“Some older kids were coerced with gifts if they helped bring back the younger ones, and a good number of the staff at the school didn’t have a way of knowing whether the parents who came to demand for children were genuine children,” continued the nun.
“You cannot enslave a mind that knows itself, values itself, and understands itself.” ~ Wangari Maathai
In 2007, a few months prior to the Kenya Certificate of Primary Education national exams, a young boy wrote an English composition.
In that year, two major events had taken place:
Pastors and Christian religious groups were demonstrating in Nairobi, demanding the book and movie, The Da Vinci Code, banned in Kenya.
And Kenya Airways Flight 507 had crashed after take-off from the airport in Douala, Cameroon, on 5th May, killing all 114 passengers on board as a result of pilot error and spatial disorientation.
The English teacher of the time had a big problem giving the composition the grade it deserved, because it was a composition so shocking the teachers and the students kept reading it. That teacher called the young boy’s mother to school, to discuss about that composition and to ask what TV shows the young boy watches.
The name of that young boy is Haroun Risa.
This short story is the refined version of that English composition.
In Memory of 201082 and 42199.
THE 44TH QUESTION
By Haroun Risa.
Grandfathers told us, as we nursed the intolerable pain of chopped foreskins, that the land had sustained so much bloodshed it turned red and volcanic with the unfulfilled hopes and dreams of many. The blood we sacrificed from our foreskins was what appeased those souls, and for generations there was stability and peace.
Our grandfathers also had one strange story.
They said that decades ago, before the 1982 coup attempt, a man named Mwangi had arrived in Nairobi, and was looking for a place to establish his grounds. Mwangi had found a one-acre piece of land near Parklands, but at the time didn’t have enough money to buy it on the spot.
It was the era of disco, the 70’s, and despite Nairobi being a significantly sparse population an aura of recklessness had mushroomed deep within Kenyans.
People with 100 shilling notes begun showing up in discos, shopping centres and newspaper vendor spots. The economy in Kenya was a lot more stable than the 21st century, so flashing a 100 shilling note carelessly raised eyebrows.
Mwangi worked hard to save for the one-acre plot of land, even joining the Kenya Air Force. But just as he was a few thousand shillings short of concluding the deal, an Indian family migrating from Mumbai bought the plot of land.
Whether it was the fact that he couldn’t buy the land, or whether he was beaten to it by an Indian family who had no idea of competitors, no one knows for sure, but ever since that day, there has always been a strange animosity between Kikuyus who heard about Mwangi’s story, and because of the atrocities that happened to Kenyan Indians in 1982, Kenyan Indians have always been keeping themselves far away from Kenyans.
***
In 44 days…You can afford the decision, but you can’t afford the price.
DAY ONE
Before going back to Bangladesh Mission School…
“Sue?”
She opened her eyes.
Pitch black darkness.
She looked around.
Deafening silence.
The others were lost in unconscious travel, exploring astral worlds.
I know that voice…
The chilling thought was more nagging than a scorned wife.
“Hussein?!” Susan said, looking around. Suddenly, someone signalled her to stay quiet, placing his index finger on his lips, and Susan instantly understood.
Hussein motioned to her to lie low, then after some time, gave her a hijab to wear. “It covers your face, so this is the only way you can manoeuvre around Mogadishu.”
“You said I won’t be alone?”
“Yes,” said Hussein. “You’ll be keeping someone company until she makes it to being a tahriib. Who knows, both of you might make it abroad.”
As Susan obeyed, a leggy model-like woman appeared, wearing a hijab. She continued to look at Susan, without taking off her hijab.
“Her name is Catherine,” said Hussein. “You need to help her not to be found by any journalist.”
“Journalist? Why?”
“Her sister’s one of them,” said Hussein to Susan. “And her memory isn’t so good right now, so she really can’t remember much about her elder sister.”
“What is your name?” asked Susan.
“My name is Hussein,” he replied. “I have been known as a tahriib, but I prefer to be known as a human.”
***
…An Indian woman was pleading with them but they kept stomping on her body with their boots, an evil echo of their laughter mingling with her sorrowful cry of agony down that street…
As they dragged her to the back of a pick-up truck, she kept screaming the same thing in agonizing pain…
“I AM NOT AL-SHABAAB!!!!”
A boy’s body was riddled with bullets atop the pick-up truck, and she was crying bitterly as she cradled the boy’s body…One soldier kicked her mercilessly, and then stomped on her upper back as another started to undo his trouser belt, lust written all over his face…
The sound of bullets echoed into the smoke-filled atmosphere as Ruth and Clarkson ran down that street, jumping over some lifeless bodies until they saw a commercial truck going down that street, filled with people in the back. They didn’t hesitate running after it; some people helping them climb up…
…“This is madness!” said Ruth as the truck speeded down the Globe Cinema roundabout along Thika Road…
…“Ukibahatika kutoka CBD, usiwahirudi,” (If you make it out of the CBD, don’t come back) said a young man, with a tied T-shirt round his neck, a red stained spot clearly visible on his left side.
“He’s right,” said a woman in a business suit, her hairdo clearly ripped from one side of her head and her trouser sporting a massive tear on her left thigh she wasn’t even bothering to cover…
… Ruth and Clarkson looked at each other, with her slipping her fingers into his…
“Clarkson?” she suddenly said as she joined him in the kitchen.
“The Indian woman nightmare again?”
He silently nodded.
She embraced him, looking deep in his eyes, and he couldn’t help but feel her warmth, something that always got to him.
His own warmth increased as she placed her arms on his shoulders.
She always knew how to chase away all demons.
“She’ll be back, Clarkson,” said Ruth. “She just needs some time.”
Love had betrayed Madame Ingrid once again…but this time it wasn’t the only thing that came to affect Orchardson-Yusuf.
After she went missing, operations were being carried out by deputies, and after what happened on the wedding reception, even Ruth understood how much it tore Madame Ingrid apart.
Ruth wasn’t lucky in relationships either, but she had her own list of former admirers…including the one who introduced her to alcohol.
There were things which had flooded her mind after she left Clarkson in the kitchen, including covering the General Election of the year, the HSBC Rugby World Cup competition, whereby Kenya was in Pool B battling for a slot in the semi-finals, and the swearing-in of the winner once the elections were finished.
All Ruth prayed for, as she switched on the TV, was a peaceful transition of power, and something which would calm her liver down.
But switching on the TV was all Ruth needed.
***
I can’t wash the blood away & I can’t face the light. My shadow holds me captive…
Abdi’s phone suddenly beeped with a text message, bringing him back to reality.
Abdi looked down on his phone.
KCC 355M.
1500 hours.
Abdi looked up, and as he eyed the very object of destruction, pain and regret filled his eyes as he knew there was one thing left to do.
He grabbed a cough syrup bottle, emptied its contents down his throat then began setting the timer.
5 hours, 30 minutes.
He looked at the brochure of the location together with a photo of Saul before & after his procedure, and felt icy sweat going down his back.
A rugby stadium, full to capacity.
A different identity to be used to commit a sin even his true self would never forget.
He wore his shirt, and then added a sweater as he headed out.
***
“I’ll need the two phones I left here,” he said, dots of sweat gleaming on his forehead.
Another one’s gone bad again, thought Veronica as she gave him the two phones.
Since quitting the Con Man Paradise, Veronica didn’t care much what Abdi got into, but she couldn’t help but notice he seemed more tense than usual that day.
Abdi packed the phones, handing her a wad of cash.
“For the skin testers,” he said.
“Okay, thanks,” Veronica replied. “I’ll let you know when Pinocchio arrives with them.”
Even when the skin testers got delivered, Abdi never showed up to collect.
Veronica, after finishing up with her Blow Dry Parliament, asked about Abdi, something she had never done since I knew her.
But Veronica had no idea how soon she would get her answer…because the moment she boarded a matatu, the flat screen had been switched to a news station, and even the conductor was watching.
“Eighty-eight people have been confirmed dead after a suspected terrorist explosion rocked the Impala Stadium. Many more have been seriously injured & reports are still streaming in concerning the sudden & shocking event, which has stopped the on-going HSBC Rugby World Cup Pool B match between Kenya & New Zealand…”
***
20:35.
Machakos Country Bus Station,
Two kilometres away from the Impala Stadium.
Nairobi, Kenya.
Everyone could see the black smoke evanescing from the stadium into the sky…the heroes were now withering into the afterlife, considering the ironic message, “THE HOME OF HEROES” now getting more clouded by smoke.
Half of the name ‘HEROES’ was demolished from the blast,
Almost half of the stadium was gone…the black smoke withering away, leaving behind the horror.
The bus station nearby was full of commotion, with cars and matatus flashing headlights and their drivers blowing their horns.
Matatu conductors, passengers, police officers and emergency units were all over the place, with cops trying to push back a curious crowd as emergency units revved ambulances, ferrying away the injured.
News reporters thronged the place, cameras rolling and others speaking on phone from the scene. Citizens stood in shock as they witnessed the four blast positions, one of them having blown a bus to shreds.
From a small distance Abdi stood next to a kiosk, watching it all. He looked as a casualty was lifted off a stretcher, and helped into an ambulance. The casualty’s high-end, brown shoes still showed despite him no longer alive.
He reached for a bottle opener lying nearby and flipped open a bottle of soda, unperturbed by the chaos.
Suddenly his phone rang. He picked it up, and listened with a nonchalant attitude.
“Allah’s work is not complete, Abdi,” the caller said. “Proceed to the guest house. Await my phone call as you rest.”
***
Her uncle staggering home blind drunk, singing his trademark song…
Her aunt telling her to hide behind the curtain…the clash of utensils as both parties once again fought…screams Joy couldn’t help but hear…
Joy grabbing a kitchen knife and stabbing her uncle in the back to stop him from strangling her aunt…the poor orphan stabbed twice by her own uncle, one stab getting close to her lower stomach, under her belly bottom…
Joy crawling on the ground in her school dress, crying in pain, away from the house, with the vision of now the second corpse to witness…her aunt having fainted from the shock…
Deathly silence…the poor orphan stabbed twice by her own uncle, one stab getting close to her lower stomach, under her belly bottom…
Joy crawling on the ground in her school dress, crying in pain…A VW TOUAREG with South Sudanese number plates…Joy landing hard on her side…
Joy suddenly woke up, heavily breathing.
DAY TWO
‘…Open your heart to me like I did to others, who now are part of the skeletons we all drown in substances,
And let’s bleed one more time in the name of the love, redemption and acceptance we seek, in the temporary moment we all inevitably have to be cruelly denied because we seek a heaven right in front of us.
Let’s fear what our skeletons will say under the moonlight that won’t stop rhythm from coursing through veins,
As lies make us more flavour for the hot soup we always have to bathe in.
She will for a moment feel at home, and I will feel for a moment, what belonging from a different perspective means…’
***
Banglapesa.
New Year’s Eve.
They all seemed to let their selves go, as the songs cried out more phrases for the memories.
To Catherine, these were things she did so many times she grew weary.
But she knew there was one person who tried to go down the road she now faced, and faced bitter responses from the people who once loved her. She was not surprised she was still hated by them all, even by her own sister who she always appreciated despite never letting her know.
By blood, she was always her younger sister, but she knew by virtue it was over long after they buried their single mother, and Ruth had to step up and fill in the gap death had brought so suddenly.
Catherine walked down a long alleyway, watching as many indulged in Bedminton Paradise, and knew for certain she had already had her own fair share of it, until now she was being eaten from the inside like Khadijah, who now seemed bolder because of it.
Clearly BMW was no longer interested in the woman who once gave him such a sweet Bedminton session he fainted, having not checked his blood levels.
The only thing she had left now was one last shot at her dream.
People were never going to know she was dying, but as always, one man somewhere was going to be led by his trousers, and would end up inheriting what now was killing Catherine.
She watched as many partied the last day of the year away, under an unusually bright moonlight, and understood once more that it was all in vain; even Ruth wanted nothing to do with her, considering BMW and others had already helped her with the expose of the century, killing off The Queen Bee’s hold on the tourism world.
Or did they?
A girl with bracelets on her ankle came to Catherine, walking with her.
“This is where we all end up,” she said.
“You can say that again,” said Catherine as they watched people partying their moonlit night away.
“By the way, the Queen Bee has been working on some project, and wants to include people.”
“What is she up to this time?” asked Catherine.
“She wants brilliant minds for a lottery project she and some AMIKEN people have been cooking up,” she continued, feeling enthusiastic. “Some way of trying to ‘repair their country’.”
“Let me guess, she wants to get back her crown in the tourism world after getting tired of Taarab,” said Catherine.
“You know, you’re one of the smart people she wants for this,” said the girl. “That competition benefits us all, and gets us out of this hellhole forever.”
“AMIKEN made sure because of war Kenya is entirely a hellhole,” said Catherine. “For me, it’s outside Kenya I aim for.”
“And you can get there,” continued the girl. “Maybe this time you should trust someone who actually has a way out.”
Catherine looked at her for a moment, and then asked, “What’s your name?”
“Soraya,” she replied, extending her hand.
After they shook hands, she continued, “I know you, Catherine. And maybe this time round, you’ll be able to get to the runways you crave for, because I crave for them too.”
“Where do we start with this plan?”
“Have you ever heard of a place called Mlango Wa Nane?” said the girl now known as Soraya.
As Catherine shook her head, Soraya continued. “It changed my life. The only reason I come back here is to find new fish worthy of being upgraded.”
“And the nostalgia, too,” said Catherine, making Soraya laugh out loud as people began counting down towards a new year.
“To new opportunities far from places of suffering,” said Soraya, holding up a glass for Catherine, who gladly took the drink.
“Very far from places of suffering,” said Catherine as another New Year began.
Catherine knew for sure that Khadijah would only be thinking of her tummy first, considering she too was being eaten alive from within, but as she looked at the shadows under the moonlight reflecting the skeletons that secretly tore families apart, she knew she couldn’t depend on Ruth for a thing, and it was a bad idea to start crying out to BMW or Joy for help, considering they saved her life in Dar Es Salaam, which was indeed Darkest Salaam to everyone involved.
Maybe this Mlango Wa Nane was going to open a door to fulfil her dream before death inevitably took her away.
The least Catherine could do was to keep hope more alive than her dying soul.
***
“So, what are you up to now?” asked BMW as he looked at Joy’s clothes.
“Mujra,” replied Joy. “Though I’ll be honest, it feels like a first.”
“They’re comfortable with a black person doing Mujra?”
“You’ll be surprised by how willing they are in taking anything that gives them their night’s worth,” replied Joy as another girl helped her dress up in her sari.
“By the way, I got to find out what country our runway model was so curious about.”
“Which one?” asked BMW.
He wasn’t ready for a distant, haunting bell, for the moment Joy gave him the answer he remembered a very crucial piece of information.
Information which would be a gold mine to Ruth.
Karibu Association,
Madrid, Spain.
***
As Joy prepared to entertain the descendants of those who were said to have given support to the Mau Mau only for their gallant spirit to be killed by Moi in prison, alongside scars passed down generations in the spirit of finding recognition, BMW reflected on The Karibu Association, part of a piece of information he overheard from Tom years ago, and suddenly, it became more than important why Catherine was not supposed to get to Mlango Wa Nane.
But with matters Catherine, there was always a surprise up her skirt.
This time though, what Catherine didn’t know was that she was the one in for a rude shock.
A shock so rude it cut off her life.
***
Bangladesh Mission School.
“Who told you that this is a mission school? What kind of mission school has a curfew & a rigorous timetable very similar to a juvi?” said Susan, dressed as a nun.
“And the Minister knows about this?” asked Ruth.
“Also benefits from kickbacks, too, if you ask me,” said the nun. “He’s the chief moralist of this country & uses the Good Book to further a crusade against kids who aren’t ‘conforming to the norms of society’ in the act of ‘straightening them out’.”
It was simply a juvenile school which acted as a state-run children’s home.
Something Bi Kijembe was definitely involved in.
“At first you’re welcomed with open arms & treated well, even given new clothes, until the traffickers start coming back to demand the children,” she said.
“How would they be that bold?” asked BMW.
“Some traffickers would simply pretend to be the children’s guardians, armed with forged birth certificates,” said the nun.
The traffickers would capitalize on the child’s fear of adults, the child being just a kid, the child being always wrong and the parent being always right.
“Some older kids were coerced with gifts if they helped bring back the younger ones, and a good number of the staff at the school didn’t have a way of knowing whether the parents who came to demand for children were genuine children,” continued the nun.
Ruth remained silent.
“There’s the usual promise of jobs, and considering how much unemployment is around here, I’m sure you understand how many inside there would fall for that,” BMW said.
“Of course, the mighty power of the convincing tongue,” said the nun. “What about the passports?”
BMW’s smile was more than sufficient for an answer. “Why do you honestly think Bi Kijembe made sure it’s mostly women who live in that maze?”
“Five thousand, up in smoke just like that,” she continued.
“Some come back successful & loaded, like the ones from Eldoret, while others never come back,” said BMW.
“So, wait, you’re telling me…?”
“You go missing in Kenya; you are either found dead, or never found.” BMW said. “It’s always a relief if you do get found.”
There I was, thought Ruth, listening to one of the most bizarre stories on Kenyan soil.
A well-known mission school, praised and funded by the elite clergymen in the country, was secretly a juvenile institution where ‘black sheep’ were sent by their parents to be ‘as straight as a ruler’.
The school appealed to many parents, particularly those who loved ruling with an iron fist, alongside those who never even thought of ‘sparing the rod’.
A young boy was sitting opposite me, with deep cuts & bruises on his arms, and with just one look at those arms the chill went up my spine again.
“Who did that to him?” asked Ruth.
“His mother, apparently,” replied BMW. “Sometimes parents come back here to ‘discipline’ their punching bags.”
As clear as day, the chilling fear & confusion showed in the children’s eyes.
I saw the guilt after bearing yourself to another soul barely days after the first encounter, all because acceptance; to many of us, was as important as oxygen.
“Nisikuone hapa tena!” (Lemme never see you here again!)
“Nikiamka asubuhi nisikuone hapa! Sitaki wakora karibu na watoto wangu na nyumba yangu!”
These were words everyone at Bangladesh Mission School had already gotten used to hearing, and they were all sheltered by believers of a man whose brutal death over two thousand years ago was immortalized in rosaries, atop coffins & on tapestries, beseeched and prayed to for deliverance because nothing else was as raw as the face behind the mask; nothing sparked fear in a human being like burning in some immortal fire forever.
This was where Ruth found out Catherine had sought refuge, after she had run away from her werewolf employer, Rebecca the Professor.
Ruth didn’t know that employer was going to be the least of her problems.
All of them shared one thing in common… we were all war dogs.
We all knew the raw emotion of being laid out bare for another’s satisfaction & release, the fear, shame & guilt hidden behind a mask which sang praises to a 2,000 year old man said to resurrect one day & come back for his beloved ones.
We all knew the fear of disappointing a hungry parent, something which made these children see a side of the world even grownups didn’t have the courage to face.
We all knew the bravery behind facing the horrendous fact that as a child you were always wrong to someone who was always right because he & she saw the first & second generation of number plates, alongside always claiming to be the ones to ‘put plates on your table.’
Bangladesh Mission School was the only place in Kenya which didn’t shut the door in your face when every Kenyan made it clear “hakuna uzuri au utumishi kwote”; what they deliberately never told you, was that free lunch always had an agenda.
“I’d take leisurely walks during those days & visit anyone I could think of, but I’d get this feeling of no longer…”
“Belonging,” said the nun.
BMW nodded.
“You’d belong if either you were, or had something to offer. Why do you think all of us were immediately accepted here?” she said.
“Apparently not because Jesus Christ saw it fit,” he said. “Jesus Christ has nothing to do with old men & their dirty fetishes.”
Susan, in her nun outfit, looked at him with admiration for some time, and then walked to a cabinet, extracting a brown envelope.
“I have a feeling my time’s up, so you’ll need to carry out the remainder of the job.”
BMW, looking at the contents, said, “You don’t have to do this. Come with me. Ruth and the journalists will get you asylum.”
“I’m not so sure I’ll last long enough, but I’ll think about it.”
BMW flipped through the documents, and then looked at the phone.
“No matter what happens, make sure that envelope gets to your journalist friends,” Susan, the nun, said hastily as a church elder walked in.
“I should be the least of your concerns for now.”
***
Dear Diary,
Simple farming tools.
They were all that were needed that night.
Thanks to simple farming tools, blood flowed down tributaries.
I couldn’t help but unleash the athlete in me that night, criss-crossing narrow alleys and jumping over what was once a shanty. Dogs howled into the night as the carnivorous excitement began. Men in orange T-shirts broke into shanties, dragged out frightened women and defiled them, in front of the helpless husband whose head would later be bounced around like a basketball.
All because they bore the wrong surname, or skin colour.
All because they bore the wrong sexual preference.
All because they supported the wrong side.
His name wasMaqbul Gama Pinto.
The first Kenyan Indian to be elected as President.
He was the Presidential Candidate who initiated the 44 March.
For 44 straight days, a massive crowd of Kenyans and Kenyan Indians demonstrated for something which felt extremely overdue.
The recognition of the Kenyan Indians as the 44th tribe of the Republic of Kenya.
A pledge Maqbul Gama Pinto made on the first day of the demonstrations…a pledge he remained faithful to, even when he was illegally sentenced to serve 14 months in prison.
And since then…the world watched as the 44 March began in the streets of Nairobi.
But the aftermath started slowly, and then music stopped playing.
Flights were booked at the last minute.
Prison no longer held them back, and they poured into the streets in numbers to take revenge on a system that kept them caged like dogs.
Arrest warrants & deportations were issued.
Gunshots, screams echoed into the night.
Lawlessness crept in.
You lived looking over your shoulder.
You woke up and saw your face in the obituaries, complete with a burial date & location.
Somebody was mourning a loss somewhere.
Somebody couldn’t go back home anymore.
A document highly celebrated & regarded could not be adhered to anymore.
If walls could talk, we wouldn’t have buildings.
If closets were opened, they’d be confused with cemeteries.
But T.I.A.
This. Is. Africa.
The winner was meant to be Maqbul Gama Pinto.
A new era where Kenyans no longer bother to find out whether the candidate is ‘one of us’.
But no…
I understood the anger behind a simple farming tool, fed up with being the subordinate, and at the same time saw the anguish of a maize stalk as it got chopped.
Limbs were akin to maize stalks that night.
The pain the land sustained as fire cleared the land, was the pain we felt when we saw our homes ablaze, memories gone with the smoke, walls collapsed, and with it, all they had witnessed behind closed doors.
Simple farming tools that night chopped off more limbs than maize stalks in the field…
FACTS
• Many Kenyan Indians faced the bottled-up hatred of the Kenyan majority during the failed 1982 coup attempt, and it is said, right in front of their families, Kenyan Indian women got raped by rebel military officers. Since, according to Indian culture/religion, sexual assault carries eternal disgrace with it, six women committed suicide that time.
• The Al-Shabaab are a militant jihadist group which began in 2006 with an insurgency against Somalia’s Transitional Federal Government, and pledged allegiance to Al-Qaeda in 2012. They have claimed responsibility for attacks like the Westgate shopping mall attack on 21 September, 2013 in Nairobi, Kenya, which resulted in 62 deaths and more than 175 people getting injured.
• The Kenyan Indians were officially recognized as the 44th tribe of the Republic of Kenya by President Uhuru Kenyatta on 27th July 2017, making them official citizens of the Republic.
