Elephant Dropping (9781301895199)
Read Elephant Dropping (9781301895199) Online
Authors: Bruce Trzebinski
Tags: #murder, #kenya, #corruption of power, #bank theft
By
Bruce
Trzebinski
‘A fast paced
tale of theft and corruption in East Africa’
The Elephant
Dropping
Bruce Trzebinski
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Edition
Copyright
©
2013 Bruce Trzebinski
This is a work
of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and
incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or
used in a fictitious manner. Except in the case of historical fact,
any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events
is purely coincidental.
All rights
reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the
author.
For
‘
When two elephants fight, it’s the
grass that suffers.’
Swahili
proverb
ONE
Evans Njugu was
sweating as he read the letter for the second time. He could feel
his heart thumping in fear.
Florence his
secretary walked in with a mug of tea for him. She took one look at
her boss. ‘Mr. Njugu sir, are you alright? Perhaps you should see a
doctor,’ she suggested.
He gave her a
puzzled look and then seized on the notion. ‘Yes, good idea - I
might have malaria.’ He folded the letter into his top pocket and
stood up.
She put the mug
on his desk as he brushed past her. ‘Sir, wait, I will make an
appointment.’
‘Call me on my
mobile,’ he said and headed for the exit. With one hand fumbling in
his jacket for the phone and the other fishing for keys in his
trouser pocket, he hurried out to the car park and missed his step
off the pavement. His portly frame trotted forward uncertainly and
then accelerated into a large potted palm. The plant enveloped him
in its fleshy leaves on the brink of going over. Evans freed one
hand and by gripping the edge of the concrete pot, pushed himself
upright, gasping in exertion.
The askari had
watched this comedy unfold and hiding his smile, he rushed to his
boss’s aid. ‘Pole, pole,
mzee
. Sorry, sorry, let me help
you,’ he seized the manager’s arm. Evans shook him off.
‘Let me go! You
fool. I need to see a doctor.’ Reaching his car, he opened the door
and dived in.
‘Hey,
mzee
, take it easy,’ said the guard.
Evans gunned
the Mercedes and reversed onto the main road just missing an
oncoming three-wheeler tuk-tuk.
The driver
swerved wildly and shook his fist at him shouting. ‘
Wazimu
,
you madman!’
Evans stalled
the car, re-started it and set off down the road. I need a drink,
this is terrible news, I must calm down.
As the car
drove off, the other guard ran over and asked what had happened.
‘Oh, the fat one was in a big hurry,’ the askari told him with a
grin. ‘He lay down on top of that palm and when I went to help him
he shouted about a doctor like he had seen a
shetani
, or the
devil himself and then nearly crashed his motor.
‘Oh, did he
look sick?’
‘Nah, he looked
terrified.’
‘Ha, anything
that scares that greedy bugger suits me.’
‘Yesy, have you
got a smoke on you I’ve run out?’
‘Ahhh, you
already owe me three,’ he complained.
*
Evans headed
straight to his regular haunt, a downtown beer garden. His mobile
rang. It was Florence. ‘Sir, I have made an appointment with Dr.
Swaleh for 11.30.’
‘Oh what, yes,
yes, thank you.’ He drove into the car park of the Day and Night
Club. It was deserted but for a beer lorry in the corner with men
loading empty crates. He parked near the entrance to the bar, out
of sight of the main road. The cleaners were sluicing down floors,
plastic chairs upended on tables as he entered. His eyes chose a
padded corner booth and as he headed for this haven, he called out
to the barman for a double vodka on the rocks. Busy with the
hosepipe the barman called back. ‘We have no ice yet.’
Evans slid into
his seat. ‘Just bring it like that.’ The man dropped the gushing
pipe on the floor and walked behind the bar to the optics display.
The bank manager’s mind was racing. An audit, at this time of year,
can they know? No, it’s not possible. The barman put the drink down
in front of Evans, glass still wet.
‘Thank you my
good man. Bring another and a coke please.’
The barman eyed
him. ‘But you will have to pay.’
Evans reached
for his wallet and handed over a thousand shillings.
The barman
looked for the watermark. ‘Ok
sawa, mzee
,’ he grinned.
Evans turned to
his drink and took a big gulp. The fiery liquid stung his nostrils
and seared his throat. Scrolling through numbers on his phone, he
hit the dial button. ‘Hello, hello, Patel?’
‘Yes. Who is
it?’
‘It's me, I
need to see you. I'm at the Day and Night Club and I must see you
right away,’ he insisted.
There was a
puzzled silence. ‘Evans what’s happened? You’re in the bar at this
time? I’m busy, let’s meet this evening.’
‘No, no, it's
the bank and I must see you now,’ Evans shouted, ‘they are sending
an auditor from Nairobi next week!’
‘What? Alright,
we can't discuss this on the phone. Let me think and I will call
you back.’
Evans absently
fingered his phone and sipped his vodka as he waited for Patel.
What a mess, how on earth did I get into this?
*
Evans had been
an assistant manager in the bank in Nairobi until he was promoted
to the Malindi branch as manager. He resented the extra
responsibility and only slightly better salary. In Nairobi, with
his wife out working, the two of them had earned enough to support
their middle class life style with two children in school and
nearby friends and family.
Malindi was
hardly the ideal posting. He had never liked the coast. His wife
complained all the time about the heat and ran up outrageous phone
bills calling her relatives; unable to find work, Rose was bored.
His two boys, now in Muslim run schools, were learning all sorts of
things he had never heard of. It was difficult to make friends,
moreover, as a non-swimmer, he viewed the nearby ocean as a
treacherous place full of nasty things that could eat, bite and
sting anyone foolish enough to enter it; on top of that, it was
salty! Evans had viewed his promotion almost as a punishment -
something to be endured - that is, until Mr. Patel came into their
lives, and then everything changed.
Jugdish Patel,
a local entrepreneur and factory owner had a modest loan with the
bank. Friendly and outgoing he had introduced himself to the new
manager, and invited Evans and his family over to a Sunday lunch
where they discovered their mutual enjoyment of booze.
Patel proposed
Evans to the Golf Club and over time they became friends, often
meeting for a game of darts or even a rare round of golf on cooler
evenings, and of course a drink or two. Patel cultivated this
friendship and encouraged their families to mingle by taking them
on outings on weekends. On one fateful day on a picnic in the
Arabuko Forest, Patel had enthused. ‘Look at, all these trees,’
pointing out a particularly large one, ‘that one must be worth at
least ten thousand shillings, there's a fortune here, can you
imagine? If I had a saw mill, I would make a pile of money.’
Evans being a
true urbanite did not enjoy the bush, insects, snakes, places full
spider-webs and dark mystery. He had declined to move far from the
vehicle and they sat together comfortably on the tailgate of
Patel’s land cruiser drinking cool beers; children and wives
exploring, distant shrieks in the forest.
Getting no
response as he extolled his plans, Patel went on the offensive. ‘So
Evans are you happy at the bank making enough money, eh?’ He
teased, studying him.
‘Ah, it's
alright,’ muttered Evans, ‘we get by, but Nairobi was better. Rose
worked as well, you see.’
‘Ahh, yes,
always better when the wife works, keep them busy I say - you see
my wife does my accounts, very smart woman.’
‘Yes,’ agreed
Evans, ‘Rose was a teacher in Nairobi. The kids went to the same
school, so we got a discount on the school fees.’
‘Do you have
need of a good secretary? I have a girl, very talented, in more
ways than one,’ Patel winked suggestively.
Evans laughed,
embarrassed. ‘I am married you know.’
‘Yes, to your
job also,’ Patel quipped. ‘This girl would make an excellent
secretary, anticipate your needs, fend off the complainers, help
you to relax.’
‘I already have
a good secretary.’
‘Yes, but, this
is an Arab lady, you know they are hot blooded.’
‘So why don't
you hire her?’ Challenged Evans.
‘I would, but
my wife would not like it.’
‘And you think
mine would? Anyhow, the bank has very little walk-in business,
mainly phone and e-mail.’
‘Yes but
business could pick up,’ hinted Patel.
‘Business pick
up in Malindi?’ Evans mused.
Patel changed
tack. ‘Lots of government land has recently been allocated along
the Sabaki river, individual plots - at least twenty five thousand
of them - people will need money to build, so they could come to
your bank.’
‘Our interest
rates are too high to attract that type of customer,’ Evans
negated, hiding a burp behind his hand.
‘Just meet this
girl, just take a look at her,’ Patel said.
‘Are you doing
a favour for her? I already told you there’s barely enough work for
my secretary.’
The children
appeared from the forest, running towards the car racing in fun,
the wives Rose and Fatima loudly egging them on.
‘I will arrange
everything,’ Patel said, not giving up.
The kids
reached the car shouting excitedly. ‘I’m the fastest, no, you’re
not. I won, I won.’ Patel’s youngest Gulam came in last; he was
holding something in his hand.