Black Mischief (3 page)

Reuben's reply was to smile and shake his head as he pushed the hair back from his forehead. ‘Uh,uh. This mop will come in handy one day. Just you wait.'

Julius was a loner with no close friends. Reuben loved mixed company and could call on a dozen or more people to help him when he found himself in trouble. Julius was spoilt and Reuben scorned him for grovelling to their father to make sure he was well stocked with funds. He resented his father for not recognising or not caring that it was his second son who was the political animal, the one he should be supporting and encouraging. Reuben knew that his father did not approve of what he liked to call his social failings, letting the family down for the sake of his stupid ideas.

As a boy, he rarely came home in the car sent out to pick up the Rubai children from their city schools. He preferred to find his way down into town. He was constantly sharing with street kids money, food even clothes. He insisted on travelling on matatus, anytime he could. This infuriated his father and stirred the scorn of Julius.

‘Listen, little brother, you got to stop this crap way of living. You may not look like a Rubai, but you better try acting like one.'

Reuben had a sharp answer ready but did not want to risk another thump in the head for crossing his touchy bully of a brother.

But it was at a matatu stop in Tom Mboya Street in Nairobi where Reuben met Lydia. She asked him for a light. His response was to snatch the cigarette from her lips, stamp it into the pavement and invite her for a cup of coffee. When he discovered that she lived in Kibera, one of the three large slum townships scattered around the city, his interest was roused. It was a place he wanted to visit, but it was a place he was wary of entering alone.

‘What's a good looker like you doing living in that dump?'

‘Well, for one thing it is not a dump and for another you're wasting my time unless you are looking for a bit of fun. Not expensive, just two thousand an hour.'

‘Mucho cheapo! That's way below the going rate even for an old banger who's been on the game for yonks.'

‘Why do you talk so funny?'

‘I read a lot of books.'

‘I can read. But I don't get much books. My brother can read, too. He's in America.'

‘Does he approve of you doing this?'

‘Approve?'

‘Does he mind you going to bed with strangers?'

‘He don't know. Anyway, it's my first day. You could be my first customer. But I don't have no bed. I have a friend who will rent me a room in her hotel. Not far from here. You pay for the room. No bedbugs, no cockroaches.'

Reuben was about to make the big moral statement, but no words came from his mouth, only a sad groan. His eyes welled up. It was part pity but mostly anger. Even in this thin, poor quality dress and the plastic shoes she was an attractive girl, a child forced to grow up too quickly who would not be short of customers out on the streets. Her limbs were well formed and smooth as carved brown ivory. Her lips were thin, her trusting, dark eyes were calm and inquisitive, her body lithe. And she was shorter than Reuben. He liked that. He pondered for a moment, taken up with a piece of mental arithmetic. Then, his mind made up, his tone became businesslike.

‘Listen. Don't do this. Come here every week at about this time and there'll be an envelope waiting with five thousand shillings inside, six if I can raise it. I'll come myself if I can. You just stay off the streets. I know people. I can help to get you into a good school near home. You can learn to talk funny like me. What do you think?'

There was a long silence. Lydia was staring over Reuben's shoulder at passers-by in the street outside as if she was making some calculations of her own.

Fearing that she might turn him down, he pushed in another argument.

‘I know that a girl like you, fresh on the streets, could make a lot more than five thousand a week, but for sure sooner or later someone will give you a dose. You'll be sick or you could die. Now then?'

‘Who are you? Have you got the religion or something? Just like those who come ‘round Kibera every day. They talk a lot but nothing changes. Except the nuns in those crazy uniforms. They live in there with us. I like to talk with them.'

‘But you haven't talked to them about this stuff.'

‘I have. Sister Caroline thinks it might be a good idea. Do it for a year, make some money and get out of that place.'

‘Now I've heard everything! Nuns telling girls to go on the game!'

‘No game. Business.'

‘Business! You crazy kid! Look, I'll make it ten thousand. My mother will give me the extra when I tell her about you.'

He pulled out his wallet and counted off five thousand. ‘No envelope. Next time there'll be fifteen thousand. Promise.'

‘You very rich boy. You don't live in Kibera.'

‘No, but some day you could invite me to your house or something.'

‘Better have a strong nose!'

‘Yeah. Just take the money. Then we can get a matatu. I can go home that way.'

The deal was struck and Reuben never failed to keep his promise of payment. And within weeks he had found her a new school. To her surprise, she liked the place and after a time became a boarder. It was easier that way and her family approved. One less mouth to feed.

Over the next few years they built up a strong but strictly non-romantic relationship. Once, during a noisy night out at the Carnivore with a dozen or so members of what was known around town as the Reuben set, he had put his arm around her shoulder and declared her to be his blood brother. The whoop of mocking delight sent the decibels soaring around that corner table, to the annoyance of fellow diners and to the distress of Angelo, the young Italian manager. He dreaded seeing this mob of well-off Nairobi youth enter his restaurant but knew that he would not take them on, tell them to cut down the noise or throw them out. He was too sensible, too worried for his job, too anxious about his wellbeing.

‘Reuben, take your hands off me. You know I'm not a girl like that!' Lydia patted his face gently and rocked with laughter. It was four years on since they had met on Tom Mboya Street. Lydia was a much-changed young lady. She had put on a little weight to round out her figure, learned a lot about the art of make-up and dress, realised that men found her very attractive and revelled in their attention. In the last months they had seen a lot less of each other mostly because of her new job somewhere out on the big industrial estate off the Mombasa Road. So, she was taken aback when she was invited to Julius's engagement party on May twenty-fifth. When Reuben met her at the main gate of the Muthaiga, she had just stepped down from a taxi. It was the first time he had seen her dressed formally and he was impressed.

‘Man, look at us, you in that cool get-up and me in my Che Guevara outfit. Yellow suits you. You are going to be a star in there. Hey, that dress must have cost you.'

‘No, no, just the material. My mother and her sister have a machine and they are very good at the dressmaking.'

He was still shaking his head in wonder as he followed her up the steps and into the party. She soon showed that she was at ease in this company as she smiled her way around the crowded room. After a time he began to take a different slant on her social ease. It dawned on him that she was especially familiar to some of the guests, all of them middle-aged men. He only knew them as wealthy owners of big, city businesses. Each took Lydia aside for a few moments and greeted her animatedly and each time this happened she looked over her shoulder as if she were trying to locate someone in the crowd. When he realised that the someone was himself, he decided to move in. He crossed the room casually until he was close behind her and in the few seconds when she was between conversations, took her by the elbow and guided her into an empty side room.

‘So, Miss Nairobi, you forgot about your side of our little agreement!'

‘I never missed once coming to the coffee shop, even after you started sending delivery boys with the envelope. Anyway that was a long time ago now.'

‘Mmn. How come you know those jerks in there? You know the ones, all shiny faces and expensive suits? More important, how do they know you?'

‘Business associates?' Lydia fluttered her eyes hopefully.

‘Flat on your back, legs open wide kind of business.'

‘Anyone ever tell you that you have a dirty mouth?'

‘Lots of times, but it only happens when I'm angry. I'm angry now, mostly with myself for not seeing what was going on, more like what was coming off! Go on, tell me, how much?'

Lydia looked down at the carpet and pouted. ‘I didn't want to hurt you. I owe you … so many things.'

‘How much?' A burst of laughter in the main room fuelled his mounting anger.

‘Okay, Okay! I want to buy a house on the Ngong Road. You know my brother, Simon, is sick. I think it's the TB. He needs a dry house. I could raise the money with seven thousand a week, but it would take such a long time. Houses like this are very expensive.'

‘Don't tell me. I know.'

‘That's just it. You don't know. Money flows through your house like a river. You don't need a proper job. How much is this party costing? Mostly these men are very kind. Perhaps you won't believe this, but every time I undress and get ready, I think of us meeting on Tom Mboya Street all that time ago …'

There was a long pause when Reuben sighed and stared down at the carpet. When he looked up again, he had a wry smile on his face. He raised his arms dramatically as if in surrender.

‘Stop! Stop! Anagnorisis. No, it's not a dirty word. Look it up. I like to read Greek plays. Very old ones. Suddenly coming to see things that you didn't see before though they were there all the time.'

‘Have you been drinking?'

‘You know better than that.'

‘But it's your brother's engagement party.'

‘I apologise. You have every right. We're all at it, this selling game. Nyama Choma, underwear. You have a very good product.'

‘You make it sound disgusting.'

‘Well, isn't it? A man and a woman, naked in bed, at it like a couple of randy dogs. But a lot of people obviously get a lot out of it, so. Caught me by surprise. That's all. Shall I still send the envelopes? No, sorry. Stupid question. I want to send them.

Use the money to get a good doctor for Simon.'

Uproar broke out in the next room. There were screams and the sound of people on the move.

By the time Reuben reached the fourth fairway his brother was dead and in the light of the torches he saw his father unsteadily pointing a gun at a big man carrying the body of a white man. Then his mother was moving very gently towards her husband's shoulder. Words were spoken and the gun fell to the ground. In a few moments the main drama was over and the shock waves began to eddy out from the surreal epicentre of shock and death.

Reuben watched but felt no compulsion to move out of the darkness to join his parents who were surrounded by wide circle of party guests. Their silence had changed to a low murmuring. He was stunned but frightened, too. His father's head was bowed towards his chest and he was sobbing, and to go near him now was to risk one of his outbursts of rage, this time probably for being the son who was still alive. All the while the big man and his little group was moving closer towards him. He recognised the body. It was that show-off farmer from some place up in the wilds of the Rift Valley bush. But Reuben's eyes were drawn and fixed on something else. The lower part of a woman's green dress had been torn away to reveal a pair of shapely thighs and part of a white undergarment. His numbed mind was, briefly, empty of thoughts. The sight of those thighs had struck him without warning. His bowels went into a sweet meltdown and a warm excitement filled his mind. He pulled himself behind the slender trunk of the acacia and, hidden from view, stared wide-eyed as Rebecca Kamau walked solemnly by.

uthless Abel Rubai was a fine actor, but his performances were never seen in any theatre. His role playing was strictly for real life situations. In high school he had never gone near any of the plays or musicals that often starred his own beautiful girlfriend, Sally Molan. He was too busy working at his books, mostly on mathematics.

The work paid off in a big way and, with one outrageous piece of luck, he found himself, at the age of twenty, appointed financial adviser to a new president. Mister President had been principal of Kakamega High in Abel's early days at the school and been impressed with the handsome Kalenjin boy with the smart brain and the keenness to get on.

President and protege flourished together. They learned quickly how to use their privileged positions for their personal advancement. Mister President was delighted to discover that his boy possessed a very special gift. In the privacy of his quarters in State House, when Abel reported that another big stash of money had been salted away in one of a growing number of foreign banks, his boss would whoop with delight.