A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa Page 16

  ‘I might be a bit late home tonight, darling. There’s a special meeting at the club.’

  Petula took a banana from the table, kissed the top of her father’s head and picked up her car keys.

  ‘That’s all right, I’ll be late too. CI meeting.’

  Mr Malik looked at his watch. Time for a second banana before he had to leave for the bird walk.

  It had felt strange getting behind the wheel of her old Peugeot 504, strange being back in the hectic Nairobi traffic, strange pulling up outside the museum to be greeted by a buzzing crowd of old friends. Rose had not been prepared for such a large gathering – most of whom, it was soon clear, had come especially to welcome her back. Though there was a new pack of YOs, she saw many familiar faces. Hilary was there, of course, and old Tom Turnbull. Though he had not changed a bit, he had swapped his old Morris Minor for a smart new Hyundai. She could also see Patsy King and Jonathan Evans. Were they still having their Tuesday morning affair? Standing a little apart from the others she noticed Mr Malik talking to his old friend – what was his name? Mr Nyambe, that’s right. Thomas Nyambe.

  Perhaps because news had spread that Rose was back, more people had turned up than could be accommodated in the various cars. It was decided they would go to the arboretum. This shady few acres of trees and grass was only a twenty-minute walk from the museum. Mr Malik, leaving his old green Mercedes in the museum car park, set off in the company of his good friend Thomas Nyambe.

  Not all of the morning was spent listening to the stories Thomas Nyambe told. The arboretum contains trees from all around the world, and it was Australia’s day to flower. Down by the river the grove of lemon-scented gum trees was in full bloom. Bees buzzed, sunbirds flitted, and sixty feet above them a male vervet monkey – easily recognizable even at that distance – sat plucking and sucking the honey-filled blossoms.

  ‘But have you heard, Mr Malik, about the Evening News?’

  ‘That it will be closing down? Yes, I’d heard rumours but wasn’t sure whether to believe them.’

  ‘I think it is true. What the government couldn’t do with threats it is doing with red tape and regulations. The paper has just one more week to find some piece of paper they have lost.’

  ‘Then tomorrow’s could be the last “Birds of a Feather” column, Mr Nyambe.’ Mr Malik put away his notebook and pen. ‘I will try to make it a good one.’

  When the time came for the group to disband, Mr Malik had recorded three more species of mammals and thirty-one species of birds – as well as enough government gossip to fill several pages. He never did talk to Rose Mbikwa. She had seemed so busy with all her other friends that he had thought it best not to intrude.

  At six o’clock that evening the Asadi Club car park was already packed. There had been no time to send a mailout to members about the extraordinary general meeting, but in spreading the word Tiger Singh had left no communicatory stone unturned. Telephone calls, emails and word of mouth had ensured a larger turnout than at any club meeting Mr Malik could remember – even three or four country members had managed to make the trip into town. It might well be, he realized, even larger than the legendary meeting of October 1936 called to discuss the ‘Ranamurka Affair’, which had eventually led to the banning of women from the club – a ban which had lasted more than forty years. Realizing that there would not be enough room in the bar, the manager had opened up the folding doors into the dining room – even so, it was standing room only when Tiger Singh got up to speak.

  ‘Members, gentlemen.’ Tiger Singh surveyed the crowd. ‘You will all have heard that this meeting has been called to discuss a threat to the very future of the Asadi Club as we know it. As many of you will know, last week a burglary was committed here at the club. Two items were taken – the club mascot and our certificate of registration.’

  A murmur arose from the crowd, in which Mr Malik thought he could hear mentioned the names of two members, both absent. The Tiger continued to explain to the increasingly indignant audience the events so far.

  ‘They’ve got us over the proverbial barrel. We have twelve days to find that certificate. If we do not, the Asadi Club will cease to exist.’

  After some more discussion, during which little was resolved, the meeting broke up. The four friends retired to the bar, where Mr Gopez reported that his own enquiries had so far drawn a blank. Nor had Mr Patel’s further questioning of the staff revealed anything new.

  ‘None of them saw a thing – well, those of them who were actually here. We had most of the kitchen and dining-room staff on safari with us, of course. It seems that Friday was an unusually quiet night. The barmen went home early, so that just left the manager, the undergardener and the askari. The Tiger and Harry Khan were the last to leave. At the probable time of the theft the undergardener was asleep in his room. The askari was probably sleeping too, but anyway swears he didn’t see anything. And as the manager said, the first he knew of it was when he opened up in the morning.’

  Tiger Singh looked glum.

  ‘I’ve looked at every law book, every case history I could think of. If you will excuse my mixing sporting metaphors, gentlemen, the ball is in our court and they have all the trumps.’

  ‘Tiger,’ said Mr Malik, ‘I think you have done a magnificent job. All of you are to be congratulated. I’m sure something will turn up.’

  ‘I wish I could agree with you,’ said Mr Patel. ‘But I can’t.’

  Mr Gopez gave a long sigh.

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ said Mr Malik, ‘it seems that we’re not the only ones. I heard this morning from a friend on the bird walk that they’re pulling the same trick with the Evening News – though it’s not the premises they want, just to close down the paper.’

  ‘You mean their registration certificate has disappeared too?’

  Mr Malik nodded. But even if what he’d heard from Thomas Nyambe that morning was correct, and the ‘Birds of a Feather’ column that he’d written that very afternoon would indeed be his last, at least he had the satisfaction of knowing that it would go out with a bang. Not only would his readers learn that the car being driven by the wife of the chairman of the parliamentary anti-corruption committee had been paid for by the owner of the civil engineering company who had just got the contract for the new airport terminal, but also that the CEO of the Mombasa Port Authority had, in all the years he had been drawing his considerable salary, never been to Mombasa. It was a pity, thought Mr Malik, that Thomas Nyambe hadn’t been able to come up with anything to pin on the new Minister for the Interior. He might have been able to use it to save the Asadi Club. He stood up.

  ‘Come on, chaps. Sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves isn’t going to help things. Who’d like a game of billiards?’

  ‘Hey,’ said a voice behind him. ‘If anyone’s going to be playing billiards with Jack here, it’s me.’

  27

  The worm will reach the water

  Of all the sayings in the English language, two in particular have long puzzled me. The first is ‘The exception proves the rule’, and last year I thought I’d finally got a handle on this one. If something is seen as an exception it must be an exception to something – that something being what we usually expect to happen. So, in a sense, any exception by its very nature gives support to the rule to which it is an exception – if you see what I mean (and I don’t blame you at all if you don’t). But then I was talking to my friend Kennedy and he said that the meaning of this phrase is quite clear when you realize that two words are missing – it should be read as ‘the exception proves to be the rule’ – and I was pretty much back where I started. Another phrase that has always flummoxed me is ‘The more things change, the more they stay the same.’ Kennedy said he couldn’t help me with that one – though that wasn’t surprising as he was almost certain it was originally French. As Mr Malik sat on the veranda of his house at Number 12 Garden Lane the morning after the meeting at the club – the morning after his second billiards
defeat in a week by Harry Khan – his thoughts were of things changing and not staying the same.

  What if, he thought, as he put down one of the books he had been perusing and picked up his cup of Nescafé, what if the club really did close down? Change was inevitable – it should not be resisted, but accommodated. Certainly some changes are more under our control than others. Mr Malik was aware, for instance, that he could have done little about Chinese producers undercutting his business in cigars. But he had been able to react by changing (with Petula’s help) the direction of the Jolly Man Manufacturing Company from cigars to confectionery. Petula herself would soon be leaving him. Though he would miss her sorely, her marriage was surely a good thing, a change to be welcomed. And as Petula had herself said to him just the other day, so what if the Evening News was forced to close? No government could close the internet. He gazed out into the garden. Benjamin would not be back from his family visit until tomorrow. Fallen leaves littered the lawn. Change, everywhere. In the grand scheme of the universe, was the continuing existence of the Asadi Club really that important?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a truck and a knock on the door. Of course, the marquee was going up today. He had no sooner shown the men into the garden than he heard another knock and opened the door to see a taxi driving away and a thin, dark-suited man standing in front of him with a suitcase in his hand.

  ‘My dear Salman, how very good to see you. Welcome. Come in, come in. But I thought Petula was going to meet you at the airport?’

  ‘I was expecting her, but then she sent me a text to say that she had to go into work. Do you think it is just possible that I am being paid back for last week?’

  Mr Malik laughed.

  ‘It is indeed just possible, Salman. But I think that perhaps you have been forgiven.’ He gestured to the bunch of roses now in a glass vase beside the door. ‘I didn’t see her last night, I’m afraid. She was at a meeting and I was in bed before she came home.’

  ‘Clarity International, I suppose.’ Salman put down his bag. ‘Tell me, Mr Malik, do you think there’s much point in it?’

  ‘Point? Yes, I think so. But I’m surprised she wasn’t at the airport.’

  ‘It was no problem to take a taxi. Between ourselves, Mr Malik, I always feel a little uncomfortable with a woman behind the wheel – even your daughter.’

  Mr Malik smiled.

  ‘So – this is it, I hope. The wedding is on? No more going back to Dubai?’

  ‘Yes, this is it – though I might have to drop into the office next week. It will be no problem. We have to go through Dubai on our way to Paris.’

  Mr Malik already knew that the newly-weds were planning a honeymoon in Paris – he had insisted on paying for the hotel – but Petula had done all the travel plans. He took Salman through the house and on to the veranda, where they watched five men unroll the large white sausage of a marquee and begin fitting together the poles.

  ‘Did Petula say when she will be home, Salman? Perhaps I should give her a ring at the office.’

  ‘I have already done so, Mr Malik. I’m sure she will be home very soon.’

  It occurred to Mr Malik that right now two might be company, three a crowd.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I won’t wait for her. I should really get along.’

  Leaving Salman with instructions to make himself at home, Mr Malik picked up the keys to his old green Mercedes. He wouldn’t go straight to the club, though. He would spend the morning at the hospital. By the time he got to the club after lunch, it was just possible someone might have heard something about the certificate.

  ‘Any more luck with the house-to-house enquiries, A.B.?’

  Mr Gopez looked up at Mr Malik and shook a weary head.

  ‘Not a sausage. Wait – I lie. Mrs Mohutu two doors down over the road said she hadn’t seen anything but she thought it could have been monkeys. Only last month she swears they stole two handkerchiefs and an item of ladies’ clothing – she didn’t say what exactly – from her washing line.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Malik, ‘the Tiger will have some news.’

  They did not have long to wait for his arrival.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, it’s not the best news but it’s not the worst. I’ve managed to arrange a hearing. Wednesday next at ten sharp, before Judge Kafari. Dum spiro spero. At the very least we should be able to delay them and pray that something else turns up soon.’

  ‘Speaking of news, I don’t suppose you chaps have had a chance to look at this?’ Mr Patel was holding open a copy of the evening paper. ‘That fellow Dadukwa has done it again. Looks like the anti-corruption committee is going to need a new chairman.’ He dropped the paper on to the table. ‘Do you think Harry Khan’s right? Do you think they’ll really shut it down?’

  ‘The Evening News? They’ve been trying for a long time,’ said Mr Malik, ‘but I think this time they might do it.’

  Yes, his last ‘Birds of a Feather’ column. Perhaps, thought Mr Malik, it was finally time to reveal that he was Dadukwa. To reveal how for the past seven years it had been he who weekly penned the words that had kept Kenya informed of the real goings-on behind the scenes of government and business. Over those years only two people knew his secret. Thomas Nyambe was one of them. The other was Rose Mbikwa.

  Rose had made the discovery only by accident. Four years ago she had found a notebook near where she lived, scorched from a bonfire and wet from the rain. From the crude sketch of an eagle on the cover she thought she recognized it. Sure enough, when she opened it she knew it must belong to Mr Malik – there were the records of the bird walks she had noticed him taking every week. But she couldn’t help also noticing the other notes – notes which she knew from her regular reading of the ‘Birds of a Feather’ column in the Evening News could only mean one thing. So Mr Malik – quiet, diffident, kind Mr Malik – was Dadukwa. She couldn’t help herself, she had to tell someone. On the night of the Nairobi Hunt Club Ball she revealed her discovery – to wise, brave, wonderful Mr Malik himself. So then he knew that she knew, and she knew that he knew that she would never, ever tell another soul. But even if the paper was to be closed, Mr Malik knew he might still be in danger. Many a businessman and government minister, present and past, still had a score to settle with Dadukwa. No, it was probably better that the secret be kept.

  The next evening, no better news.

  ‘Ten days to go.’

  ‘Yes, A.B., I know.’ Mr Malik gave a small shake of his head. ‘Nothing new, I suppose?’

  ‘Not a sausage.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Mr Patel, ‘how’s the wedding going?’

  ‘Wedding,’ said Mr Malik. ‘What wedding?’

  When Petula had told him on his return from the club the previous evening that the wedding was off again, he had at first thought she was teasing him. It wasn’t as if she looked angry this time, or even sad. She seemed calm, almost happy.

  ‘Yes, Daddy dear … I’m very sorry, but it’s off. Definitely. I’ve just taken Salman back to the airport.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But why?’ She picked a single red rose from the vase on the table beside the door. ‘Here we are, Daddy. First witness for the prosecution.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What have the roses he sent you got to do with it?’

  ‘This, Daddy dear, is not a rose that Salman sent me. This is a rose Salman didn’t send me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. I still don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s true, Daddy dear. You and I were wrong. How do I know? Because when I thanked dear Salman this morning for these lovely roses, and told him how pleased I was to get them and how much they meant to me, do you know what he said?’

  Mr Malik did not know. He was not sure that he wanted to know.

  ‘He said that there seemed to be some confusion. Why did I think the roses were from him? Why would he send me roses? Why would he send me roses, he said, when we both knew that the garden was full of roses?
And then he said …’ Petula’s smile was looking a little forced now. ‘And then he said that he didn’t like roses anyway – all those nasty thorns.’

  ‘Doesn’t like roses?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There is, actually. He said that while we were on the subject of things he didn’t like there was something else. He said that he didn’t like my work with Clarity International. He thought it unwise and unsuitable.’

  ‘Unwise?’

  ‘Unwise.’

  ‘And unsuitable?’

  ‘His very words. Then, reverting to the previous subject, he said that even though he didn’t like roses, he didn’t like the idea of someone else sending roses to his fiancée. And he said he certainly hoped no one would ever send roses to his wife.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mr Malik.

  ‘He said his father never sent his mother roses, and she always said that the kind of woman to whom other people sent roses was probably the kind who couldn’t cook a decent dhal and gave women drivers a bad name.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Malik. He thought for a moment. ‘Petula dear,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Daddy?’

  ‘I think I understand, but … we won’t be going through all this again, will we?’

  She came round behind him and gave him a hug.

  ‘No, Daddy.’

  28

  As the hyena loves the vulture, the vulture loves the worm

  Sitting on the veranda watching the workmen roll up the marquee, Mr Malik felt suddenly tired. It had been a hectic weekend. After cancelling mosque, flowers and cars, he had spent most of Thursday and all of Friday on the phone trying to contact all the guests. It was too late to cancel the food, but Ally Dass would be happy to deliver what had already been bought and prepared to various hospitals around Nairobi. Mr Malik was able to supply him with addresses and ward numbers.