Patrick Ochieng Ochieng
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The writer lives with his family in the Lakeside
town of Kisumu, and practices law.
He made the shortlist of the 2010 Golden Baobab
Prize.
town of Kisumu, and practices law.
He made the shortlist of the 2010 Golden Baobab
Prize.
A COSTLY OVERSIGHT, a Short Story by Patrick Ochieng Ochieng
Had the district commissioner’s car radio been tuned to the National Broadcaster that Saturday, he
would certainly have heard the important announcement; expected to trigger new alignments in the
country’s uncertain politics. He would have known who was in and who was out; who to give a
wide berth, and whom to embrace. But with a gnawing feeling in his stomach – his ulcers were
acting up again – the District commissioner failed to notice the anomaly, of his car radio belting out
an unending flow of benga music, at 1 pm, instead of reeling out the news. And so the District’s
top administrator missed a major item on the National Broadcasting Service news – the sacking of
the minister for state in charge of National security.
Silas Juma, for many years a close confidant of the President, had done the un-forgivable. He had
attended a farewell party of an outgoing diplomat – an unswerving critic of the ‘big man’, as
President Mbona was known. Some would later say his move was deliberate and calculated at
forcing the President’s hand, which might as well have been true. However, as was customary, the
news of his sacking was first announced on the National broadcasters’ one o’clock news.
That Saturday, Ouma, a driver on loan from the ministry of national cohesion, had tuned the car
radio to an FM station popular for its music. This gross oversight by the District commissioner’s
temporary driver, would abruptly bring to an end to a career that had spanned a decade and a half.
Singor – the DC’s official driver – had been away. Schooled in the intrigues within government,
Singor would never have allowed the NBS’s one o’clock news to go unheard. It was in its bulletin
that appointments, suspensions and sackings within government were announced. Upon learning of
such sackings, drivers had been known to abandon ministers in far flung parts of the republic, with
no alternative means of transport. One such driver was rumored to have removed the official flag
from his boss’s limousine and driven away, leaving the hapless former-minister at a petrol station
in a distant border town. The poor chap had gone into the washroom to relieve himself, and was
unaware of his sacking – announced on the national broadcaster.
‘The idiot came back by Matatu!’ The sacked minister’s driver had been heard, narrating to
amused drivers at the ministry’s parking lot the next day.
‘Wonder how his massive backside went through the Matatu door?’ another had joked, before their
supervisor had appeared.
To miss the news at one was suicidal. However, on the fateful Saturday, Singor had attended a
funeral at Kericho. And so DC Mwanzia – oblivious to the changes in government – reclined in
the back seat of his official car, as his temporary driver, Ouma, skillfully maneuvered the well
maintained Peugeot 504 through the pot-holed road.
Were it some other time, the administrator a diligent officer and a well connected man, would have
escaped the gaffe, with no more than a reprimand. However, these were no ordinary times. With
the general elections round the corner, intolerant politicians, their supporters, tribes-men, hirelings,
and armed militia were on the prowl. It was the time of the year when the country was gripped in
campaign fever, and even ordinary things like colors could easily get you killed.
In most slums or the informal dwellings – as civil society type were wont to describe them –
dressing in brown could send you to your grave. Considered the color of oppression, its wearer
assumed the tag of an oppressor. In the span of a nod, a tyre soaked in petrol, could be
transformed into a deadly blazing weapon, to be used against the ‘oppressor’.
Brown was, and had always been the official color of the party in power. Decking venues used for
official celebrations, it was proof of conformity; proof that one belonged to the main-stream.
Government officials strove to adorn as much brown as was practicable, without looking
ridiculous – which often they did. Brown could just as much ensure your promotion in the civil
service, as its absence, your demotion. On the other hand, yellow, had of late become the color of
change – espoused by a nascent opposition, brimming with energy, and determined to oust the
ruling party from power. For them there was no middle ground. You were either with those that
held the reins of power or with the un-tested new comers who would have you replace the old
crop with anyone but the old crop. They dwelt on the omissions of those they proposed to replace,
rather than their own commitments.
With jobs, plot allotments, scholarships, lucrative tenders – pretty much every deal that financially
set one apart, from other mortals – pegged to the forthcoming election, it was to die for. Little
wonder no one wanted to risk being labeled reformist.
Reform meant equal opportunity, accountability, and in essence a new order; all anathema to the
beneficiaries of the current arrangement. And so, with a ruling party in panic, and party
functionaries intolerant in the extreme, the District commissioner’s gaffe would prove un-
forgivable.
.
Engrossed in his own thoughts as he sat in the back seat of his official Peugeot 504, on his way to
pick his wife Sarah, from the airport, the administrator paid scant attention to the crowds that lined
the street corners, and their predominantly yellow attire. He wondered whether it was the correct
time to break the news to his wife. Of course there were considerations, such as – Sarah’s father
being the National organizing secretary of the party; a powerful man; one not to be taken lightly.
But his life was his own, and mzee Musundu had no business interfering. After all, the old man
himself had four wives; Sarah’s mother being the second. Besides Esther was heavy with child; his
child. He would have to make it official. Sarah would have to know.
‘Ouma, do you think I would do well in politics?’ Mwanzia suddenly asked, the abruptness of his
question, causing the driver to slow down. ‘An honest answer ouma.’
‘I don’t know sir; I don’t do siasa – politics,’
‘You know there is little future in the provincial administration?’Mwanzia added, immediately
regretting his indiscretion.
‘Bwana DC, we found this thing here, we’ll leave it here.’ Ouma responded, peeking at the
rearview mirror, to assess his boss’s demeanor. Why couldn’t Mkubwa just shut up and allow him
drive? Did it matter what he thought? He was a mere driver, and there was never a shortage of
openings for drivers. Provincial administration or not, there would always be bosses to be driven.
Sensing Ouma’s indifference, the district commissioner retreated into his silence.
In little doubt that the provincial administration had seen its best days Mwanzia was preparing
himself for a career shift. The timing of his move would determine its success. Instead of
subjecting himself to the rigors of an election, he would first lobby for a nomination into
parliament. This would not be difficult. He knew the right people in the party and some of them
owed him a few favors. Once he had learnt the ropes, he would vie for a seat in his rural home.
The title Mheshimiwa, or Honorable Member of parliament, had a nice ring to it. The salary and
allowances were good. Even better, was that they came tax free. A smile lit Mwanzia’s face as he
contemplated the prospects. He knew many incompetent party functionaries who had become
members of parliament. It had little to do with ability and more to do with party loyalty. You stuck
your head out for the party you got rewarded. That was the way it had always worked.
Watching the gigantic petrol tankers roar past, huge red danger signs emblazoned on their sides,
Mwanzia contemplated asking Ouma which party he supported, but thought better. The man was
entitled to some privacy, and in any event he suspected he would never receive an honest answer.
His thoughts went back to the days gone by, when administrators stood ramrod straight while
answering phone calls from party functionaries; even in the privacy of their bedrooms. It was fear
internalized. It tugged at your very being. Ultimately one was never to hold an opinion, for to do so
was to be subversive. All words; all actions or reaction, was for the benefit of the party, and
carried out in the name of the leader. Like the ubiquitous figure of Christ on a cross in all Christian
places of worship, the leader’s portrait adorned all government facilities. This ensured no one
forgot who was in control.
Mwanzia’s reverie was suddenly interrupted by the booming sound of an incoming aircraft, as it
made a perfect landing – its massive silhouette in tow. Shortly, Its gigantic frame was visible
through the chain link fence that secured off the runway, as it taxied to a stop in front of the
control tower .
Ouma parked the car close to the arrivals, which also served those departing. Easing himself from
the front seat, he swiftly went round and opened the back left door, standing aside as Mwanzia
stepped out, adjusting his beige hat to ward off the garish noon glare.
The forest of cameras should have alerted Mwanzia. He however, naively attributed the heavy
presence of the press, to the environmental conference taking place in the lakeside town. Striding
confidently through the security area and on to the sun drenched runway – as the chair of the
district security committee he had access to such restricted areas – he watched as a temporary
stairway was attached to the aircraft, and its metallic door swung open.
‘Afternoon sir, can I be of assistance?’ A uniformed official of the airport authority enquired.
Irritably Mwanzia edged away eyes riveted on the Aircraft.
‘Sir, now that he is not with us should we allow his people access into this area?’ the official
persisted. Engrossed in his own thoughts, the administrator waved the puzzled official away. Had
he only taken some time to listen!
Resplendent in a gold speckled shirt, with a matching trouser, Juma – former minister for internal
security – walked down from the aircraft, and straight into Mwanzia’s embrace.
Flashbulbs popped as journalists recorded what, without doubt, would make the news. DISTRICT
COMMISSIONER TURNS UP TO WELCOME SACKED MINISTER, the next day’s headlines
would scream. More analytical news houses would report his intention to join the opposition.
Only when his wife Sarah grabbed his arm and roughly pulled him aside did Mwanzia realize
something was amiss.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ She whispered drawing Mwanzia away from the excited members of
the press who had surrounded him. ‘Don’t you know Juma was sacked just this morning, and has
announced his intention to join the opposition,’ she informed her wide- eyed husband.
Pulling out a handkerchief from his beige trouser, a visibly shocked Mwanzia wiped the sweat
from his brow. Feeling weak at the knees he staggered backwards and for a brief moment looked
like he would topple to the ground. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he realized that he
must seek some privacy in order that he may think clearly. Stumbling to where his car had been
parked, he realized it was missing. Had the Hyenas at headquarters managed to contact his driver
so quickly? That was highly unlikely. His gaffe was just minutes old. Then he saw his white
pegouet parked at the extreme end of the parking lot. It seemed his driver had sought a more
shaded spot. Literally running to the car Mwanzia pulled the door open and slumped into the back.
His driver furtively peered through the rear-view mirror, and then edged out of the crowded lot.
‘You’re serious, you didn’t know’, He faintly heard his wife Sarah ask, as they sat side by side in
the cars’ cool interior? Ignoring her he stared ahead. He felt like drinking some water but realized
that he would have to ask his driver to pass a bottle from the front. Not trusting his trembling
hands, he dismissed the thought.
During the ten minutes it took to drive from the airport, Mwanzia did not utter a word. Constantly
mopping his brow, he kept shaking his head in disbelief. When his driver came to a halt at his
residence, he jerked the door open, and hurried into his house. He did not notice that the
administration police officers that normally stood guard at his gate were missing.
‘Mark, you’ve got to put in a word for me. I didn’t know Juma was out’, Mwanzia pleaded on the
phone, as he sat on the edge of his bed. He had been working his phone for hours, with little
success. Even persons that would normally have responded to his call on the first ring were now
snubbing him. His first call had been to his father in law, Musundu. After several unsuccessful
attempts, he had given up and was about to make another call to someone else, when his phone
rang, his mother in law at the other end. Her shrill panicky voice, warned him not to call her
husband again. ‘After what happened, we can’t afford to be linked to you. Please don’t call the old
man, ever’, she had said. It was at this point that Mwanzia realized he was all alone. If Esther’s
father had distanced himself, then who would risk being seen to be still associating with a pariah
like him?
‘Your mother just called to say that we should not call them,’ he told his wife. ‘My own mother in
law, telling me to keep off’, he said, shaking his head and laughing.
‘And what did you think she would do,’ his wife replied, walking out of the bedroom.
After multiple attempts Mwanzia had finally gotten through to his good friend Mark.
‘Get serious. If you can’t know what is openly in the news, like the sacking of Juma, then how
can you pretend to chair the security team in your district?’ Mark had asked, bursting out into his
usual hearty laughter. ‘Even the mama mboga – selling vegetables on the street – must have known
of that traitor’s sacking.’
‘I was unwell, Mark. I had been in hospital.’ Mwanzia lied, immediately regretting the last part of
his statement. By now the intelligence machinery certainly had information on all his movements,
prior to the airport blunder. Mark most certainly was privy to such intel.
‘If you are to be helped you must come clean. Do you think after the picture of you hugging that
traitor was flashed all over the news, those spooks at Kifaru house haven’t dug up details of
where you’ve been, and whom you’ve met, and what you have done in the last decade? Take it
from me, right now they will make it their business to know when you last farted! ’ Mark said let
out a burst of laughter.
‘Mark bwana, I’ve tried to call the people I know in Nairobi, and none of them will pick. Not even
my own father in law,’ Mwanzia lamented, still finding it hard to believe that Esther’s parents had
conveniently distanced themselves from him.
‘You’re up to your neck in shit. But let’s see what we can do.’ Mark concluded.
As Mwanzia slowly lowered the receiver, he knew, not even Mark was capable of calling off the
hounds. In fact he was certain his good friend Mark – rumored to be tight with the leader – would
never again give him an audience.
‘Juma here,’ a familiar voice said, when Mwanzia picked up the phone that had been ringing for a
while.
‘You’ve already caused me much trouble. You shouldn’t be calling me,’ Mwanzia whispered into
the mouthpiece, quickly looking behind his back.
‘You honestly don’t believe those paranoid men at headquarters, are going to let you in again?’
Juma asked. ‘The only way to remain relevance is to light a fire under their scabby bottoms,’ Juma
said laughing at his own joke. ‘You think about it. When you’ve gotten over the shock, remember,
I’m your man,’ he said, and hung up.
Had the district commissioner’s car radio been tuned to the National Broadcaster that Saturday, he
would certainly have heard the important announcement; expected to trigger new alignments in the
country’s uncertain politics. He would have known who was in and who was out; who to give a
wide berth, and whom to embrace. But with a gnawing feeling in his stomach – his ulcers were
acting up again – the District commissioner failed to notice the anomaly, of his car radio belting out
an unending flow of benga music, at 1 pm, instead of reeling out the news. And so the District’s
top administrator missed a major item on the National Broadcasting Service news – the sacking of
the minister for state in charge of National security.
Silas Juma, for many years a close confidant of the President, had done the un-forgivable. He had
attended a farewell party of an outgoing diplomat – an unswerving critic of the ‘big man’, as
President Mbona was known. Some would later say his move was deliberate and calculated at
forcing the President’s hand, which might as well have been true. However, as was customary, the
news of his sacking was first announced on the National broadcasters’ one o’clock news.
That Saturday, Ouma, a driver on loan from the ministry of national cohesion, had tuned the car
radio to an FM station popular for its music. This gross oversight by the District commissioner’s
temporary driver, would abruptly bring to an end to a career that had spanned a decade and a half.
Singor – the DC’s official driver – had been away. Schooled in the intrigues within government,
Singor would never have allowed the NBS’s one o’clock news to go unheard. It was in its bulletin
that appointments, suspensions and sackings within government were announced. Upon learning of
such sackings, drivers had been known to abandon ministers in far flung parts of the republic, with
no alternative means of transport. One such driver was rumored to have removed the official flag
from his boss’s limousine and driven away, leaving the hapless former-minister at a petrol station
in a distant border town. The poor chap had gone into the washroom to relieve himself, and was
unaware of his sacking – announced on the national broadcaster.
‘The idiot came back by Matatu!’ The sacked minister’s driver had been heard, narrating to
amused drivers at the ministry’s parking lot the next day.
‘Wonder how his massive backside went through the Matatu door?’ another had joked, before their
supervisor had appeared.
To miss the news at one was suicidal. However, on the fateful Saturday, Singor had attended a
funeral at Kericho. And so DC Mwanzia – oblivious to the changes in government – reclined in
the back seat of his official car, as his temporary driver, Ouma, skillfully maneuvered the well
maintained Peugeot 504 through the pot-holed road.
Were it some other time, the administrator a diligent officer and a well connected man, would have
escaped the gaffe, with no more than a reprimand. However, these were no ordinary times. With
the general elections round the corner, intolerant politicians, their supporters, tribes-men, hirelings,
and armed militia were on the prowl. It was the time of the year when the country was gripped in
campaign fever, and even ordinary things like colors could easily get you killed.
In most slums or the informal dwellings – as civil society type were wont to describe them –
dressing in brown could send you to your grave. Considered the color of oppression, its wearer
assumed the tag of an oppressor. In the span of a nod, a tyre soaked in petrol, could be
transformed into a deadly blazing weapon, to be used against the ‘oppressor’.
Brown was, and had always been the official color of the party in power. Decking venues used for
official celebrations, it was proof of conformity; proof that one belonged to the main-stream.
Government officials strove to adorn as much brown as was practicable, without looking
ridiculous – which often they did. Brown could just as much ensure your promotion in the civil
service, as its absence, your demotion. On the other hand, yellow, had of late become the color of
change – espoused by a nascent opposition, brimming with energy, and determined to oust the
ruling party from power. For them there was no middle ground. You were either with those that
held the reins of power or with the un-tested new comers who would have you replace the old
crop with anyone but the old crop. They dwelt on the omissions of those they proposed to replace,
rather than their own commitments.
With jobs, plot allotments, scholarships, lucrative tenders – pretty much every deal that financially
set one apart, from other mortals – pegged to the forthcoming election, it was to die for. Little
wonder no one wanted to risk being labeled reformist.
Reform meant equal opportunity, accountability, and in essence a new order; all anathema to the
beneficiaries of the current arrangement. And so, with a ruling party in panic, and party
functionaries intolerant in the extreme, the District commissioner’s gaffe would prove un-
forgivable.
.
Engrossed in his own thoughts as he sat in the back seat of his official Peugeot 504, on his way to
pick his wife Sarah, from the airport, the administrator paid scant attention to the crowds that lined
the street corners, and their predominantly yellow attire. He wondered whether it was the correct
time to break the news to his wife. Of course there were considerations, such as – Sarah’s father
being the National organizing secretary of the party; a powerful man; one not to be taken lightly.
But his life was his own, and mzee Musundu had no business interfering. After all, the old man
himself had four wives; Sarah’s mother being the second. Besides Esther was heavy with child; his
child. He would have to make it official. Sarah would have to know.
‘Ouma, do you think I would do well in politics?’ Mwanzia suddenly asked, the abruptness of his
question, causing the driver to slow down. ‘An honest answer ouma.’
‘I don’t know sir; I don’t do siasa – politics,’
‘You know there is little future in the provincial administration?’Mwanzia added, immediately
regretting his indiscretion.
‘Bwana DC, we found this thing here, we’ll leave it here.’ Ouma responded, peeking at the
rearview mirror, to assess his boss’s demeanor. Why couldn’t Mkubwa just shut up and allow him
drive? Did it matter what he thought? He was a mere driver, and there was never a shortage of
openings for drivers. Provincial administration or not, there would always be bosses to be driven.
Sensing Ouma’s indifference, the district commissioner retreated into his silence.
In little doubt that the provincial administration had seen its best days Mwanzia was preparing
himself for a career shift. The timing of his move would determine its success. Instead of
subjecting himself to the rigors of an election, he would first lobby for a nomination into
parliament. This would not be difficult. He knew the right people in the party and some of them
owed him a few favors. Once he had learnt the ropes, he would vie for a seat in his rural home.
The title Mheshimiwa, or Honorable Member of parliament, had a nice ring to it. The salary and
allowances were good. Even better, was that they came tax free. A smile lit Mwanzia’s face as he
contemplated the prospects. He knew many incompetent party functionaries who had become
members of parliament. It had little to do with ability and more to do with party loyalty. You stuck
your head out for the party you got rewarded. That was the way it had always worked.
Watching the gigantic petrol tankers roar past, huge red danger signs emblazoned on their sides,
Mwanzia contemplated asking Ouma which party he supported, but thought better. The man was
entitled to some privacy, and in any event he suspected he would never receive an honest answer.
His thoughts went back to the days gone by, when administrators stood ramrod straight while
answering phone calls from party functionaries; even in the privacy of their bedrooms. It was fear
internalized. It tugged at your very being. Ultimately one was never to hold an opinion, for to do so
was to be subversive. All words; all actions or reaction, was for the benefit of the party, and
carried out in the name of the leader. Like the ubiquitous figure of Christ on a cross in all Christian
places of worship, the leader’s portrait adorned all government facilities. This ensured no one
forgot who was in control.
Mwanzia’s reverie was suddenly interrupted by the booming sound of an incoming aircraft, as it
made a perfect landing – its massive silhouette in tow. Shortly, Its gigantic frame was visible
through the chain link fence that secured off the runway, as it taxied to a stop in front of the
control tower .
Ouma parked the car close to the arrivals, which also served those departing. Easing himself from
the front seat, he swiftly went round and opened the back left door, standing aside as Mwanzia
stepped out, adjusting his beige hat to ward off the garish noon glare.
The forest of cameras should have alerted Mwanzia. He however, naively attributed the heavy
presence of the press, to the environmental conference taking place in the lakeside town. Striding
confidently through the security area and on to the sun drenched runway – as the chair of the
district security committee he had access to such restricted areas – he watched as a temporary
stairway was attached to the aircraft, and its metallic door swung open.
‘Afternoon sir, can I be of assistance?’ A uniformed official of the airport authority enquired.
Irritably Mwanzia edged away eyes riveted on the Aircraft.
‘Sir, now that he is not with us should we allow his people access into this area?’ the official
persisted. Engrossed in his own thoughts, the administrator waved the puzzled official away. Had
he only taken some time to listen!
Resplendent in a gold speckled shirt, with a matching trouser, Juma – former minister for internal
security – walked down from the aircraft, and straight into Mwanzia’s embrace.
Flashbulbs popped as journalists recorded what, without doubt, would make the news. DISTRICT
COMMISSIONER TURNS UP TO WELCOME SACKED MINISTER, the next day’s headlines
would scream. More analytical news houses would report his intention to join the opposition.
Only when his wife Sarah grabbed his arm and roughly pulled him aside did Mwanzia realize
something was amiss.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ She whispered drawing Mwanzia away from the excited members of
the press who had surrounded him. ‘Don’t you know Juma was sacked just this morning, and has
announced his intention to join the opposition,’ she informed her wide- eyed husband.
Pulling out a handkerchief from his beige trouser, a visibly shocked Mwanzia wiped the sweat
from his brow. Feeling weak at the knees he staggered backwards and for a brief moment looked
like he would topple to the ground. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, he realized that he
must seek some privacy in order that he may think clearly. Stumbling to where his car had been
parked, he realized it was missing. Had the Hyenas at headquarters managed to contact his driver
so quickly? That was highly unlikely. His gaffe was just minutes old. Then he saw his white
pegouet parked at the extreme end of the parking lot. It seemed his driver had sought a more
shaded spot. Literally running to the car Mwanzia pulled the door open and slumped into the back.
His driver furtively peered through the rear-view mirror, and then edged out of the crowded lot.
‘You’re serious, you didn’t know’, He faintly heard his wife Sarah ask, as they sat side by side in
the cars’ cool interior? Ignoring her he stared ahead. He felt like drinking some water but realized
that he would have to ask his driver to pass a bottle from the front. Not trusting his trembling
hands, he dismissed the thought.
During the ten minutes it took to drive from the airport, Mwanzia did not utter a word. Constantly
mopping his brow, he kept shaking his head in disbelief. When his driver came to a halt at his
residence, he jerked the door open, and hurried into his house. He did not notice that the
administration police officers that normally stood guard at his gate were missing.
‘Mark, you’ve got to put in a word for me. I didn’t know Juma was out’, Mwanzia pleaded on the
phone, as he sat on the edge of his bed. He had been working his phone for hours, with little
success. Even persons that would normally have responded to his call on the first ring were now
snubbing him. His first call had been to his father in law, Musundu. After several unsuccessful
attempts, he had given up and was about to make another call to someone else, when his phone
rang, his mother in law at the other end. Her shrill panicky voice, warned him not to call her
husband again. ‘After what happened, we can’t afford to be linked to you. Please don’t call the old
man, ever’, she had said. It was at this point that Mwanzia realized he was all alone. If Esther’s
father had distanced himself, then who would risk being seen to be still associating with a pariah
like him?
‘Your mother just called to say that we should not call them,’ he told his wife. ‘My own mother in
law, telling me to keep off’, he said, shaking his head and laughing.
‘And what did you think she would do,’ his wife replied, walking out of the bedroom.
After multiple attempts Mwanzia had finally gotten through to his good friend Mark.
‘Get serious. If you can’t know what is openly in the news, like the sacking of Juma, then how
can you pretend to chair the security team in your district?’ Mark had asked, bursting out into his
usual hearty laughter. ‘Even the mama mboga – selling vegetables on the street – must have known
of that traitor’s sacking.’
‘I was unwell, Mark. I had been in hospital.’ Mwanzia lied, immediately regretting the last part of
his statement. By now the intelligence machinery certainly had information on all his movements,
prior to the airport blunder. Mark most certainly was privy to such intel.
‘If you are to be helped you must come clean. Do you think after the picture of you hugging that
traitor was flashed all over the news, those spooks at Kifaru house haven’t dug up details of
where you’ve been, and whom you’ve met, and what you have done in the last decade? Take it
from me, right now they will make it their business to know when you last farted! ’ Mark said let
out a burst of laughter.
‘Mark bwana, I’ve tried to call the people I know in Nairobi, and none of them will pick. Not even
my own father in law,’ Mwanzia lamented, still finding it hard to believe that Esther’s parents had
conveniently distanced themselves from him.
‘You’re up to your neck in shit. But let’s see what we can do.’ Mark concluded.
As Mwanzia slowly lowered the receiver, he knew, not even Mark was capable of calling off the
hounds. In fact he was certain his good friend Mark – rumored to be tight with the leader – would
never again give him an audience.
‘Juma here,’ a familiar voice said, when Mwanzia picked up the phone that had been ringing for a
while.
‘You’ve already caused me much trouble. You shouldn’t be calling me,’ Mwanzia whispered into
the mouthpiece, quickly looking behind his back.
‘You honestly don’t believe those paranoid men at headquarters, are going to let you in again?’
Juma asked. ‘The only way to remain relevance is to light a fire under their scabby bottoms,’ Juma
said laughing at his own joke. ‘You think about it. When you’ve gotten over the shock, remember,
I’m your man,’ he said, and hung up.