A minor functionary told Odidi to record another statement, and as he did so, more diesel generators were brought into the country. Tax-free. To cope with the national emergency caused by the power shortages.
“We were offered five percent of profits for ten years, y’know?” Musali says. “Odidi called a board meeting to demand that we resign the job and expose everything.”
Musali sips his tea. “I told him, ‘We have to survive. This thing of mahonour ama patriotism, man — you must be practical. Mortgages, mbesha. Y’know?” Musali rubs the edge of his bandages.
“This was big. Really big. When you see something like this, man, you say yes or you die, y’know?”
Ajany reads in Musali’s shiftiness the extent of her brother’s isolation.
“What happened?”
“We voted.”
“And?”
“Opted to stay with the job. Odi took it badly, man.” Musali leans over. “Went crazy!”
Ajany flinches.
Odidi broke into the office of the managing director, having driven through the company gates in his new green Prado. He shouted that this was treason. Everyone who gathered to hear him watched and did nothing. The managing director’s bodyguards hustled Odidi out, tearing his shirt in the process. In an hour’s time, a board meeting was called.
“The chairman called for a vote. We voted out Odidi.” Silence. “He was being difficult. Wouldn’t listen. We’re talking billions, man. Y’know?” Musali pushes out his lower lip.
Tich Lich’s partners received instructions to reregister the company under a different name if they still wanted the contract. Within two hours, an oily Ivy League university — graduated lawyer who represented the establishment personalities turned up with relevant documents extracted from his brown, black, and gold python-leather case. As they looked through the documents, the lawyer played classical music from a small device, hummed musical phrases, and witnessed the signing of the company reregistration documents.
“That man,” Musali says, giggling. “Insane! After we sign, he speaks mara Beethoven mara Heili-Heiligenstadt Testament. Imagine.” Musali adds that he had looked up the testament and learned to say Heiligenstadt properly.
Tich Lich was renamed T. L. Associates Engineering.
Odidi was no longer a partner.
Ajany’s whole body has been shivering; her teeth chatter.
Musali touches her shoulder.
Ajany shrugs his hand away, ducking her head.
Musali asks, “Which Kenya did Odi grow up in? That jama could be so, so, so stupid, y’know?” Ajany hisses. “Sorry, man, just that, you know …” Musali shrugs, a practical man.
When he showed up for work, it was Musali who told Odidi what they had done.
“Tough day, that.” Musali shivers at the memory of Odidi’s look.
He had told Odidi to leave the premises. Urged him to take a break until the contract was serviced. Promised him that when it was over Tich Lich would return. “You know what he said?”
Ajany glances up.
“Nothing.”
Musali stares at the carpet.
“He just left.”
Ajany asks, “Where’s my b-brother, Musali?”
Silence. Then, “Don’t know.” Adds, “Lost touch.” A tinge of malice. “Heard he’d been moving from office to office with a petition form for citizens to sign.”
Musali stops short of revealing to Ajany that Odidi had once been spotted speaking on street corners. Cannot tell her that, seven months after he had walked away from the offices, Odidi had phoned Musali for money and a place to stay. The bank had all of a sudden recalled his mortgage and had then thrown him out with his things. They were auctioning the house. No lawyer would take up the case against the state. Odidi was threatened, followed, summoned, booked for loitering with intent. Some NGOs he visited made the right sympathetic noise but emphasized to him that AIDS, women, malaria, girl children, and boreholes were priorities.
Musali gives Ajany a direct look. She sees the cold glimmer of a green mamba’s stare. “We silted the dams. No choice. We have our money.”
National power shortages worsened.
Companies closed down.
Utility bills exploded.
Citizens paid up.
The managing director held a party to celebrate his first personal billion shillings. Others were more discreet. T. L. Associate Engineers thrived.
“After you make money, you can afford to be an activist.”
Musali stares at the carpet. “We deposited a year’s salary into his account.”
Musali leans back. “Last December, when I was carjacked”—Musali rubs the brace—“I thought … it was late.…” He looks at Ajany’s stricken face. “Ah! Man. When you see that jama, tell him we’re in business again. We can do those ka sweet, sweet projects he wanted.”
All of a sudden, shoulders heaving, Musali starts to cry. His teacup topples over. Everything within Ajany is set to melt. She stares at the teacup spilling its rust-colored tea, hears her own breathing, how creaky it sounds. Listens to Musali say, “I heard him.” Pauses. “A year ago? Odidi came to my house. Kedu eleven o’clock at night, banging the gate.”
Ajany waits.
“Ah! Man, don’t look at me like that.” Musali is cotton-voiced. “I was afraid … and my family … Then the carjacking … shot in the neck …”
“And?” prompts Ajany.
“It was late.”
“And?”
Musali lowers his head.
He had called the police.
He was not going to tell Ajany that.
Nor that Odidi had shouted, “Musali, bro, help me.”
Ajany’s mouth is wooden, her head heavy. She absorbs the story and everything that has not been said. She needs a body scrub.
Musali rubs his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that.”
She surveys his manicured layers.
“I’m sorry.” He gets up and trundles through a door. Minutes later, he returns with a copy of the picture on the reception wall. “Here.”
Ajany takes the picture with both hands.
“I miss Shifta, man,” he says.
Musali’s hand hovers over Ajany’s shoulder, tentative. No intellectual sparring partner had ever matched Odidi. Without Odidi, even rugby had lost meaning for him. He and Odidi had been among the first to paint their faces with Kenyan colors during the game. They had helped spread the lewd, loud compositions that fans sung even when the Kenyan team was losing. “Who’s your father, who’s your father, who’s your father, referee …”
He says, “We used to be happy.”
She stammers, “Wasn’t that enough?”
Musali pauses. “No.”
Ajany stands up, grabs her handbag.
“I …” Musali starts.
Ajany raises her hand, screws up her face; her whole body says no.
She sucks air in. Why hadn’t she known her brother’s suffering?
Suffocating, she lurches for the exit, stumbling over a low table. Her body tingles in places. She focuses on the daylight. She had forgotten that time existed.
The receptionist shouts, “I’ll pray for you.”
Ajany halts, turns. “Why?” Lifeless eyes.
Stiff walk into the parking lot.
A gray-uniformed, cheerful, burly man waves at her. “Sa’a, madam!” He sprays water on a parked green Prado.
Ajany asks, “Whose car is that?” Her legs feel so heavy, she is unable to move.
“Engineer Musali.”