Nairobi Grit

Tom Jalio

Description

This anthology is a door to the world of Nairobi in the eyes of three budding Kenyan writers. Welcoming you at the entrance is Tom Jalio with a tale that takes off at the heart of Kenya's capital city. It is famed as the "city in the sun", but what happens when that sun sets and you find yourself in a dark and lonely side of town? Such is the dilemma of a campus student in No Rest for the Wicked.The city is surrounded by estates dominated by the middle class. Clifton Gachagua guides you on a stroll through one such residential area in the footsteps of three schoolboys. Follow the bounds of their curiosity as they come of age and are fascinated by the driver of a hearse in Smoker's Lips.Clifford Oluoch takes you on a ride with members of the working class coming home from another day of labouring in town. It seems a relief to escape the hustle and bustle of the city for the respite of a quiet neighbourhood, but some of the passengers carry a greater madness with them. Find out what kind in Every Dog Has Its Day.

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Master Publishing
• Date de parution: 20 décembre 2013
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789966052063
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Contents
Publisher’s Note
No Rest for the Wicked
Smoker’s Lips
Every Dog Has Its Day
About the Authors
About the Publisher
Publisher’s Note
“There a literary desert in Kenya.” “Kenyans do not read.” These are some of the clichés we had to contend with when coming up with this collection.
There is no literary barrenness in Kenya. It’s just that most writers express their creativity in blogs, poems, and articles. And there is no shortage of readers. The bulk of them, however, read textbooks, newspapers, and self-help books. There has therefore been a shortage of literary classics since the likes of Ngũgĩ wa Thiongo put Kenya on the map in the 1960s.
By publishing short stories with a minimum of 5,000 words, we sought to give a stepping stone towards longer literary works. We may do sequels in future to draw more writers out of their shells.
This (first) anthology is a door to the world of Nairobi in the eyes of three budding Kenyan writers. Welcoming you at the entrance is Tom Jalio with a tale that takes off at the heart Kenya’s capital city. It is famed as the “city in the sun,” but what happens when that sun sets and you find yourself in a dark and lonely side of town? Such is the dilemma of a campus student in No Rest for the Wicked .
The city is surrounded by estates dominated by the middle class. Clifton Gachagua guides you on a stroll through one such residential area in the footsteps of three schoolboys. Follow the bounds of their curiosity as they come of age and are fascinated by the driver of a hearse in Smoker’s Lips .
Clifford Oluoch takes you on a ride with members of the working class coming home from another day of labouring in town. It seems a relief to escape the hustle and bustle of the city for the respite of a quiet neighbourhood, but some of the passengers carry a greater madness with them. Find out what kind in Every Dog Has Its Day .
These authors come from different parts of the city and all have prior experience in publishing. Each portrays a face of Nairobi with the authority of a resident and the dexterity of a creative writer. The result is an intriguing mix of horror, humour, and harsh realities in the recesses of the city and its environs.
These stories made the cut from a pool of twelve submissions due to their characterisation and plot development. We compiled them after realising they share the setting of Nairobi and an underlying theme of urban crime. While they have a dark and gritty theme, we do not intend to fall into the stereotype of Nairobi being a dangerous place. Rather, we want to bring out upcoming writers and showcase on the global stage Kenyan writing within the genre of noir fiction.
I would like to thank Lesleigh Inc. for soliciting the short stories and channelling them to us to consider for publication. I appreciate the authors for being patient with the publishing process and cooperative in doing rewrites. And I am greatly indebted to editorial associate Wanjira Hirst for her insights on substantive issues.
Agatha Verdadero Publisher The CAN-DO! Company
No Rest for the Wicked
Tom Jalio
YOU KNOW YOU ARE ON the wrong side of town when the tarmac is a drum and your shoes are its sticks, when the streetlights are losing their battle against the shadows of the skyscrapers, when traffic has dwindled to the highway several blocks away. It’s a detour I take whenever I need to pass by Dad’s office. It just feels lonelier than usual since class ended close to nine p.m. today.
The patter of my feet plays tricks on my ears. I muffle my steps to catch any stalker’s tread, but the sole rhythm that persists is that of my heart. I scurry across a pavement that feels more spacious than usual. I cross an adjacent road like a car will hit me if I’m half a step too slow. The police are headquartered around the corner at Vigilance House, but they tend to keep vigil more on the pockets of law-abiding citizens than on thieves.
I go straight past the Central Bank of Kenya. I seek out the intersection beyond two buildings ahead and the return to the safety in numbers it promises. It evokes the sensation I get when approaching the end of a half marathon. The finisher’s medal I would get is the movies I plan to watch on the laptop Dad had borrowed for bookkeeping.
Someone springs from a saloon car parked to my left. His ebony frame towers over the roof of the vehicle. He raises his palm and says, “Young man! Come here!”
Out of fear, I just decelerate, but then someone skirts around me from the other side of the car, blocking my way.
The one who addresses me continues. “Where’s your ID?” He flashes a badge from the inner pocket of his overcoat.
I strain to catch his name or the “service to all” police motto but get only a glimpse of the emblem of a shield and two spears. I guess he is a karau from the plainclothes division. I hesitate for a second before reaching for the document demanded, but then the cop’s partner thrusts me forward. He has sneaked behind me, while I got distracted by the badge.
With the finality of a judge slamming down a gavel, the cop says, “You youths are the ones who cause trouble.” He pulls the back door open and says, “Get in the car!”
“I … I have my ID!” I say, but his colleague shepherds me in.
There’s a man slouched in the shade of the other door. His hands are held together on his lap, as if cuffed. His face is masked to the nose by the brim of a khaki kofia .
Going round to the driver’s seat, the cop says, “We’re taking you to Central for questioning.”
He means a police station next to my campus and not the Central Bank, but the ambiguity reminds me of how such meetings leave cops laughing all the way to the bank. I suspect a charge of “loitering with intent” will be handed to me. I have a mind to argue, but I don’t want “resisting arrest” added to my “list of crimes”.
I prop the laptop bag against my chest–a change from what I usually collect from Dad’s office: cow milk from our farm in Ngong. I have three litres today in a bottle inside an Uchumi Supermarket plastic bag, which I place between my feet. With these bags plus my schoolbag, I am fully loaded down. The capped man doesn’t look to me, as if he’s drunk himself into a stupor. What has he been caught for? Drunken and disorderly conduct?
The other cop follows me inside and closes the door behind me. The chocolate complexion of my fellow captive’s chin and arms disappears in the haze of tinted windows. I turn to look at the cop beside me, but he presses my cheek and says, “Focus ahead.”
From the corner of my eye, I can tell he is dark because his face remains camouflaged by the giza shrouding the car. The cop in front puts the gear in reverse. I doubt we’ll reach the police station. They’re just buying time to find another excuse to make me part with kitu kidogo now that they can’t get me for lack of an ID. I mentally tag as “Karau” the one who flagged me down, “Giza” the one allergic to being looked at, and “Kofia” the fellow detainee trying to hide in a sun hat.
Giza’s eyes monitor mine for any defiance to his order. Apparently, there’s more to his scrutiny when he asks, in the tone of man looking for his unfaithful partner’s mpango wa kando , “Are you Luo?”
Huh?! It’s as good as asking me whose side of the killing spree I was on, when our trailing Kikuyu president won overnight and his Luo rival called for mass action. It’s been a year since a coalition deal forced us to bury the hatchet. Seems these trigger-happy cops didn’t get the memo. As Karau drives towards Haile Selassie Avenue, streetlights bounce off the rear-view mirror, creating sparks of light too brief to see these guys.
There is a stronger edge to Giza’s voice as he repeats his query. “Are. You. Luo?”
“No,” I say between gritted teeth. I’m just Kenyan! “I can show you my ID.” I’ve never bribed a cop before, but I’m dying to get out of here. I wait for the cue to give up what I can spare.
Karau’s voice slithers back into the conversation like the wrong answer to a prayer. “Do you have an ATM card?”
My underarms grow damp. I clutch the laptop bag. He must be estimating how much he should fine me . I try to convince myself that that’s all there is to it. “No, I don’t have.”
“What are you doing in town at night?”
“I’ve come from class.”
“Where?”
“University of Nairobi.”
Kofia breaks his silence with a hissing voice. “You are the ones who wreak havoc.” He dispels my illusions about him. He’s lumped me together with those who stone motorists and raid shops, whenever the institution goes on strike, taking the “higher” in “higher education” to mean they are above the law. Never mind that they hail from the hostels and I was homebound precisely because I don’t live there. “Today, you will know us,” he continues. “We are—” His head bobs under his cap as he stresses, “ Mu-ngi-ki !”
I see headless bodies. The vision is as clear as if I had seen the news headline yesterday: Mungiki Beheads Touts for Failure to Pay Protection Fees . In my mind, the camera doesn’t leave out the part above the neck, where a head used to be. The prospect of dying like that builds a knot in my throat. My Adam’s apple rises and I gulp it down.
Karau closes in on the roundabout. A bunch of people to our left are poised to cross over to the railway station. The traffic lights turn red before we pass them. An impulse seizes me. I consider Giza’s door. They’ll probably stop me before I open it. It’s better to make a scene. The pedestrians may not see me through these tinted windows, but they’ll hear me if I raise the alarm. Heck, if I’m going to be beheaded, I might as well die trying to get help . I clench a fist and fling myself at the window. Bang, bang! “Help me!” Bang! “Hel—”
Giza scrambles to tame me. He hooks a bare arm around my neck and bends me down to my knees. I try to keep at it anyway, but Kofia pulls my arm back and yanks it up behind me. I scream as pain shoots up to my shoulder. “Who are you making noise