on its back three feet from the river bank. Judging by the flat chest and the clothing it was a man. His head was missing. So were his legs from the knee and arms from the elbow. It was not just a murder but the work of a maniac.
“Someone was really pissed off,” the forensic officer working the scene said, his camera clicking away. “Looks like he planned to toss him into the river.”
“No blood,” Pai moved closer. “He was butchered elsewhere. Where is the rest of him?”
“On the way to the Indian Ocean, I guess.”
“That’s why we called you in.” The officer handed over a leather wallet. “Your disappearance is now a homicide.”
Pai’s heart somersaulted. Have you ever rescued a kidnapped victim?
“Oh, oh,” the officer said, his eyes trained beyond Pai who turned to see Diana approaching them. The crowd stirred with expectation.
“I told you to wait in the car,” Pai was fully aware that he was wasting his breath.
“Let professionals handle this.” Diana brushed him aside. Her legs grew less determined as she neared the body. She stood dazed for a while before she turned sharply, her hands covering her mouth to stifle a scream. When her eyes returned to the body all confidence had ebbed out of her.
“Any identification documents on him?” she stammered.
Pai mouthed ‘NO’. He imagined another death resulting from shock.
The forensic officer shook his head.
“May I see the inner thigh of his left leg?”
The officer tore the trouser to honour her request. Pai caught a glimpse of a black mole before Diana screamed and collapsed in his hands. He scooped her and dashed towards his car. A news van pulled up in time to capture him bundling her into the car.
Chapter 2
Michael ‘Mike’ Sanse had been sitting alone for an hour. Occasionally his eyes travelled with the bartender who did his best to ignore him. To take his mind off the bartender he tried to recall where he had seen himself today a year before. His transfer to a station nearer home was supposed to be complete. Of course Kathare was out since Pai had beaten him to it. Betty’s boutique was supposed to be on its feet. Betty had stuck with her kids until Jack, the last born, was six. She couldn’t stand house helps. Emma, at twelve, would be enrolling in a boarding school come January.
Sanse wondered what he would have done differently had he known that he would lose his family and his home within the year.
Self-appointed gurus were torn between blaming God and Fate. To him his predicaments were products of human deliberate choices to be evil. If God was to blame for a man’s decision to kill so was He for Eve’s decision to partake the forbidden fruit. And Lucifer’s rebellion. When a rogue bank repossesses a client on the excuse that they cleared their arrears hours late God has no part in it.
Sanse stirred with anticipation as a well-fed man in a well-cut suit walked into the bar and started in his direction.
“Mike Sanse, right?” the man said settling on a chair. “They said you would be in a trilby hat and Kaunda suit. I am Mathew.”
Sanse was positive that no hair could be as dark as Mathew’s without the help of some dye. Most likely his specs were an excuse to compensate for the protuberant forehead.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’ll get straight to the point.” Mathew placed a picture of a young woman in front of Sanse. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
Sanse’s eyes followed the bartender.
“When we got married a year ago she would call me at work. A welcome-home kiss awaited me at the door. Always. I was honey, darling, sweetie; the works.”
Sanse moved furthest in his chair as though to distance himself from the dejected lover.
“It was pure heaven! But it is no more. She is aloof and sulky. Think of a living ice block.”
Mathew stopped to chew his lower lip. Sanse considered telling him to man up. That at his age he ought to know that if men dashed to investigators every time their women refused to play ball the world would come to a standstill. That perhaps his wife was reacting to the very ineptitude that had informed his decision to broadcast his woes.
Sanse could imagine the young man’s journey to his fix: a boy from a poor family studies so hard he posts his school’s best results. He heeds his father’s caution that in every girl hides a Delilah so religiously so that his idea of love is limited to the study of Romeo and Juliet. His hard work is rewarded with a well-paying job. He rewards his wise father with his first pair of Safari Boots and a stone house. Meanwhile girls are tearing at each other because, well, he is the most eligible bachelor about. He picks the princess because that is what brilliant men with well-paying jobs do. Now he was running scared because the honeymoon was over and the centre couldn’t hold.
“I suspect she is seeing someone,” Mathew went on. “I want you to gather the facts. They say you’re the best. I will make it worth your while.”
“I am sure you will,” Sanse said. “Nevertheless, as a matter of principle, I don’t tackle infidelity. Indeed no one should.”
“Why?”
“Wife-husband love life should be left entirely to them. Thank you for showing so much faith in me nonetheless.”
“Do you wait until we butcher each other to arouse your interest?”
“Ask her if she still cares.”
Mathew could as well have stepped on a landmine. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“What if she says she doesn’t?”
“Then she doesn’t.”
“That is tough. Here is my card should you reconsider.”
Mathew pocketed the photo and marched out. Sanse studied the business card. Mathew Mithamo, Claims Manager, Borderline Insurance Company. He ventured on clicking his knuckles as a girl appeared at the door. She occupied Mathew’s chair.
“Miss Naomi,” Sanse said. “Tell me we have a client.”
“Not yet,” Naomi said. “The landlord wants to see you.”
Sanse continued to click his knuckles.
“We need to find money soon otherwise…”
“Leave the worrying to me,” Sanse said.
Silence took charge. Naomi had developed immense respect for the boss she had acquired out of desperation. Sanse’s performance in their last case was something out of a movie. However, she doubted the next case would find them in business. They were already three weeks behind in rent.
“I want you to teach me,” Naomi said.
“Teach you what?”
“Detective work.”
Sanse snorted. “I thought you were level-headed.”
“I know it is a risky occupation. But so is every other occupation. A doctor risk contracting dangerous diseases: Ebola, AIDS, Rift Valley fever. A driver risks a road crash. A teacher risks…”
“Where did you see yourself today?”
Naomi smiled. “A well-paying job. A car. A big house. A handsome husband.”
“You are young and beautiful.”
“So?”
“Your dream is still valid.”
“Please, I want this.”
Heavens, she is determined to be Miss Marple, Sanse thought. He was fascinated by Naomi’s transformation since her hiring a month before. Just the other day she was the dutiful assistant who kept her ideas to herself. Then she had elected herself his shrink. ‘You’re as gone as you’re willing to admit,’ she had advised. ‘Your loss should but make you more determined, more focussed.’ A week earlier she had made her boldest move: “You should see life through the lens of someone who never had much in life; no home, kids or a wife. Someone who never had the gift of sight. Someone who begs to get by. Someone who, to many, is a burden. But he knows that abundance is not another name for happiness. Mbao is his name. He is Mbao because he doesn’t ask for much, only mbao for a cup of tea. Mbao, Swahili for twenty shillings.”
“How come you know him so well?” Sanse had asked.
“Some time back I fantasised on becoming Mother Teresa. I chose Mbao as my starting point. I bought him clothes. I still do his laundry once a week.”
“And now I have joined him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You are my boss.”
Curiosity drove Sanse to visit Mbao at the entrance to Kathare Bus Terminus. True to Naomi’s word, the blind man looked healthy and well gloomed. Sanse wondered whether Mbao would be singing Thank you Lord so incessantly if he could see. Judging by the traffic hurrying past the answer was a big no. God is more real in the face of adversity. Sanse dropped a coin in Mbao’s bowl wondering why he never did it often. The only exchange between beggar and benefactor was a ‘God bless you’ from Mbao as he reached for his additional wealth.
Thinking of Naomi afterwards Sanse decided that she was punching above her weight. However, she still had a lot of ground to cover as far as the seesaw that is life was concerned. Existence of seemingly happy beggars didn’t make loss any bearable, at least not to a spendthrift man who had worked hard and long – a celebrated detective who was living his dream not so long ago. The narrative of a sassy Job losing everything before his wealth was doubled remained just that, a narrative.
Naomi had since moved from saving the ship to grabbing what she could.
“You sat and passed an interview for the post of a secretary,” Sanse said. He knew he was being unfairly harsh with her. “If a different post comes up you will be the first to know.”
Naomi walked out of the bar.
A news item on the radio caught Sanse’s attention. The body of Oscar Ciuri, the outgoing councillor for Kathare Central Ward who went missing two days before, was found early morning at Thima River Bridge. His head, legs and arms were missing.
Sanse walked to the counter and faced Pewa, the bartender.
“Please.”
“No means no,” Pewa said curtly.
Sanse strolled out of the bar.
Chapter 3
Sanse walked. Of late he just put one foot in front of the other without a destination in mind. The guard outside Mercantile Finance Bank glanced his way for the briefest moment. Sanse was dying to know if his cheek still hurt from his slap on their last encounter. Goddamn thieves.
The small town was a collage of posters bearing magical rallying calls and heavenly promises. The outgoing regime was everyone’s punching bag. It was inefficient. It was corrupt. It was tribal. Thank God a new dawn was here. The optimism bubble was at its fullest. ‘Pragmatic’, ‘best’, ‘most qualified’, were among adjectives in season. The voter was a stubborn girl who needed pampering and cuddling. Oscar Ciuri smiled off one of the billboards. Choose visionary leadership. Well, not any more. A bunch of his supporters were gathered under the billboard to brainstorm on their way forward now that their bubble had been perforated.
Sanse noted Mbao’s absence from his usual spot with a tinge of disappointment. He wondered whether beggars ever took the day off. He reminded himself to honour his resolve to drop something in Mbao’s bowl often. There was a good chance he wasn’t so blessed because he rarely spared the deprived a thought. I-scratch-you-you-scratch-me had been his currency all along. He bought a bunch of bananas and munched them as he walked. He hesitated as he came upon a beggar with underdeveloped legs. He wanted blessings but no, he wouldn’t part with the coins in his pocket. Didn’t the good word order one to love their neighbour as one loves themselves? Surrendering the coins would amount to loving the beggar more, not as.
Sanse invited himself to a nearby stone telling himself that it was meant for visitors. He handed his host two bananas. The two munched in silence for a while.
“Thank you,” the beggar said hurling the peels away.
“Are you a local?” Sanse asked.
“Chance hauled me here. This guard in Nairobi used to accommodate me in the vehicles he guarded at night. Of course he wanted company. On this day I woke up to a speeding lorry. I shouted myself hoarse before I retired to my fate. The moment the driver stopped to take a leak I jumped off. I was in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. I would have to produce the lorry if I returned to Nairobi. I spent a week trying to fix Kathare in the map. It has been five years since.”
“How does it compare?”
“I had friends in Nairobi but all we shared were miseries. If the City Council had its way it would toss every beggar in the Indian Ocean Idd Amin style. ”
“It sounds tough.”
“They raped you in your sleep. One of my friends lost his private parts.”
“Who would…?”
“Witch doctors. It is scary.”
Sanse went to his office, his first time since the bank repossessed his home three weeks before. He had never felt so challenged to stand on his feet again. He risked being thrown out of his house if he didn’t pay his rent in a week’s time.
Naomi beamed on his entry.
“Don’t you hate it when people don’t die suspicious deaths?” Sanse said.
“Some can’t afford to hire an investigator to address their suspicions.”
“Or they don’t know we exist.”
“But how could they?” Naomi said. “The Gitonga Case put us on the map.”
“When do you see Mbao next?”
“Why?” Naomi asked.
“I ought to chip in.”
“Mbao found greener pastures.”
“Lucky him!”
“A Good Samaritan, Kim, moved him to Nairobi. Apparently beggars become millionaires over there.”
“When did he move?”
“On Sunday. He called me on his way out. Did you talk to him?”
“No,” Sanse said stepping out of the office.
“About the landlord…”
“Leave him to me.”
Sanse travelled to Oscar Ciuri’s home ten kilometres out of town. Now that clients had refused to come to him he would go after them. Ciuri’s home was the first to the left of the junction of Kathare-Nairobi road and Gitwe road. Boda boda operators at the junction hooted to attract his attention. He shook his head and walked past.
The u-shaped house with a chimney, wooden window frames and wire mesh grills was reminiscent of 1970s. Some men sat under the waiting shade chatting. Sanse asked one of them if Mrs Ciuri was home. The man directed him to the house. When he entered the house a covered figure lay on the sofa. On the coffee table was a plate of half-eaten chicken soup.
The figure stirred and uncovered its head.
“Sorry for your loss,” Sanse said.
“Thank you,” Diana said weakly studying him with interest.
“Mike Sanse of Genius Investigations,” Sanse said. “A singular question must be weighing you down: who is responsible? Of course the police are breaking their backs to get answers. Nonetheless, their failure to bring your husband home would trouble anyone.”
Diana struggled to a sitting position. “Would you have brought him home?”
“Unfortunately, we will never know the answer to that. But we can find an answer in regard to his murder. You only pay for results, not a cent before.”
“Is that so?”
“Fifty thousand.”
“Only?”
“A better offer is most welcome,” Sanse said.
“I know a busybody when I see one.”
Sanse removed his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “You have nothing to lose.”
“I doubt I stand to gain anything.”
Sanse’s focus rested on Ciuri’s photo on the wall. “Such a handsome man. My offer stands should you change your mind.”
At the gate Sanse had to step aside for a man in a suit. He would have to trek to town because he had no money. Diana had called him a busybody. Well, he had earned the abuse. He had to be the first investigator ever to hawk his services. As he walked he racked his brains on how else he could earn a living. He had operated a taxi with dismal results.
Sanse stopped at Kigio, a small centre halfway to town, to watch men play draughts. He couldn’t recall the last time he had played draughts. It must have been over a decade. He had learnt that draughts, like wrestling, goes hand in hand with chest-thumping. Only one player, an elderly man sporting a goatee, seemed able to match chest-thumping with action. He was so confident in his prowess he promised a thousand shillings to anyone who made king. Five men came up short.
“I doubt a year’s practice will get you close,” the champ said pocketing his money.
Sanse occupied the challenger’s seat.
“Do you know the number of pieces in play?” the champ asked Sanse getting on his feet.
Sanse placed his Omex watch on the board. “Would you love to own this?”
The look on the champ’s face evoked laughter from the audience.
“How dare you fart when you have cholera?” the champ added some notes to the thousand.
Sanse was now the centre of attention. The champ moved his pieces with such aplomb he didn’t look at them.
“If you beat me I will never play again.”
“You mean it?” Sanse asked.
“That watch changed ownership the moment you pushed the first piece.”
“It’s an honour to lose it to the best.”
The champ’s poise changed on his fifth move. “I didn’t get your name.”
“The-man-who-doesn’t-know-the-number-of-pieces-in-play,” Sanse said.
The champ took five solid minutes to study the pieces. Whatever the move he made he stood to lose two pieces. Sanse would not only make king, he would trounce him.
“Your move,” Sanse said earning himself a glare from his opponent. The champ counted the empty boxes.
“You cheated,” he said. “You moved two boxes at a go.”
“True champions go down gracefully,” Sanse said.
“I should know,” the champ said. “I have played this game for fifty years.”
“Hey, you are that detective,” a man who had just arrived said. “You solved the Gitonga case!”
“Mike Sanse?” another spectator said. The crowd became animated suddenly. The champ’s face crowded as spectators ganged up against him. His eyes rested on the bundle of notes then the board.
“I will win but not as fast.” His voice carried less contempt.
The game was over in three minutes. The fallen champ gave his hand for a handshake. “I knew I was up against a great mind. Where did you learn to play so well?”
“I studied your moves and refused to be cowed,” Sanse said. “I would have given you a return match but you are retired.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Well, I took it that way.”
Sanse boarded a matatu for the remainder of the journey.
