Elephant Dropping (9781301895199) (8 page)

‘No, I was
involved in one. I was a passenger.’

‘Where is this
accident?’ The man asked, and not waiting for a reply, he went on.
‘You were the driver, it was a car hire, you drank beers, you a
German, where is your driving license?’

Brian didn’t
know what to say. ‘Listen, the man with the stick, he went in
there,’ he pointed at the corner doorway, ‘he knows about the
accident.’

‘Yes but, it is
an offence to drive in Kenya without a license. You will be charged
in a court of law,’ the man said with finality. ‘This is not
Germany.’

Brian felt a
panic rising. I’ve lost it, this can’t be real. A semblance of
reality returned with the policeman and the two drivers. The cop
barked out an order to the taller one in Kiswahili. Brian overheard
the word “statement” in English.

The tall cop
said. ‘Yes sah,’ as he stepped down from his hidden pedestal, and
motioned Brian with an occurrence book in hand. ‘Follow me,’ he
instructed as they walked out of the station into the sunlight. He
looked for somewhere to rest his book, and chose an upturned oil
drum in the shade of a scrawny tree. Brian stood in the sun in his
socks, while the lorry driver waited by the gate; they were joined
by the tuk-tuk driver.

‘You have to
make statement, amigo, otherwise insurance people won’t pay for
damage to my taxi,’ he explained.

‘Ah,’ Brian
said the penny dropping. The cop wrote the date in the book, and
then spoke to the taxi driver in kiswahili asking questions and
writing the answers in the book. When he seemed satisfied, he asked
Brian for a name and address and wrote this down, then handed him
the book and asked him to sign it.

‘What am I
signing?’

‘Your
statement,’ said the policeman.

‘But I haven’t
said anything?’

He pointed at
the book. ‘Look sign it here.’

The tuk-tuk
driver said. ‘Listen amigo, it’s good. See, read it, it is your
statement.’

Brian read the
report written in schoolboy English, loosely outlining the cause
and effects of the accident.

‘Please sign’
said the tuk-tuk driver, ‘or insurance, you see. Please amigo.’ He
consented and signed, only correcting the spelling of his name from
brain to Brian.

‘Ok,’ said the
policeman, ‘you can go,’ pointing his chin at the gateway. The two
drivers immediately set off. Wiser men would have followed them,
but Brian, annoyed at the way he had been treated, was
self-righteously determined to see the police do their job
properly. He stood his ground.

‘Look,’ he
said, addressing the policeman, ‘you people forced me to come here,
against my will. I lost my other shoe in the process, my briefcase
has been stolen, and I can’t walk because I have hurt my
ankle.’

The policeman
was disinterested. ‘You have medical insurance?’

‘Yes,’ said
Brian, ‘but.’

The cop
shrugged. ‘No problemo, your foot, they fix it.’

Brian sighed.
‘Where can I report my briefcase stolen?’

‘It was full of
money?’

‘No, listen, it
had important papers, where do I report it?’

‘Come with me,’
the cop said, leading him back into the station walking behind the
counter and through into an open courtyard, surrounded by offices
and rooms on three sides. The cop knocked on an office door, and
then opening it slowly, leaned in and spoke in Kiswahili, he then
stood back opening it wider. ‘Get in, this Detective Mugo, you make
your robbery here.’

Brian stepped
into the office. A man in civilian clothes sat at a desk behind a
typewriter, hitting each key hard and sporadically. On his desk was
an elaborate wooden carving between what looked like a hut and a
tree with the name W.K. Mugo in flowing letters. Mugo glanced up at
him, pointing at a chair. ‘You sit there.’

Leaving his
typing, he leaned back and took a single cigarette out of his top
pocket. He lit it and blew a puff of smoke in the air. ‘So tell me
mzungu
, you have had a robbery?’

Brian explained
the events as they had happened. He was glad to talk to somebody.
Mugo listened without interrupting, occasionally nodding for him to
continue. He carefully nudged the ash off his cigarette into an
already overflowing ashtray. Once Brian had finished, Mugo asked
him what was in the missing briefcase.

Brian described
the contents - passport, money, dollars and travellers cheques,
bank documents to do with his job. His English driving license, a
couple of credit cards, car keys, Nairobi apartment keys - and the
flat keys here in Malindi.

Mugo wrote
nothing down and asked. ‘So you have no ID. How about a copy of
your passport or work permit?’

‘No,’ He shook
his head.

‘This is very
bad.’ Mugo took a long last drag on his cigarette to finish it.
‘How do we know you are you? Is there anyone in Malindi who can
vouch for you?’

Brian frowned.
‘The manager at the NNB bank here in Malindi knows who I am. Evans
Njugu, I can call him.’

‘Yes, you
better do that.’

He used his
mobile. ‘Hello Evans? Listen, I have a small problem. I’m at the
Malindi Police Station. I have been involved in an accident - yes,
I’m alright - yes but my briefcase was stolen. Can you ask the
Nairobi office to e-mail down a copy of my passport?’

Mugo leaned
forward, interrupting. ‘And your work permit.’

‘Yes Evans, and
a copy of my work permit. Yes, the police want to see it. Can you
come with it to the police station? Ok, thanks.’

Mugo asked.
‘This Evans, how long have you known him?’

‘We met for the
first time this morning. I flew down from Nairobi, but we are work
colleagues.’

Mugo said. ‘You
wait outside in the courtyard. Don’t try to leave,’ he warned,
‘when he brings your ID we continue.’

Brian stepped
out of the office and looked for somewhere to sit while he waited.
He settled for a small step outside the office, taking off his
dusty socks and stuffing them inside his remaining shoe. He found
himself in a surreal situation. Part of him just wanted to walk
out, the other half too scared to. Based on his experience so far,
it was better to do what the police asked him to do. He would laugh
about this one day, he told himself, comforted by this thought, he
tried to relax.

*

Evans was in a
dither, having waited in nervous anticipation for Brian’s arrival,
the phone call had completely thrown him. The first mention of the
police station sending shivers down his spine. He took a few deep
breaths, trying to calm himself. He immediately called Azizza on
his mobile, explaining quickly the latest events. ‘What shall I
do?’ he asked.

‘Do?’ She
asked.

‘Yes.’

‘When the
e-mail arrives, take it down to the police station and hand it
over,’ she said simply.

‘What about
Nicholls?’

‘He has had bad
luck, so go and be supportive. He is your boss after all, isn’t he?
Just go and be helpful, don’t get involved in anything the police
are up to, you know what they are like.’

‘Yes, yes, ok
thanks Azizza.’

‘You’re
welcome, call me any time,’ and she hung up.

*

Patel looked up
from what he was doing, raising his eyebrows in silent
question.

‘Nicholls is
with the cops,’ she told him. ‘They want a copy of his passport,
the bank is going to e-mail it through from Nairobi.’

‘Oh good,’
muttered Patel returning to his task.

Azizza asked.
‘Do you want help with that?’

‘Yes alright,
my fingers are too big.’ Azizza took the briefcase from Patel.
Bending down to listen to the tumblers on the lock, she flicked the
dials round with her sharp fingernails, listening for the telltale
click as a tumbler fell into position. She had the combinations in
no time, and pushing the buttons to one side flicked open the
latches handing it ceremoniously to Patel, ready for him to lift
the lid. She craned over his shoulder as the two of them looked at
the contents of Brian Nicholls briefcase.

Patel picked
out the passport and the work permit in glee. ‘Ha! In luck,’ he
exclaimed, ‘look a husband for you,’ he teased Azizza.

She took the
passport from him. ‘No, he’s too white,’ she said looking at the
photo and reading the particulars, ‘and too short.’

Patel read
through the bank documents with interest. Fingering the key to the
White Marlin apartment, he held it up. ‘Shall we keep this? They
will give him a spare.’

‘No, if it’s
missing they will change the lock. I know that manager he’s German,
very efficient.’

‘Ok,’ he tossed
it back into the brief case, looking wistfully at the dollars and
credit cards, ‘and the money?’

‘No.’ She shook
her head.

‘So, we just
take the passport and the work permit right?’

‘Yes, let him
wonder if he mislaid it in Nairobi. Only way he can check is to go
back there.’

Patel giggled.
‘You are such a crafty one,’ he said in admiration pocketing the
passport and work permit, he gave her the briefcase. ‘Is Salim
still here?’

She pointed at
the back door of the Golden Palm office. ‘I asked him to wait
outside.’

‘Tell him to
take that back to Nicholls at the cop shop, and give it to a
Detective Mugo.’

‘Wouldn’t it be
wiser for him to take it to the bank?’ Evans can deliver it. The
less the cops see of Salim the better.’

Patel clapped
his hands in genuine delight. ‘Ha! You are on song today my dear,
even better; Evans can earn some favours with his boss. We had
agreed to pay Salim ten thousand, give him an extra five; I’m in a
generous mood.’

She took the
briefcase to the back door and called the tuk-tuk driver over, he
listened to her instructions. ‘When your taxi is fixed, bring me
the bill ok - I will pay it. Good work,’ she added, as she handed
over the extra five thousand.

‘Thank you,
mama.’ He said as she closed the door on him.

*

At the bank,
Evans fidgeted at his desk, waiting for the all-important e-mail
and wondered if he had time to slip out for quick drink, to calm
his nerves. Florence came into his office. ‘Sir, the security guard
wants to talk to you.’

‘What security
guard?’

‘The one in the
car park, Sir.’

‘What now,’
Evans muttered, as he walked out. ‘A puncture? That’s all I need.’
He got to the car park. ‘Yes, what is it?’ he barked at the guard,
looking over at the Toyota.

‘Sir this man
here,’ pointing at Salim, ‘has a case belonging to that
mzungu
, who came with you this morning,

Evan’s head
spun round. Case? The briefcase! ‘Very good where did he find
it?’

‘Sir, he was
driver of the taxi the
mzungu
had a crash in.’

‘Good, good,
give it to me. I will give it to the
mzungu
.’

‘Sir, he say
mzungu
would give a reward. The case has not been opened.’
Salim shook it - rattling the contents to make his point.

Evans reached
into his pocket, and took out a five hundred shilling note, waving
it at Salim.

Salim took the
note then muttered something to the guard in a dialect Evans
couldn’t follow. ‘Sir, he say he wait for
mzungu
.’

Evans cursed
silently. ‘Ok, how much does he want?’

‘He says, five
thousand.’

‘No that’s too
much.’

‘He says the
mzungu
will pay you.’

Evans
reluctantly took out his wallet and counted out the money.

As Salim took
it, Evans scowled at him. ‘You are a greedy man.’ Taking hold of
the case, he rushed back into the bank with his prize. What
luck!

Salim handed
over the five hundred to the security guard. Now he only had to pay
off the lorry driver and get his tuk-tuk fixed.

*

Brian needed to
pee, but couldn’t see an obvious place to go, out in the middle of
the open courtyard were some grubby looking crotons in an old paint
drum competing with weeds to form an island of vegetation. Offices
in low buildings surrounded it; he could hear the crackle of a
radio.

The open
portion of the courtyard was closed off at a distance by a high
cement wall, topped off with strands of rusty barbed wire. Along
this wall, some tin roofed lean-too’s sagged up against it. Brian
wondered if there might be an outhouse. He plucked up the courage
to ask the cop at the reception desk and hobbled across the
courtyard. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the cop manning the reception,
‘I need to pee, do you have a Gents?’

‘Over there,’
the cop, pointed at a small building, partially hidden by the
crashed vehicles in the corner. A bent flagpole wearing a tattered
police flag hung limply above it.

Brian set off
to explore, picking his way around twisted and crumpled cars and
avoiding shards of glass littering the ground. The smell of urine
was unmistakable as he reached the building and pushed the door
open. A cloud of disturbed flies flew up from a cement plinth with
a stained hole at its centre.

Brian gagged
involuntarily and the door swung shut. Looking around, he hopped to
one side of the hut tucked his shoe under his arm, and furtively
relieved himself against the wall.

As he turned to
make his way back to the station, the police pickup raced into the
compound. Armed cops leapt off the car and dragged three women out
of the back of the vehicle.

The policeman
with the swagger stick kicked at them as they lay in the dust,
urging them to their feet. ‘
Malaya
!’ He was shouting,
‘prostitute,’ driving them towards the reception. Brian stood
transfixed, staring in disbelief at this violent and chaotic scene.
The cops freely handled the women, grabbing their backsides and
lifting their skirts, and shouting with glee, ‘
Malaya
,
Malaya
!’ The ugly circus disappeared into the building.