The Dream Chasers Page 5

  “What’s all this?” I asked. “Are we opening a grain shop?”

  “Lulu, the woman that fills her granaries isn’t kept awake in the night by the growling of tapeworms in her stomach.”

  We took a somewhat empty bus home. We sat at the back on separate seats: she at one window, me at the other. The car outside my window had a bumper sticker that said: Najivunia Kuwa Mkenya.

  “Mama, are you proud to be Kenyan?”

  “Tch! Lulu, why should I be proud to be Kenyan? Don’t you know that pride is one of the seven deadly sins? The English say that pride comes before a fall.”

  The bus went up Lang’ata Road, past the Lang’ata Cemetery. I imagined a Kikuyu man buried next to a Luo man. They lay peacefully next to each other. I thought of headstones I’ve seen in previous visits to the place: God gives and God takes. A flower has been plucked. May His Name be praised.

  “Mama, look at that place. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “The cemetery? Asi! Daughter of mine, are you a witch? Walahi! If you buried me there, I’d haunt you for the rest of your life. Can you imagine the horror of being buried next to a Kikuyu man?”

  “But you’d be dead. How would you know I’d buried you there, next to a Kikuyu man?”

  “My spirit wouldn’t move on.”

  “There are so many dead people there. Wouldn’t you love the company?”

  “It’s taboo, Lulu. A person must return to the ground that gave birth to their lineage, the ground their forefathers walked on.”

  The bus accelerated past fruit carts and suits on display, past a Kenchic restaurant whose patrons lined up for chips, past men who chewed last month’s gum in between tobacco-blackened teeth, and past women who fashioned tin lamps for a living.

  “Haven’t you been eating?” Mama asked. “Why do your clothes wear you? If you’re a clothes hanger, then what is it you’re doing here in this bus? You should be hooked to your closet in the house. Asi!”

  When we got to the house, Mama cooked ugali, kale, and beef stew. She rolled out the sisal mat and we sat out in the grass.

  “Baba called me,” she said.

  “What did he want?”

  “He told me you were poisoning his wife’s mind.”

  Mama moulded her ugali into a fist-sized ball. She flattened one end of it and made a spoon out of it. She used it to scoop her beef stew and bit on the edible utensil. Stew dribbled down her chin. She wiped it with the back of her hand.

  “Mama, Baba beat his wife up because I poisoned her mind.”

  “Tch! Who ever heard of such a thing? Did anyone ever die from a poisoned mind? Did you sprinkle rat poison over her thoughts? Lulu, he beat her up because he beat her up, not because you poisoned her mind. You know he used to beat me up, too. I remember the first time he did it. It was during Christmas, you were six. Baba hadn’t been home in a week. One of the neighbours directed me to where they had spotted him.

  “I took your hand. We crossed ditches and jumped over quarry stones. The murram burnt through the slippers on our feet. Your little hands strangled my fingers. Carols rent the air. At first, they were sweet, like audible crystals of sugar. But soon, every house and car and shop in the street played them, until their sweetness could have given you audio diabetes.

  “You and I, we stood outside the Sidewalk Bar. I let you play in the dirt, in the parking bay. You knotted braids in the scant patches of grass, singing, ‘Cinderella, dressed in yellow, went upstairs to kiss a fellow. By mistake, she kissed a snail. How many doctors did she see?’

  “Baba’s tortoise car was parked next to the skip. He was at the deck chairs outside the bar. A crate of beer sat at his feet, half a goat on the table, and a woman by his side.”

  “Was it Chinika?”

  “No, it wasn’t Chinika. The woman was a magazine-stencil woman, like those mannequins in the shops in town. You know them? The ones in striped bodysuits, with arms delicately placed over hips, flyaway hair, and flawless legs stretching from here to Mombasa.

  “When Baba came home that night, I confronted him. He beat me. I slept with you that night. You cried and told me you wished you were Muchai’s sister instead of Baba’s daughter.”

  “Baba should have married a drum. It makes for good beating.”

  Mama drank her soup. “Ah, you now. Why aren’t you eating? Me, I’m done with mine. Look.” She showed me her empty plate. “Or did I cook you the wrong food? What do clothes hangers eat for lunch? Tell me and I shall cook it for you. Is it grated cotton sweaters? Is it baked timber? Marinated tin?”

  “Mama!”

  “Go on; put lumps of ugali in your mouth. Do it now, or I shall make you drink a cup of cooking oil to fatten you.”

  “Urgh! Mama! I’m eating. I’m eating.”

  She watched me for a few minutes. “Did night runners come to the house while I was gone?”

  “Mama, this is not the countryside.”

  Mama clicked her tongue. “Neighbours, come feast your ears with my daughter’s stupidity. Of course, I don’t mean that kind of night runner. I mean the kind that should be burnt in the market square if caught. The kind that comes in their birthday suit and wreaks havoc with people’s daughters. Did that kind of night runner come to spend the night here?”

  I choked on the ugali in my mouth. I coughed and coughed and coughed.

  Mama threw her head back and laughed. It wasn’t a pretence laugh to curb the sushi silence. It was a laugh deep from the tips of her toes. It took a few seconds to travel up her body. When it fell out of her mouth, it fell out in snipped-up pieces.

  Ha.

  Ha-ha.

  Ha.

  “When did you become so serious, my daughter? Of course, I’m only pulling your leg. I know you’re a good girl. You’d never let a night runner inside our house, much less a Kikuyu one.” Mama stood up. “Election day is tomorrow; the markets will close. We should go shop today.”

  Mama and I went to Gikomba Market. The stalls rising out of the ground were haphazard, like an absurd sketch of ragged brown squares that no one had bothered to complete.

  Around us, women scaled the tilapia and piled tripe in cooking-fat containers. The market women wore flowered headscarves, woollen sweaters, maxi skirts, and gumboots. They kept their money in clear paper bags, inside their brassieres. Their breasts hung low, tucked into their waistbands. Mama bought what we needed to buy: tilapia, tripe, cowpeas, fruits, and kale.

  Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed. “THIEF! THIEF!”

  The market people took off like mad wildebeests, running towards the screams. The earth trembled under their feet. Body parts slapped loudly against each other in the melee. Containers toppled; tripe bled into the ground, as though offering libations to the gods. Their rank odour rose in the hot, choking air, shimmering in the sun as though the gods were awakening. After sometime, the market women returned to the stalls.

  “Why didn’t you go see the thief burn?” the women asked. “Thieves must pay. We threw a tyre over his neck. See that?” The women pointed into the distance, where a cloud of dark smoke rose into the sky.

  Mama clicked. “What about thieves that steal husbands’ hearts? And thieves that steal our taxes? Who shall throw tyres over their necks?”

  [Nine]

  TWO DAYS LATER, I WOKE up to Mama’s cries of alarm.

  “Uuwi! Daughter of mine, you have to see this. Do you have the market women’s phone numbers? They need to throw a tyre over this man’s head. He is a thief, one that steals in broad daylight.” Mama sat at her spot on the reed couch, watching election results trickle in on television. Kibaki had overtaken Raila by a sudden margin.

  “KTN must have garbled their results tally.” I reached for the remote control And changed the station to Citizen, NTV, and then KBC. The results were all the same. The stations showed Luos wailing and Kiku
yus toasting Tusker and eating nyama choma. “What is wrong with them?”

  “The Kikuyus? They are mad. This is insane.”

  “No, the media,” I said. “Why are they juxtaposing the two tribes like that? It’s provocative. Look! Something is happening. The chairman is here.”

  Samuel Kivuitu, the chairman of the Electoral Commission of Kenya, had called a press conference.

  “He will put an end to this madness, I’m sure. He will reproach the television stations for their hasty and misleading results. Maybe he will cancel their permits. And then he will sit Raila on the throne and place a crown on his head.”

  “And then what, Mama? Will Raila phone this house, offering you a job?”

  “Tch! What are you saying, Lulu? Raila is the answer to all our prayers. Look! The chairman is speaking.”

  Samuel Kivuitu pushed the two-inch lenses of his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. He panted between words, adjusting the buttons of his shirt, fanning his face with a sheaf of papers. He took out a white handkerchief and patted at the sweat on his forehead. His papers fell apart. They were strewn across the press table.

  “Why is he acting like a thief? Is he in on—Mawee! He is in on it. What is this he is saying? Ati Kibaki has won? No, no, no, I cannot accept this. Lulu, put NTV. Maybe the chairman is saying different things on that station.”

  I changed channels. Mama began to wail. She stood up and tore at her hair and clothes, pacing up and down the sitting room.

  “Mama, has someone died?”

  “Lulu, do you have Raila Odinga’s phone number? I need to call him. I need to tell him what these people are doing. They just robbed him.”

  “Mama, I’m sure someone has called Raila already.”

  “No, no one has called him. He doesn’t know. If he knew, he would slap the chairman in the face and order the television stations to tell the truth. If he knew, he wouldn’t just sit there ndee!” Mama opened the door and stood out in the veranda.

  I increased the volume on the television. “Mama, come back in here. They are swearing him in.”

  “Who? Raila? Someone called him? I’m sure it was the chief justice. He wouldn’t stand for such nonsense. God bless the chief justice’s heart. Asi! What is he doing standing with Kibaki? Why is he handing Kibaki a Bible? Lulu, is this man swearing the thief in? What has got into his head? Does he cook bhang as a vegetable that he eats with his ugali?”

  “Mama—”

  “Shh! What is that? That sound that did bang bang bang, what is that? Hear again: bang bang bang.”

  “Mama, I think they are gunshots.” I stood up and walked towards the door.

  “Lulu, do you have porridge filling your skull? Why would you walk towards the sound that did bang bang bang? Do you think I can handle Raila’s loss and blood gushing from your head?”

  “Mama, I’m just locking the gate with a padlock and chain.” I took a set of keys from the veranda and went to lock the gate. When I came back, Mama had two pangas in her hands.

  “Take one, Lulu. If they come, you have to fight. You have to kill them before they kill you.”

  [Ten]

  “STAY INDOORS,” MUCHAI ORDERED the next time we spoke on the phone.

  “As if I have anywhere to go,” I retorted.

  “They cut off our electricity. I don’t think I’ll be able to call you again. The battery’s almost dead.”

  “Are they fighting?”

  “Not in our area.”

  “They burned a church in Kiambaa. I heard it on the radio.”

  Muchai was silent for a few moments. “What happened?” he finally managed to say.

  “Some Kikuyus went to seek refuge at an AG church. The men that kept guard outside were killed. The killers then lit mattresses and burnt the church down, with the people inside. Twenty-eight people died.”

  Muchai was silent for so long I thought the network had dropped our call.

  “Hello? Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Something is going on. …”

  “What?” I started to panic.

  “There’s smoke everywhere outside. Looks like the neighbours’ farm is on fire. They probably need help. I should go.”

  “Please don’t put yourself in harm’s way. I need you back home alive.”

  “I will see you in Nairobi. I will see you, beautiful.”

  The line went dead.

  “Who were you talking to?” Mama asked.

  “Muchai.”

  “He’s a Kikuyu! Why are you talking to him? He stole the elections.”

  “Mama, did you see Muchai at State House holding a Bible to the skies?”

  Mama watched me. She shook her head. “He has bewitched you, hasn’t he? You’re a traitor, Lulu.”

  Mama turned on the television. We watched the bloodbath in silence.

  [Eleven]

  CHINIKA HAD SHAVED HER HEAD. She smelt of mouthwash and lotion. She wore a wig over her bare head, a woollen sweater, a maxi skirt, and rubber shoes. She had the hardened eyes of one who stopped getting surprised a long time ago. There were wounds on her body. They appeared healed but they were of a different kind: inside-out wounds. One could never know when they were healed because one could never see when they were smarting.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “Does Baba know you’re here?”

  Chinika shook her head.

  “Who is it, Lulu?” Mama asked. She looked over my shoulder and saw Chinika.

  “Good morning, Eshe.”

  “Nye nye nye, Eshe.”

  “Mama, be nice.”

  “Don’t tell me what to be. I can be anything I want.”

  She closed the door, leaving Chinika standing on the veranda.

  “What is this, Lulu? Why do you spit in my face like this? First, it is Kikuyu men; now you also entertain husband snatchers? Words get in through one ear and pour out of the other.”

  “Mama, have you seen the woman? She looks sick.”

  Mama peeped through a slit between the curtain and the window. “So now you’re the medicine man? Doesn’t she know where the hospital is?”

  I ignored Mama, pulled the door inwards. “Come in, Chinika.”

  Mama went into the interior of the house, to her bedroom.

  Chinika wobbled into the house. She sat on Mama’s spot on the reed couch. As she did so, she stretched her leg before her. She groaned.

  “Shall I get you something, Chinika?”

  “Some cold water.” Chinika’s left jaw was so swollen it looked as though she had a whole apple in her cheek. Her eye was half shut.

  I brought the glass of water but found she had fallen asleep on the arm of the chair.

  When she woke up, I was on the floor, staring at the television. “Who are you watching?”

  “Kofi Annan.”

  “The former UN Secretary-General? What is he doing?”

  “Don’t you know, Chinika? Kofi Annan has been in the news for days. He’s mediating the talks between Kibaki and Raila.”

  “Is that so? I didn’t know. Baba never let me watch television. He said it would poison my mind.” Chinika sat up. “Mawee! Lulu, bring me a panga. This leg has pained enough; I should just cut it off right now.”

  “What did Baba do to you, Chinika?”

  “Are you seeing this?” She pointed at the dents and swellings on her face, and at the welts on her body. “Have you seen this?” She lifted her skirt to her thigh, revealing cherry rinds of dressing. The dressing was made of torn lesso pieces.

  “What in the world happened? Did the mobs attack the house?”

  “No, not the mobs. Just Baba. He came home drunk, brandishing a panga. He turned to the night watchman. ‘Today is to
day,’ he said to the guard. ‘Who told your people to vote for Kibaki? And why didn’t you stop them? Today you shall see fire.’

  “I said, ‘Husband of mine, what is this? Throw down the panga. This man didn’t even vote.’

  “Baba turned to me instead. ‘Alaa! Woman, is the night watchman eating my cassavas when I’m not home?’

  “‘Now what is that you’re saying?’

  “‘You think I don’t know? Why won’t you let me finish him off then?’

  “‘Because you will go to prison.’

  “‘No, it is not because I will go to prison. It is because the night watchman comes in when I’m not here. He helps me to be a husband. Today is today. You and the night watchman shall both see fire.’

  “Baba beat me. He brought the panga down on my thigh. He would have killed me if the night watchman hadn’t raised the alarm.”

  “Chinika, have you gone to the hospital?”

  “You think Baba would spare some change for me to go to hospital?”

  “Get up then. I will take you.”

  “No, Lulu. It will heal on its own.”

  “Chinika, the wound could get infected and turn septic. You could get tetanus.”

  She hesitated.

  I went to find Mama. “I’m taking Chinika to the hospital.”

  “A traitor that is bent on ‘traiting’ will ‘trait’ no matter what.”

  “Mama, your sentence doesn’t make sense.”

  “What do you know about sense, Lulu?”

  I took Chinika to a small hospital in the neighbourhood. Outside the hospital was a coffin shop. On the window of the coffin shop was a small sticker. It read in Swahili: Today it’s me; tomorrow it’s you.

  Everywhere in the hospital, there were signs of disease: the sheets with the big red crosses in their middles; the floors that reeked of antiseptic; and the nurses who walked around with holy expressions on their faces, wearing sombre, white rubber gloves on their hands even when they did not need to. The patients walked about bent, groaning, and clutching at their stomachs, their eyebrows scrunched like erosion lines after a rain.