Twisted Times: Son of Man (Twisted Times Trilogy Book 1) (10 page)

Urbanas spent the whole of the afternoon with the vice chancellor trying to have a consensus on what to do to make life at the university better for the students. Over the past months since his election as the chairman of the Student Association of Nashville University there had been many grievances from the students. He had presented them as lucidly as the cacophony of the students themselves were as they were shouting them out. He did not mince words with the administration, nor did the others, the officials of the Organization of Kenya Independent Students Association (KISA) and the Women Students’ Welfare Association (WOSWA). That was one thing he was sure of – never say anything that was not said, let them know you take no sides.

Professor Gwendolyn Wegulo, the dean of studies, was paranoid of what she had read on SANU’s website. The students felt that the administration was not listening to their grievances and were thinking that they were being neglected. She did not try to conceal the fact that the Senate was worried especially about the comment by one of the students that the administration was framing them for bizarre crimes by planting guns in their hostels, organized murders of their colleagues and such.  The anonymous commenter had said that they already knew what was happening and very soon if there was going be no change some storm was brewing somewhere. And naturally, the administration did not respond to threats, or negotiate with terrorists.

“What is it that the students really want?” Professor Gwendolyn asked.

Urbanas said nothing. He had already presented the student’s grievances through the normal procedure and he was not about to repeat himself. Not in the least. And when he was implored further he just said that the students knew what they wanted to know, and that they thought that SANU’s affairs were being interfered with by the government and administration.

Adjournment was called upon immediately. The next meeting was scheduled for the following week on Monday.

From there he went straight to his room to freshen up before attending his next meeting. He was meeting a prominent businessman – and a devout member of the church. His life of late was taken up by meetings – official and informal, others secret. He had no problem with that. The only thing that troubled him was the venue of the meeting. It was over three years now since he went to a place like that and he intended to go near such places no more. He hated them with passion.

At 1730hrs he met with the man whom he had known from his sources as a man of God. Samson Ndolo saw Urbanas immediately he showed up almost confused outside the chapel that was used for weekday services at Holy Cross church in town.

Urbanas liked Samson from the very word go. Samson went straight to the point. They started going round the church in front of the images of Jesus on His way to Calvary. Pretending they were praying, the meeting occurred.

Samson wanted Urbanas to do a very simple job. He had been highly recommended. Fifteen minutes later Urbanas went back to the Madonna Hostels of Nashville University already planning how to kill his next victim.

It was exactly five days after her anonymous caller had given her the info. She had immediately informed her editor who had smugly reproached her. He could not have been any less callous after her last slip ups. The Imperial Media Services is a well-recognized and respected media group not only in east and central Africa but in the whole continent and world over. The editor could, and would, not allow what she had done to tarnish the good name of the IMS. Not in the least, not again.

“You better be sure this time round, Miss. I won’t give you any other chance no matter what!”

“What are you afraid of? I told you I won’t slip up again, not when I know.”

“IMS’s reputation precedes, Carol. We cannot afford the disparagement we got after your purportedly correct information about the First Lady’s incidence with our reporters. As the editor I will not allow such unsubstantiated reportage in this paper.”

“What do you suggest I do? I go freelance?”

“You’ll do what you want, Carol, but wrong information to the public is utterly unwelcome. Not anymore, certainly not by this paper.”

“About this I am damn sure of it. I have already done my investigation. It’s true. Our reporter and photojournalist from the Coast have first-hand information. It’s
gotcha
, Michael.”

“Mark my word, Carol. You blow this up I kick your ass out in the open… no second thoughts.”

That was on Monday morning. Today is Thursday and her report was on the front page of their daily, the
Moonbeam,
and sister publications; the
Daily Post,
the
Chronicle,
and the
Star.

Carol had joined the IMS five years before and her work had been impeccable until when she made a blaring mistake that made the IMS apologize not only to the first family but also to the whole country for misreporting. She was given a severe warning and admonition never ever to do such a thing again or she would lose her precious job, and was awarded a three month’s suspension.

She was just two days into the suspension when the anonymous call came. At first she thought that it was a hoax but the caller insisted. She made herself busy the entire twelve-week period. She did not want to face her editor again on her reporting oversights.

No more mistakes.

Carol surprised him the minute she reported back. She had an incriminating news piece, an exposé. At last the public was going to know what kind of people their leaders were.

The headline was her photojournalist’s idea:
Mexican Drug Lords Thrive at the Coast
and the subs had taken it without feeling that their job was being done by somebody else.

Sacrifices! Sacrifices were offered to appease the ancestors, spirits, and gods. In the traditional African society elders used to offer sacrifices occasionally so that those living may live in bountiful harvests and better lives – peaceful and healthy. The sacrifices used to avert danger, a red herring to avert the ire and wrath of gods and spirits.

It started with Abel and Cain, Abraham’s human sacrifice, Jacob and Isaac and those who came after them. Israelites offered sacrifices in the wilderness for forty years. Jesus offered himself. Blood, the tincture of true sacrifice.

Sacrifices are still offered today.

They
needed a sacrifice, a red herring to avert the wrath of the god of money.

Job was coming from his case hearing. The evidence was produced – he and his mule were implicated, or rather, were found guilty of trafficking drugs with market value of twenty million shillings. They pleaded not guilty. He could not do anything about it. His friends had gotten him the best barristers in the country, though.
What are friends for?

They promised him that everything was under control.
Where there is muck there is brass.
That’s what they exactly told him after Grace reduced him to nothingness. He believed them then, and he still did.

The case seemed to drag, but compared to conviction rate of high profile cases in the country, this was a record breaker. The following month the judge was going to give his judgement. Before then the truth would be long known. The prosecution would have no case than to drop the charges and apologize, in private of course, to Job and his friends. That was the plan.

Job spent the remaining part of the day at Muthaiga Golf Club playing golf with his friend. At dusk they drained the hollowness of their throats with some alcohol. That’s when the topic of him getting himself a woman to go home to came up. Job just waved his friends off. Never ever again shall he get intimate with the fairer sex? They are all serial heartbreakers, he told his friends.

Late in the night when he was almost groggy, Job left for his home. The moment he left and sped away and the guard locked the gate behind; Samson made the much awaited and needed call. When somebody picked up on the other end, he just said two words, “It’s time.”

*

Like a leopard that had been lying in wait for its prey, Urbanas emerged from his hideout with all the gracefulness of a python. He saw the tail lights of the sedan he was waiting for shimmer away. A moment later, he started his spiced up stolen sports car and followed at a safe distance.

It was just another night of business as usual.

*

Naturally the streets had the aura of daybreak. Nocturnal primates were out there – prostitutes, robbers, ballerinas, and the whole lot to whom epicureanism has dominated their lives, such that they must spill their activities in to the night. Although he was amongst them at the moment, Job knew he was totally different from them. He was going to his home, cold as it was, but home all the same.

He got fidgety when he realized that the car that had been following him since he left the golf club was still tailing him. The air around him hang with the stench death. He could smell its acridity, its resonant tang in the faintest.

He smelt the trace of gasoline and sweat. He was damn sure that somebody was out there for his life.

The car slowed as he neared his house in Westlands, Nairobi.

The car started to accelerate again.

There was no time. The guard was delaying in opening the gate.

Then there was no need at all.

It felt like hailstones hitting him, and his car.

Job had never thought bullets hit
you
like hailstones.

Darkness.

Pain.

Warmth.

Blood.

Blackness.

Death.

Mavis had a chain of friends in the police force, from the regular police to the paramilitary Flying Squad and Administration Police. More often than not; the local police boss would make sure that his men worked away from our area of operation, or if we happened to be in the same area there was some kind of mutual understanding and responsibility – we do not attack his boys even if they taunted or provoked us as that was their job, otherwise he would come on us like all hell gone crazy with the whole fraternity of the law enforcement. On his part, he would make sure that the public knew what it ought to know, telling everything and doing everything as demands his job, yet tell and do nothing to serve the community as he ought. He always got his wages at the end of the day. We had friends high up the national food chain too, courtesy of Urbanas, thanks to his political connections.

An arms dealer based at Eastleigh, Nairobi, used to sell us arms from the war torn militant Somalia. However they found their way to Nairobi I did not know, but I guess the police facilitated in one way or another.

Our arsenal consisted of the latest weapons, new inventions. We were always more modernised than the police even though from time to time we used to borrow some pistols from the police, and even their AK47 assault rifles. We had our own arsenal that our uniformed friends envied: machine pistols, machine guns, and rifles. The ammo was never a problem. What was more intriguing was how we used to conceal them. Crude, yes, but efficient...  

One day a titanic classy casket was at the centre of Urbanas’ Madonna Hostels room. You could not tell its colour straightforwardly because it looked insipid, metallic or silver, depending on the angle one was looking at it from. It had golden handles and piping along the edges. How could I forget it? It was the one we had retrieved from Lang’ata cemetery the week after the foiled Nakuru coffin heist.

Urbanas went straight to the point. We had acquired new stuff and as usual we were supposed to transport it to our armoury. We all knew the drill.

We had gotten ourselves automatic handguns, M107 and M110 sniper rifles. After putting all the weapons in the casket, we covered it so as not to draw attention from whoever might see us putting it in our ever beloved pickup. We were all dressed in black suits, matching ties and shirts, black hats and Ray-Bans. Jack and Dick got in the pickup while Arnold, Urbanas and I got in Urbanas’ spiced up sports car. Arnold was behind the wheel.

Final Destination
: Nairobi War Memorial Cemetery.

The grey Mazda marqué pickup came to an abrupt halt at the entrance of the cemetery, one of the places we visited only at witch hours of the night. The sports car followed slowly, closely behind. When the gate was flung open, the events that were to follow were emblazoned on everyone’s mind – it was the drill, well-rehearsed; that’s what Urbanas called it. 

Dick and Jack stepped out of the pick-up and walked briskly to the back. At that moment, Arnold and I got out too. Urbanas was left behind in the car, as usual. We were the pallbearers. One could wonder what kind of a burial ceremony this was – no bereaved and the mourners. Apart from being part of the hearse that had delivered the deceased’s mortal remains, we were also the retinue.

We removed the casket and took it to the side of the already dug grave.

Urbanas stepped out of the car dressed in a white robe that Catholic priests wear, the alb. He had a purplish looking scarf around his neck hanging like the stole Catholic priests wear and a Bible in his left hand.

With the gusto of an officially ordained priest, Urbanas came to where we were
mourning our departed friend.

He, Urbanas, presided over the burial ceremony taking note of the usual rituals of praying to those who went ahead; and the homily of life, death, resurrection, and life after death. We prayed for a split second and Arnold went back to the pickup, took a brand new spade and came back to us.

We then lowered the casket into the shallow grave, and then the presiding priest scooped some soil and passed it round for us to take a handful to sprinkle on the casket. We did it in turns and left the “cleric” to complete his task. When he was done, he threw the spade on top of the grave, took off the robe, and ran to join us. We left the cemetery grounds the same way we had come in.

The guard at the gate offered his condolences. Arnold and I smiled at that. Arnold lowered his Ray-Bans, looked at him through the driver’s window and sped off.

We went straight back to Madonna hostels, the planning room. There was a task for us that night.