Elephant Dropping (9781301895199) (13 page)

Patel called
Azizza from his hotel. ‘Yes, my dear, have you any ideas on what to
do about Nicholls?’

‘You don’t look
like a Danish national do you?’ she replied.

‘Too
complicated,’ he said

‘Oh, you
thought about it?’ Azizza was amazed.

‘Sure, these
days anyone can be a Danish national.’

‘Oh come on?’
she scoffed.

‘It’s true my
dear, Europe is not what it used to be.’

Azizza, never
having been out of Kenya could not argue. ‘Ok, so what’s next?’

‘We can get his
work permit cancelled,’ said Patel. ‘It will cost a bit of money,
but Kamau said it can be done.’

‘On what
grounds?’ She asked.

‘Undesirable
character, apparently Nicholls has a weakness for African
women.’

‘What’s wrong
with that?’ She asked affronted.

‘Nothing but we
can make something wrong with it.’

‘Ahhhh - ok,
spare me the details.’

Patel reasoned.
‘The cancellation is not ideal, the bank is bound to send another
auditor, then it’s back to square one.’

‘So, how do we
deal with his request to meet us, this NGO idea was yours after
all?’ She asked.

‘We can pull it
off, we can claim the NGO workers are away in the field, we only
need six more months. We can give him an e-mail address, so he can
correspond with them, and besides we are the agents on the ground;
send him all over the country looking for them.’ Patel giggled.

Azizza started
to laugh. ‘You are too much, but I still don’t see how this NGO
stuff will work. Good luck tomorrow.’

*

Brian was on
the beach early, swimming and even a little jogging. His ankle had
almost completely recovered. A good night’s sleep had relieved him
of the stress of the last few days.

Later on he
called the detective on his mobile. ‘Yes, where are you?’ Mugo
asked.

‘I’m here at
the hotel, and wonder if you had any news for me?’

‘The
Immigration Department says there is no record of your application
in their office.’ Mugo stated, almost with pleasure.

‘No record?
That’s not possible; the application went in months ago. The NNB
bank applied, you have a copy of my work permit.

‘Yes, it is a
copy, but where is the original?’

‘It must be in
Nairobi, with my passport,’ Brian explained.

Mugo was
adamant. ‘How do we know you are telling us the truth? Do you think
the Immigration Department would lie to us?’

Brian was at a
loss. ‘No I’m sure not, it must be a mix up. So are you going to
arrest me?’ He challenged.

‘I wouldn’t
take that tone Nicholls,’ he cautioned him, ‘our jails are no place
for a white man. I’m going to give you a chance. I think you better
go and look for your passport and sort out your papers, before you
come back to Malindi again.’

‘I see, so I
should thank you,’ Brian said sarcastically.

‘You’re most
welcome.’ Mugo said and hung up.

Brian swore out
loud in frustration, before calling Evans.

Evans in turn,
called Azizza, updating her on Brian’s latest plan. ‘That’s good;
get him on the afternoon flight. By the way, I’m submitting sixty
more loan applications this morning.’

‘Sixty?’
queried Evans. The most they had ever done in one go.

‘Yes, we need
to have a small celebration.’

‘He will be
back,’ Evans warned.

‘Good, we will
be ready for him next time.’

‘What does that
mean?’ He asked, alarmed.

‘You worry too
much, everything will be fine.’

Evans hung up
and asked Florence to organise Brian’s ticket to Nairobi. He sat at
his desk and brooded, he had trouble at home. His wife had been
taking driving lessons and in a rash moment, he had promised her
the small Toyota. Now she had passed her test and was demanding to
know why the service on the Mercedes was taking so long. If he
handed over the car, he would be without transport. He was a bank
manager for Gods sake, who ever heard of a bank manager having to
rely on public transport? Coupled with that, the housemaid ignored
any instructions he gave her out of earshot of his wife, she just
stared knowingly at him, making him feel uncomfortable in his own
home. The bank staff having had their expectations raised at the
arrival of Nicholls were now speculating over what had gone wrong
and creating even more pressure.

Florence
interrupted his thoughts. ‘Sir, Mr. Nicholls is here to see you,’
she announced.

‘Here in the
bank?’

‘Yes Sir.’

‘Ok, show him
in, do you have his flight details?’

‘Yes Sir, he is
booked on the two thirty flight to Nairobi.’

Brian entered
his office. ‘Morning Evans, don’t get up, just thought I would pop
in quickly. It’s a complete mystery, this work permit saga. Did you
contact the directors of Golden Palm?’

‘Um, not yet
Sir, I will try again today.’

‘Ok, let me
know as soon as possible. I will catch a taxi to the airport.’
Brian got up and held out his hand. ‘Thank you for your help,’ and
as they shook hands, ‘see you soon.’

Evans went back
to his brooding, that damned Indian was making his life very
complicated it was time he made some changes.

SIX

Brian’s flight
was uneventful and he left Malindi with more questions than
answers. Paying off the taxi at his apartment, he noticed the Range
Rover had a puncture. When he entered the flat the first thing he
saw was his passport and a brochure on the floor. Elated, he
flipped through the pages, finding his work permit tucked inside.
How could I have dropped my passport without noticing? He should
call Njenga with the good news.

Brian unpacked
his suitcase and tossed the novel he had been reading onto the bed.
It bounced once and fell open. A pink slip fluttered to the floor,
he froze when he realised it was a receipt for three hundred
dollars he had changed at the airport on his way down to
Malindi.

He sat down
heavily on the bed and stared at the piece of paper, all the hairs
on the back of his neck stood up, there was no way he could have
forgotten his passport at the flat. He went back to the hallway and
getting down on one knee examined the floor noting a faint swathe
of disturbed dust, a clear pathway where the brochure had slid
across the floor. As far as he could tell there had been no other
entry, only his footprints in the faint dust.

He fished a
beer from the fridge and then emptied his briefcase on the kitchen
sideboard, carefully going through each document, all was in order.
He turned his attention to the locks on the briefcase, he didn’t
know what he was looking for, the case was new. There were no
scratch marks on the combination locks, but presumably someone who
knew how to unlock them would leave no trace. Had I left the
combinations open? He went through the motions of shutting the
case, automatically spinning the tumblers shut. No, someone had
gained access to his briefcase to deliberately get hold of his
passport. Why? He racked his brains for a motive. He was not
allowed to work as a result of the police questioning, was someone
after his job - had he aroused a hidden jealousy - how many people
knew he was going down to Malindi?

Finishing the
beer, Brian decided to change the tyre on the Range Rover, to
restore order to his racing mind. As he unloaded the jack from the
car, the security guard on the gate strolled over to watch. Brian
asked if anyone had called to see him in the time that he was away.
The askari said no one had called whilst he was on duty - which was
the day shift - perhaps Brian could ask the night guard.

Brian jacked up
the car and started to loosen the wheel nuts, getting all but one
undone. The last one was very stiff, and as he rummaged about in
the tool kit looking for penetrating oil, the askari seized the
wheel brace and gave the bar a mighty heave, sheering the nut off
at the bolt.

Brian was
furious. ‘What the hell did you do that for?’ he demanded. The
askari held the t-bar looking puzzled at the question. ‘You have
broken the bolt; now I will have to take the car to a garage to get
it replaced, just don’t touch anything else.’

‘It was
rusted.’ The askari said, holding out the end of the bolt.

‘I know it was,
but I didn’t ask you to undo it did I?’

‘I was only
trying to help. There is no need to swear at me, I’m not your
servant,’ he belligerently waved the wheel brace.

‘You haven’t
helped,’ Brian grabbed the brace, the askari held on, ‘let go,
please let me fix my own problems.’

The askari
glowered at him, reluctantly released the brace and returned to the
gate. Brian changed the tyre seething silently. He tightened the
remaining three nuts on the wheel and put the tools away, stowing
the spare in the boot. Attempting to start the Range Rover the
engine barely turned over, the battery was flat.

He punched the
car roof in frustration. Was this also the handiwork of an unknown
adversary - the puncture and the flat battery all designed to keep
him at home? He decided that he was being paranoid. But somehow
being able to drive and be independent was of great significance.
‘Bugger it,’ he swore. He went and asked the guard for help to push
the car.

‘It’s not my
job to push cars,’ he told Brian haughtily, folding his arms across
his chest. ‘I’m a Maasai.’

Brian was
tempted to ask if being a Maasai was an illness of some sort. ‘I
see, can you find someone outside the gate?’

‘Go and look.’
The askari pointed with his chin.

Brian went out
and hailed a passer-by. ‘Excuse me, I need help to push my car.
Would you be willing? I will pay a small amount.’

The man
stopped. ‘Where is your car?’

‘In there.’
Brian said, pointing. ‘I need at least four people.’

The man called
in Kiswahili to other walkers on the road. They eagerly hurried
over to where Brian stood. The first man turned to Brian. ‘How much
will you pay?’

There were now
up to six people crowding around him. Brian smiled. ‘One hundred
each, ok.’

The group
muttered amongst themselves. ‘One fifty.’

‘Ok, follow
me.’ He said walking towards the gate eager to get his car going,
and put the askari in his place.

‘These people
are not allowed in the compound,’ the guard informed Brian, looking
menacingly at the group.

They hissed at
him. ‘Ahh, come on,’ they chided, ‘would you begrudge us a few
pennies?’

‘Listen, they
going to help me push the car,’ said Brian.

‘They are your
guests?’ the askari asked.

‘Yes,’ Brian
said sardonically, ‘they are my guests.’

‘They will have
to fill in the visitors book.’

‘Now come on,
be reasonable. They are only going to be two minutes, just to push
my car.’

‘It’s
procedure.’ The askari was adamant, handing over the guest book to
Brian. ‘Here,’ he indicated with a pen, pointing at a column of
names, ‘fill this in.’

Brian took the
book and turned to the first man. ‘Sorry about this. What is your
name?’

‘Ahh, I’m busy.
I was on my way home,’ he said, ready to leave.

‘No wait, this
will only take a few minutes.’ Brian hastily wrote in the book as
the men crowded round. A. Smith, B. Smith, entering the last name
as Fu. Smith, all working for Shove Off Ltd.

‘Come on.’
Brian urged the six men, holding the gate open as the guard studied
his book. They needed no second bidding and followed him through
the gate.

The askari
pointed at the entries in the book. ‘These names, you wrote are all
the same,’ he complained.

‘Yes,’ yelled
Brian from the driver’s seat, ‘they are all brothers!’ The car
trundled out and down the road, the pushers clinging to the rear
end like large ants. ‘Faster!’ Brian shouted, putting the car in
second gear and turning on the ignition. He released the clutch,
the car slowed abruptly then coughed and fired once.

Brian stepped
on the clutch. ‘Come on! Faster! It will start now.’ They picked up
speed. This time, Brian turned the key as he released the clutch.
The starter motor whirred, and the car started, leaping forward.
The pushers lost their balance and one or two of them fell. Brian
kept the revs up, the large V eight roaring throatily. The men
enjoying the noise, surrounded the car in triumph. Brian took out a
thousand shillings from his wallet. ‘Who do I give this too?’ he
asked.

The first man
reached for it. ‘I will take it,’ he announced.

The others
clamoured out. ‘No, no give it to me.’

‘Listen,’ Brian
said. ‘I’m going to the petrol station, I can get change there,
climb in,’ he invited, ‘we can all go.’ They piled into the car,
laughing like children, two squeezing onto the front seat, jeering
collectively at the askari, as they drove past the gate.

‘Smithy,
Smithy,’ they shouted out in delight.

At the petrol
station, Brian paid off his helpers, and filled up the car, keeping
the engine running. ‘Do you know where I can find a mechanic?’ he
asked the station attendant.

‘Doug should be
back in a few moments, he has a workshop in the corner of the
station,’ he pointed it out.

Brian paid his
bill, and drove over to the garage. He peered in through a grimy
window, to see various car parts and tools spread out on a bench,
and wondered if he should wait. A large black, motorcycle appeared
on the forecourt, and raced over.

The rider,
silver grey hair swept back, kicked the bike onto it’s stand in a
well-practiced move. Holding out his hand and smiling, ‘I’m the
owner, name’s Doug. What can I do you for?’

Brian shook
hands. ‘Nice bike,’ he said.

‘Yes she’s a
honey. What’s up with your donkey?’ asked Doug, pointing at the
still running Rover. ‘Timing?’