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She sniffed. ‘Mightbe they have burned their uniporms. It was on the radio. The Lion has killed that he-goat president who has done so many bad and terrible things to our feeple.’

  A mixture of grief and anger raged through me. It was no secret that many of my countrymen and women had not admired my father, but never before had I heard him openly scorned. What bad and terrible things had Baba done? I was glad that this woman from the North did not recognise me as his football-playing son.

  ‘Is there another way out of this building, mah?’ I asked, noticing an iron stairway at the far end of the passage.

  She shook her head. ‘Only that door behind you.’

  I edged further away from it, worried that the baboon might be out there. I lowered my voice. ‘What is up the stairs?’

  ‘Afartments.’

  ‘Can a person get onto the roof?’

  ‘My daughter-in-law goes up to hang the washed clothes,’ the woman said. ‘But there is no fire escape.’ (Pire-escafe, she called it.)

  Behind me, the door handle turned one way, then the other. Then the door creaked, as if someone out in the alley was testing the strength of the lock. Scarcely daring to breathe in case whoever (or whatever) was out there might hear me, I caught the woman’s eye and put one finger to my lips. Her old milky eyes flicked from me to the creaking door, then back to me. Beckoning at me, the old woman turned and hobbled down the passage to a door marked ‘12’. She pushed a key into the lock, opened the door and waved me in.

  Number twelve could hardly be called an apartment. It was just one room. One corner was the kitchen. In another corner was a built-in cabinet that at first I mistook for a wardrobe; but through its partially open door I saw a slice of washbasin and the edge of a wall-mounted toilet cistern. There were no beds, just three blanket-covered mattresses leaning against one wall. Above the mattresses was a window, and the shadowy brick wall of the next building was so close that the window could not open more than a few centimetres. The only furniture was a small table, several plastic chairs and a white-painted cot where two very small children slept top-to-tail. Mustbe this old woman was their grandmother.

  ‘Are you in trouble?’ she asked when the door was closed.

  I wondered how much to tell her. Not too much, for she had called my murdered father a he-goat.

  ‘I have done nothing bad, mah. But that one outside is chasing me.’

  We both listened as a fist (human or animal?) began banging on the door at the end of the passage.

  ‘Why is he chasing you?’ the old woman asked suspiciously.

  ‘It is a family matter, mah.’

  We looked at her peacefully sleeping grandchildren then, and the word collateral came suddenly into my head. The banging outside grew louder and faster. Aaaaee! I hoped the door was strong.

  ‘May I have a drink of water?’ I whispered. ‘Then I will go up to the roof.’

  The old woman filled a plastic cup from a bucket and passed it to me. I could see that she did not fully believe my story. But when I handed back the empty cup, she touched her right thumb to my forehead in a traditional blessing.

  ‘May the Great God protect you, young man.’

  ‘And may He bless your family,’ I responded. And I meant it – she and her grandchildren did not cause what had happened that morning at the Presidential Palace.

  It all seemed slightly unreal still, like a bad dream, like the very worst kind of d’lawo.

  But once I was back out in the corridor, the banging on the street door made it fully real.

  My parents were dead!

  There was a baboon outside with a bomb meant for me!

  I headed for the stairs like a person with a curse on his head. Like someone who is already part dead. Several other doors in the corridor had come open because of the noise. Heads poked out. Nobody took any interest in me, praise God, they all stared at the door at the far end.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

  As I started up the stairs, a man in a suit came hurrying down past me.

  ‘Do not open the outside door, sir,’ I said. ‘It is bandits.’

  Who knows if he took me seriously? I did not wait to see. By the time the man in the suit had reached the ground floor, I was nearly up to the floor above. My hard-soled school shoes clattered loudly on the iron stairs as I took them two at a time. I was running for my life. But if the old woman in apartment twelve was right, if there truly was no fire escape, my fate was fully written. The bomber-baboon would get in sooner or later – the man in the suit, or someone else, would let it in. Or it would break down the door, for baboons are strong. I had heard that many animals had noses that were much more sensitive than human noses: they could smell fear. It would follow my fear-scent along the corridor and up the iron stairs.

  I wondered if baboons could smell other emotions, too? Like anger? I was terrified, it is true, but also I was more angry than I had ever been in my life. My parents had been killed by a baboon just like the one coming after me. I both feared it and hated it.

  I wanted it to die!

  But so did the baboon want to die – it was a suicide bomber!

  You will get your wish, baboon, I thought grimly. You will die! But I will stay alive.

  Because if justice was to be served, if my parents’ deaths were to be avenged, I had to get even with the man who had sent both this baboon and the one that had killed my parents.

  I had to kill General Mbuti!

  There were twelve flights of stairs, two per level. At every second turn, I found myself in another long, dim corridor, lined on both sides with more tiny apartments. The final flight of iron stairs led up to a green-painted door. Taped to the wood was a sheet of blue-lined paper torn from a school exercise book. Someone had written on it in Magic Marker:

  Keep door close!

  Babbon come in.

  I wished there was a similar notice on the inside of the door downstairs, for that was where the real danger lay.

  For a moment I hesitated. Trying to control my noisy breathing, I listened for sounds of pursuit from below. All seemed quiet. Pushing open the green door, I peered outside. There were no baboons to be seen, praise God, just row after row of sagging clotheslines. The old woman in apartment twelve had told me that this was where her daughter-in-law came to hang out the family’s washing. But there was more than just one family’s laundry – all the lines were full. Some people had spread their damp laundry on the tarred rooftop to dry. Others had draped theirs over the waist-high railing that ran all the way around the roof ’s edge. One person had even carried up an old chair and hung two green ZantOil shirts over it.

  I moved one of the shirts off the backrest of the chair, then wedged the chair under the doorknob. It was not baboons getting into the building that worried me, it was one baboon coming out.

  Satisfied that the chair would hold, I made a quick tour of the rooftop, peering over the railing to see if there was any other way down. But the woman in apartment twelve had not misled me – there were no fire escapes.

  I was trapped.

  Just like everyone else in the building’s upper storeys would be trapped, if ever there was a fire.

  A shiver ran through me. My last teacher, who was replaced by Mr Chibei halfway through first term, had spoken about this in Civics. Bribes were paid to building inspectors, he claimed. Costs were cut. And if a few dozen oil workers and their families lost their lives in an apartment fire, there would always be more to replace them.

  Just like talkative schoolteachers also could be replaced, I thought, feeling suddenly guilty. I wished I had not mentioned what he said to Baba.

  But fires and sacked teachers were not what concerned me right now. It was my own life that was in danger. Somehow I had to get off the roof of this high building before the suicide bomber baboon found its way up.

  That was when I remembered the phone. ‘Call Kimutai’, the driver of the Mercedes had said just moments before he died.

  Could the Chief of Poli
ce help me now?

  I dug the phone out of my pocket. It was really basic, one of those little folding phones that have actual keypads instead of touch screens. I opened the Contacts and scrolled down to K. Two entries were listed there, but neither was Kimutai. If only I knew Mr Kimutai’s first name! I should have known it – he and my father were friends. They used to play golf every Saturday morning with General Mbuti and one or two others, and I had heard Baba arranging it sometimes on the phone.

  A snatch of conversation came to me now: ‘I only have time for nine holes today, Solomon, so it will be just you and the boys on the last nine.’ Scrolling down to S, I found Solomon and pressed Call. There was no answer, just a recorded voice telling me to leave a message. But before I could open my mouth, I heard a strange squealing sound, like a baby crying. Snapping the phone closed, I walked to the railing and peered over. The next building was two storeys lower than the one I was on, with the same flat roof and its own colourful display of laundry hanging out to dry.

  Sitting between two of the clotheslines, looking up at me, was a baboon.

  My heart bump-bump-bumped. But it slowed again when I saw that the baboon below me was not wearing a muzzle or a backpack. And its head was not bandaged. It was a different baboon, a mother holding its baby, not the one that was chasing me. The baby baboon was crying just like a human baby. I was glad when its mother started feeding it and the noise stopped.

  The mother and baby were not alone. Several other large baboons moved back and forth beneath the clotheslines below me. None wore a muzzle or a backpack. They were wild. And like all of their kind, they were expert climbers. Baboons did not need stairs or fire escapes. But the one chasing me was injured. It could barely run, let alone climb up the sides of buildings. It would have to use the stairs.

  Babbon come out, I thought. And shivered.

  I returned to the hut-like structure where the stairs came up to the roof of my building. The chair was still jammed firmly under the doorknob. I was safe.

  But I could not stay on the apartment roof forever.

  I called Mr Kimutai’s number and got his voicemail again. ‘ . . . leave a message.’ But when I tried to think what to say, all the terrible things that had happened that day came back in a rush, and I could not say one word.

  My parents were dead! It seemed like the world had ended.

  Suddenly I felt ill. I had to flop down on the chair and take deep, long breaths to stop myself from sicking up again.

  And next to my head, the doorknob moved.

  It did not move much, because it was pressed hard against the top of the chair and would not turn freely. But it made a tiny noise, wood against wood, and it was so close to my left eye, so big and blurry, that for a moment it looked a bit like a baboon’s head.

  I jumped up so quickly that the chair slid out from under the doorknob.

  And it was too late to put it back. Already the green door was partway open.

  Peering out through the widening gap were the creepy blue eyes of the suicide bomber baboon.

  It looked pleased to see me.

  5

  Red Button

  I was trapped. I had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. But I ran anyway, weaving and ducking between the sagging clotheslines. Knowing that every step could be my last. Knowing I was about to die.

  But instead of an explosion, there was another loud noise: ‘WOOF!’

  It was like the bark of a dog, only much louder, much fiercer. And it came from right in front of me!

  I stumbled to a stop. Barely an arm’s length from where I had emerged from the clotheslines, a large male baboon clung to the outside of the railing that ran around the edge of the building. And it was not alone. There were baboons all along the railing, about a dozen of them, including the mother and baby I had seen on the rooftop below. They must have climbed up the side of my building while I was over by the stair-hut.

  The baby blinked at me with brown, curious eyes. But the adults, even the big male right in front of me, acted as if I was not there. Muscular shoulders hunched, heads bent low to peer under the rows of washing, the wild baboons glared fiercely at something behind me.

  The big male – I guessed it was the troop leader – drew back its lips, showing long yellow fangs and bright pink gums. It was all I could do not to step backwards. But something much worse was behind me.

  I turned to face it.

  The suicide bomber baboon was halfway across the rooftop from the stair-hut, limping slowly beneath the clotheslines, its blue-eyed gaze fixed firmly on me. I wondered if it was even aware of the other baboons. Surely it had heard the bark of the troop leader. But it was taking no notice of them. Mightbe it did not care. For it had a bomb and they did not.

  Things happened quickly after that.

  First, the baby baboon let out a whimper. I think it was scared of me, but the adults seemed to connect its fear to the odd-looking baboon limping across the rooftop towards them. The baby was part of their family troop, and mightbe they saw this blue-eyed stranger as a threat to its youngest and most vulnerable member.

  At a grunt from their leader, nearly a dozen big, wild baboons swarmed past me and jumped on the suicide bomber. It happened so suddenly that my baboon did not even have time to press the little red button on its shoulder strap. Only the baby and its mother did not join in. But both screamed encouragement from the railing as all their big, savage friends and relatives laid into the stranger, biting and punching and gouging. All I could see was a huge knot of furry, writhing limbs rolling about beneath the clotheslines, leaving behind red smears on the tarred rooftop and clumps of grey and brown fur that floated away in the breeze. They were not just beating up this stranger, who might or might not have threatened their baby (but certainly had been threatening me), they were killing it.

  It was truly satisfying to watch.

  But I was worried about the bomb. What if one of my baboon’s attackers pressed the red button by accident?

  Then it would win.

  Taking the long way around the rooftop to avoid passing the mother baboon and her baby, I followed the railing back to the stair-hut. The green door was still open. Ducking quickly inside, I pulled the door closed behind me and started down the stairs.

  A phone was ringing. I had not realised that I was still holding the phone given to me by the driver of the Mercedes. Stopping on the first landing, I flipped it open and raised it to my ear.

  ‘Hello?’ I said softly.

  ‘Patrick,’ a man’s voice said. ‘You were trying to call me.’

  ‘I am not Patrick.’

  ‘Then who are you?’

  ‘Sunday Balewo.’

  The caller was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Hello, Sunday. I am glad to hear your voice. Where is Sergeant Aguda?’

  ‘Are you Mr Kimutai?’

  ‘I am. Has something happened to Sergeant Aguda?’

  ‘I guess so,’ I stammered. ‘If he is the man who gave me this phone.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘They shot him.’

  There was another short silence, then Chief of Police Kimutai spoke softly: ‘Tell me what happened, Sunday.’

  ‘They ambushed us.’

  ‘Did you see who “they” were?’

  ‘Some men in a black van,’ I said. ‘They had an AK-47. They shot our car many times but I got away. Sergeant Aguda told me to call you.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And Sergeant Fofana?’

  He must have been the other dark-glasses man. ‘I was the only one who got away,’ I said softly.

  ‘What about the monkey?’

  I looked up the stairs at the green door. It was still closed. I listened and heard no more screaming from outside. ‘I think it is dead, also.’

  Mr Kimutai let out a sigh. When next he spoke, his voice was sad. ‘Do you know about your parents, Sunday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is a terri
ble thing. It should not have happened.’

  I could not think of anything to say. Part of me felt anger towards Mr Kimutai. He was the Chief of Police, he should not have let it happen.

  ‘Are you still there?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And where is that, Sunday?’

  ‘I am not sure.’ There was a small window above my head. I could see part of a satellite dish, streaked white with bird droppings, and behind that a patch of hazy, brown sky. ‘In the city somewhere. It is an apartment building – one of the ones that belong to the oil company, I think.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’ asked Mr Kimutai.

  ‘Hiding,’ I said, feeling vaguely ashamed. ‘Mr Kimutai, is it true that –’

  ‘Listen to me, Sunday,’ he interrupted, speaking in a low, urgent tone. ‘Stay where you are and do not talk to anyone. I will call you back.’

  The line went dead.

  I kept the phone pressed to my ear, listening to the silence where Mr Kimutai’s voice had been. I wished he had not hung up. There were so many things I wanted to ask him. Did General Mbuti have control of the whole country? Had my father’s other Big Men turned traitor, also? Was it really true that I was next in line to be president?

  ‘Baba, Ama,’ I whispered into the silent phone, ‘I will make that he-goat Mbuti pay for what he has done!’

  I lowered the phone then, blinking back tears. My parents could not hear me. And it was a foolish promise – General Mbuti was not a goat. By arranging my father’s death, he had proved that he was indeed the Lion of his boasts. I was just a sixteen-year-old schoolboy, a flea by comparison.

  But a flea can make a lion itch.

  General Mbuti must have sent another suicide bomber monkey after me because he wanted to be president. As next in line to rule our country, I was the only thing standing in his way. I could upset his plans simply by staying alive!

  I looked back up the stairs at the misspelt sign taped to the inside of the green door. Babbon come in. Not the one Mbuti sent, I thought grimly. It no longer posed a threat to me or to anyone else. But the other baboons might still be up there, and they certainly were dangerous – I had seen just how dangerous a few minutes earlier.