“I’m a simple man,” says Ali Dida Hada, watching Petrus as he would a puff adder.
Petrus chuckles. “Aiee! This Kenya marwa! Makes me wonder about soooo many things. Small things: For example, a cryptanalyst is sent to northern Kenya, on a policeman’s salary, to find out what has happened to a mzungu. Years later, this simple cryptanalyst, on a policeman’s salary, has thirty-six million three hundred and fifty-two thousand shillings in six bank accounts, a simple car dealership in Eastleigh filled with cars that never get sold, twelve simple butcheries across the country, and three simple lorries that have been hired to transport cattle from the north to the south. All this on a policeman’s simple salary.”
Words dry up in Ali Dida Hada’s mouth.
He cannot move his hands, so that, even if he had the capacity to, he cannot blast Petrus away.
Petrus pulls out a police-issue pistol from an inner pocket of his black coat. He checks the bullets. “I confess I haven’t been as simple or as wise as you, Ali.”
Ali Dida Hada opens and shuts his mouth.
Petrus says, “You do understand what I mean.”
Ali Dida Hada does.
Petrus says, “I’d noticed thoughts of existence that bother us never seemed to touch you. Got curious. Thought we might be hosting a mystic.” A sneer. “But imagine what I found, Ali? And so I ask a question Kenyans don’t ask — how did you come by your wealth? Hard work?”
Ali Dida Hada closes his eyes. Voice neutral, he asks, “What do you want?”
Around Petrus, veiled, venomous presences, potent and explicit swirl. Whispered options. He struggles. He succumbs. Dread of suffering, of becoming nothinged.
No one need know anything.
Petrus drops his head.
Temporary grief — archetypal loss. As in the beginning of existence, when imagination and cowardice begat fig-leafed fear.
Genesis.
Ali Dida Hada remembers that the tingle from Akai’s bite was as tender as a new kiss. Winds had flung white sand and dark pebbles into the air and covered the view of mountains. Even as he left Wuoth Ogik that day, he had known he would return. He had gone to his police base and dispatched a convoluted and undecipherable message back to Nairobi headquarters, buying time for himself. That night, he had driven in a white van all the way to Dukana, left the car at Puckoon Ridge, and ambled into Sibiloi Park. In a dark Somali kikoi, and a camouflage jacket covering a white shirt, concealing a dagger and pistol. He carried an old leather rucksack and an AK-47. He walked forty kilometers before dropping into the shade created by the merging of shadows by a mukhi-mukha-d’ales and Acacia mellifera trees. Chewing on the end of an aromatic twig, he had waited. Sure enough, a day and a half later, after noon, one of Nyipir’s five hired livestock-lorries lumbered past, packed with resigned bovines.
A soft whistle from Ali Dida Hada.
Walahi! That was how Nyipir was doing it. In plain sight. Livestock standing on boxes. And inside the boxes …
A livestock train had approached. From what he could see, five men drove them. Ali Dida Hada moved behind a tree. Just when they would have passed him, he got up, raised a hand, and hailed them.
“Keifilhal?”
“Alhamdulillah.”
“Your family is well?”
“They are well.”
“And the animals?”
“They are well.”
“And you?”
“Masha’llah.”
“Alhamdulillah.”
Silence.
“And what blessings do you carry?” Ali Dida Hada asked, moving forward, and bringing his rifle forward, a finger on the trigger.
“Small things. Why anger? You can see livestock, dates, coffee, okra, khat, amber.…”
“You are here?” Nyipir said as he approached Ali Dida Hada’s flank.
“I’m here.”
“The house?”
“In order.”
“Its people.”
“Are well.”
A direct look. “I see,” said Nyipir, sweat beading his upper lip. “You are on your way to someplace?”
“In a sense.”
Ali Dida Hada moved abruptly, a gesture directed at a camel and the cargo on its back. The camel spun, the bundle dropped. A box crashed to the hard ground. The spooked camel bolted. Others tried to follow. The camel keepers ran after the animals. The box’s lid slipped off, and the butt of a rifle peeped out. Inside the date boxes and salt caches were self-loading pistols, assault rifles, submachine guns, AK-47s, an assortment of G3s, bullets, and two rocket launchers in long cases.
Just as he had thought. “Don’t move,” Ali Dida Hada ordered, covering Nyipir with his rifle.
A rumble from Nyipir: “How will you catch me?”
“Don’t move,” repeated Ali Dida Hada.
“And I … I’ll go peacefully with you?” Nyipir had scorned.
Ali Dida Hada pointed the gun at Nyipir’s head.
“What do you want?” Nyipir stretched out his arms.
“We’ll charge you with waging a war against the people of Kenya, treason, engaging in activities that jeopardize the lives of citizens, conspiracy to murder …” recited Ali Dida Hada.
“So many terrible words to describe this simple trade?” Nyipir sighed.
“Consorting with the enemies of Kenya …”
Nyipir said, “I wondered if you were Special Branch.”
Ali Dida Hada’s eyes were narrowed; his finger rested on the trigger.
Nyipir said, “How far do you think you’ll go with these men behind you — each one a partner in this trade? How far can you run before you die?”
Ali Dida Hada had thought of this.
He asked, “What do we do about it?”
“You let me go.”
“Maybe.”
“Tell me your real name.”
“Why?”
Nyipir lowered his hands. “To welcome a business partner, there must be, at least, an exchange of names.”
Silence.
“A quarter of profits, shares in all trading,” proposed Nyipir. “And you do your part.”
“What?”
“Look everywhere but where we are. We trade in information, too.”
Ali Dida Hada lowered the rifle.
Nyipir said, “To start … twenty thousand shillings. Goodwill.”
Ali Dida Hada took a deep breath.
“Cash,” explained Nyipir. Added a non sequitur, “Livestock bring profits in Zaire.”
Wind-borne silences seeped into sands, hills, and scrub. The sun took its time shortening and then lengthening shadows. Ali Dida Hada’s silhouette shifted and twisted under the light. He inhaled the northern-frontier essence, the breath of camels, its many promises. He asked Nyipir, “Where were you taking these?”
“To friends.” Nyipir leaned over to pick up a strand of dry grass to chew on.
“Where?”
Nyipir paused. “Sele Bedirru.”
Ali Dida Hada lowered his rifle. “You need an escort?” It was why he was there.
An alliance among scorpions, thought Ali Dida Hada then. Watching for an unguarded moment when one might sting the other to death. But from then on, Ali Dida Hada warned Nyipir about impending military ambushes. He also misdirected government informers, restructured their messages when he dispatched these to headquarters, and provided cover for unregistered consignments.
These activities took precedence over his halfhearted search for Hugh Bolton, which he did continue. There seemed to be no records attached to his name anywhere. Was it possible for a man to erase traces of his existence?