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G21 FICTION - A WORKING NATION: JOHN KARANGA KARIUKI's second short story for Your World's Magazine profiles life in today's Kenya.The new District Works officer, Nathaniel, gazed out of his window at the calm hustle along Hospital Road. People hurried along and then stopped every few steps for elaborate greetings. The women wore co lorful lessos (khanga pieces) over their skirts. These lessos, as usual, bore legends meant for their husbands, co-wives and enemies. Other lessos covered their shoulders like shawls.
There was a fascinating group which Nathaniel loosely labeled as youths. They wore glaring mini skirts, unisex pairs of shorts and baggy tee shirts with large NBA, FUBU and CAT letters. Other tee shirts had cryptic numbers like 05, 39 and 88. With equal exuberance, the males and females in this lot had curled or braided their hair. Nearly each youth carried a fat novel or a shiny CD. To ascertain their gender, Nathaniel first looked to see if they were in skirts or not. Next he went to the chest. But the truth was that some of these young people passed along unidentified, seemingly neutral in gender even to his sharp inspecting eye!
Nathaniel knew that his own sons at university would be dressed this way-in unisex attire. If he had his way, he would have conscripted all Kenyan youths to the military to instill a sense of dressing in them.
Nathaniel's hands were clammy and his brow watery. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his neck and armpits. His toes were soggy and swollen in his open sandals, which his wife had put in his bag as an afterthought. He resisted a strong urge to scratch his groin, which felt hot and gritty. He reached for the tabletop fan and set it at maximum revolutions.
He saw the pick-up truck he had been looking out for jostling its way towards the new Roda hospital. In its back rode a team of mourners who sported black ribbons. They were senior civil servants, like him. They were going for Kashero's remains; the immediate former District Works officer who had died of undisclosed causes.
The senior civil servants' mouths were open, like those of fish out of water, and their paunches wobbled strangely. They mopped sweat from their faces with handkerchiefs that were the size of baby napkins. They had been giving Nathaniel a cold reception for unknownreasons. Some junior staffers, who appeared heat-tolerant, flanked them.
Standing upright in the pick-up truck was Humphrey Makosa, a small time wheeler-dealer. He was in a yellow suit, dark sunglasses, a blue tie and white gloves.
Smiling, Nathaniel turned to gaze around his office. Nothing had been done to the dead telephone. An empty cooking fat container stood on his desk where it had trapped leaking water from the last rainfall long before he had come. The walls of his office were chipped and cobwebs hung heavily from the ceiling. There was a faint smell of bats in the office.
He drank some water from his water bottle and braved the heat outside. The heat was stifling, coming down in steamy waves. This September was hotter than normal. Cannibalised bulldozers, land cruisers and concrete-mixing machines that dotted the yard in a chaotic profusion of scrap metal. These were overgrown with grass and now offered refuge to hordes of lizards, snakes and scorpions as someone had warned him.
Nathaniel kept to the beaten path; someone had briefed him about the possibility of a cobra in this yard.
He reached the foreman's office. This was a corrugated iron shack held together by rusty nails and decaying timber. The door was open. Abraham, the foreman, was in and asleep. The big man had flopped over his desk like a fat toad while a rickety table top fan laboured to cool him down.
The wind from the fan kept on rustling yellowing papers stuck on the wall behind the sleeping man. These were past Kenya charity sweepstake draws and overdue posters for weekend challenges, miracle healings and crusades.
Nathaniel tapped Abraham on his shoulder roughly. The big man woke up with a start. "It does not concern any of your failed jobs. At least not for now. But could you stand in for me this afternoon?" Nathaniel asked.
Abraham yawned and rubbed his eyes. He apologised for so many things that he had not done. He wiped saliva from the corner of his mouth and reached out for his water bottle. He took a large swig and rubbed his eyes. "It is much cooler in your office and I just might catch some sleep!" Abraham said happily.
There was no likelihood of anything dramatic happening to break the idyllic motion at Roda public works depot. All the same, Nathaniel briefed his foreman every time he left in the three days he had been here.
There were no public works projects going on except for the construction of the Roda District Commissioner's private bungalow by the seashore.
"I am sorry for Kashero," Abraham said. "He was a good man."
Nathaniel joined the funeral procession which swelled to a big crowd along the way. Instead of riding in government Land Cruisers, pajeros and Isuzu Troopers, the senior civil servants were still in the pick-up truck carrying Kashero's remains. Makosa sat on the coffin. In the midst of the mourners.
Nathaniel saw the town's only cyber cafÈ operator. This meant a brief stoppage of e-mail services. Also present were the town's prominent wholesalers and distributors of consumer goods. The town's lifeline of trade would be in jeopardy for the duration of the funeral and burial. Nathaniel shuddered at the prospects of a fire breaking out; all of the town's fire fighters were here in their resplendent red helmets and fireproof clothes.
The air was hot, static and heavy. Nathaniel felt nauseated by people's smelly socks, a cocktail of body oduors, cigarette smoke and, unbelievably, adults farting!
The government pick-up truck carrying Kashero's remains rattled in and out of potholes in an unnerving crescendo of creaking springs and bodywork. But the general citizenry sidestepped these potholes spontaneously. Apparently everybody knew the geography of this particular road and could have walked blindfolded.
The burial site resembled a war-ravaged field. Communal grazing of livestock had denuded the land of its last acacia shrubs. Red dust now billowed at the softest of footsteps. Part of the ranch was an illegal garbage dump. Street people had evidently been excavating the festering mounds of refuse in the last few hours. They were not here now but their avian accomplices hovered overhead. To the overpowering smell of humanity, Nathaniel added a new heady and rancid one. It came in hot waves and hit one hard with alternating fecal and fruity headwinds against a sickening onslaught of putrefaction.
The mourners tried very hard not to spit, but at some point the collective pretence to decorum ended. They spat earnestly even on the freshly dug soil from the grave. With spittle drooling on his beard, the Roda mayor promised a major shake up in the municipal garbage collection department. Brandishing a pair of handcuffs, the local police inspector swore to have someone jailed! People cheered.
As the coffin was removed from the pick-up truck, Humphrey Makosa led the people in a frenzy of sobs and wails. He had sweated through his yellow suit, which now hugged him, wet. His white gloves were now ochre-red. He had tucked the ends of his trousers inside his socks.
After many false starts, a clergyman took over the ceremony. He led the prayers and introductory rituals. When it came to eulogies, Anderson Kashero was described glowingly as a hero, a martyr and a torchbearer of the Works ethics.
The Roda Member of Parliament materialised. He described Kashero as one who had furthered the ruling National Alliance Rainbow Coalition's (NARC) vision of a working nation. The MP said that he had to skip a session in parliament to be here. A question he was to ask about availability of credit to small-scale farmers would be deferred owing to his absence. People clapped for him!
The District Commissioner compared the late Kashero with Mozart, Mahatma Gandhi and Steve Biko. He deliberately omitted the fact that Kashero had perfected the art of road maintenance without ever leaving his office or coming to it. Forgotten too was the fact that the dead man had a procuring talent for government vehicles which he sold t o his cronies. The sale of culverts, bitumen, gravel and diesel did not overly repulse him. The District Commissioner had everybody laughing now: "The late Kashero will be remembered as the man who brought the siesta to Roda or at least popularized it! He made the first hammock with a government canvas in the tree outside his house."
The clergyman delivered a short sermon. "Blessed are the mourning, for they encourage others in distress."
He said that the world was full of rebellion against God and therefore prone to calamities. No person was exempt from hardships. "But when people triumph from tragedy their eyes are opened to the needs of other people. There are many opportunities for us to see tragedies and overcome them. The death of wicked people should be our wake up call."
Praying for Kashero's soul, the clergyman reminded everybody of the Day of Judgment when everybody shall account for his or her deeds.
As soon as "dust had gone back to dust", a metaphor for the remains being lowered into the grave, and the clergyman had removed his robes, Humphrey Makosa led a final volley of sobs and wails. This over, he underwent a remarkable transformation. In a changed tone, he announced that the after burial party would be held in one of the late Kashero's nightclubs. "Anybody with any information where the late man's livestock could be, please come forward,'"he appealed.
It was the custom to feast for five days and nights.
In the commonplace conversations that erupted as people walked away, a list of the late Kashero's female consorts was floated. According to some earnest post-burial analysts, these names were actually a death waiting list, due to undisclosed causes.
Whereas the people had tolerated each other's smell by the graveside, everybody now kept and defended his own space. Pickpockets began their antics and men started wooing women. The senior civil servants, who had been pallbearers, zoomed past in Isuzu Troopers, Pajeros and Toyota Land cruisers. They were rushing to claim the day's monetary allowances before the end of working hours. These vehicles raised thick clouds of suffocating red dust. Everybody cursed and called the senior men their mothers' private parts.
Later, in his house, Nathaniel mused for a long time. The intricate web of corruption that Kashero had erected awed him. His task now was to dismantle it and restore morale and ethics in the Works department. He smiled that within his house there was not a single thing which bore the iniquitous stamp of public property.
Abraham and Makosa called on him. The two looked nervous and happy at the same time. "We have come to brief you about the mode of operations in the Public Works department!" Abraham said.
"I think I know how to run it," Nathaniel said.
"But there was no actual handover, sir", Makosa noted and added. "You came when Kashero was already dead."
"Could there be some classified government information of which only you two are privy?"
Abraham and Makosa consulted each other. "What we mean, sir , is that we are so far away from any place that Roda's problems are unique," the small time wheeler-dealer said testily.
"It must be extremely difficult for you to put two children in university given our meager salaries in the public service!" Abraham said.
"Oh blame the meanness of all African governments!" Humphrey Makosa chipped in quickly.
Nathaniel's got their drift at once. But even then he was surprised by his foreman's boldness and the much he knew about him. He shifted in his seat and peered deep into the two men's eyes. They held his gaze, their eyes expressed impatience and a disdain bordering on mockery.
With the courtesy of sharks shadowing their prey, the two bade farewell to Nathaniel, rose and walked to the door.
"Of course you will think of Roda's problems before we meet and look for ways of co-existing!" Makosa said at the door.
It sank in slowly and surely to Nathaniel that there was a dangerous web of wheeler-dealings that had pervaded the civil service in Roda. He rose and shook the two men's hands. "We have a lot to learn from each other!" he said, forcing himself to smile.
As the two men left, Abraham shook Nathaniel's hand mumbling something like "I told you".
Abraham kicked him in his prominent behind without losing a thread in his profuse gratitude to Nathaniel. Suddenly the cobra in the yard stopped being a priority to Nathaniel as he thought of a quick trip to Nairobi to seek further instructions from the Kenya Anti-corruption Commission, which he served as an undercover agent.
JOHN K. KARIUKI says of himself: "I am a 39 years old science teacher at Nyandarua high school in Ol Kalou, Nyandarua district of central Kenya. I write as a hobby and make frequent contributions to the East African Standard's education magazine which is published every Wednesday under the by line john k. kariuki. I also run a social commentary in The Leader a weekly English language paper owned by Royal Media Services who are proprietors of 9 radios that broadcast in some of Kenya's indigenous languages. This column is called vile naifeel (the way I feel it) and I use the by line Johnny k.
"I ran a humour column in the Home News, a small weekly rural paper based in Nyahururu with a circulation of 1000. I am published with one novel, MYSTERY OF THE RED MOUNTAIN, a secondary readers title that is published by phoenix publishers, Nairobi, 2005 ISBN 9966-47-102-2. In this book I have used the by line john k. kariuki."
This is Mr. Kariuki's third feature and second short story for your World's Magazine.
John can be contacted via e-mail at "jkariuki1967@yahoo.com".
© 2006, GENERATOR 21.
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