Torrents of Torment

By Kenneth K. Kamau

Haunted by the brutal death of his mother all his teenage life, Jim uses his new found position in the police service to embark on a hunt for her killers. In his perilous adventure he gets enmeshed in a world where more people were thirsty for justice than he actually was. It is not however late when he establishes that his yet to be father-in-law has the clues to the murder. Trapped in deserts of hopelessness, forests of loneliness and tunnels of darkness, Jim sets out on a course that may as well turn tragic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Africa
• Release date: Aug 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781482807646

Kenneth K. Kamau

Kenneth was born in the city of Nairobi where he grew up exploring the edges of society. After high school he enrolled into Law School and subsequently got admitted to the bar as an Advocate of the High Court of Kenya where he practices commercial and criminal law. It is through storytelling that he discovered a soapbox to express his mind. Most of his ideas, though not all real events, stem from his practice, experiences that generate such mind-blowing stories and ultimately shape his writing. Torrents of Torment is one novel that takes one on a journey of imaginative realities that seem so plausible. It is an articulately written story, fast paced, and thrilling, not to mention full of suspense and intrigues.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

T HERE WAS A HEAVY downpour when Jim drew the curtains across his bedroom window. The day seemed gloomy from the very first glance at the grey skies, yet he had woken up on a distinctly upbeat mood. From the general look of things, this would predictably be the most unbearable day at the camp yet he still would not dare miss attending the training session, reason: there was not a single degree of certainty as to whether Col. Mahmood would or would not pop in to conduct a roll call. Do not question; things around this place work the best under supervision. The phone rang, and guess who was calling, Vanaya. She had just jetted in from Seychelles where she had spent her Christmas holiday all by herself.

‘Are you going to spend the day on the phone?’ Jim’s aunt yelled. She had that patronising tone of voice that bosses use against their juniors and Jim somewhat thought that she needed to be set straight. The early morning phone call had come through as a surprise to Jim, not necessarily because he hardly expected one, but because Vanaya was among the last persons, if not actually the last, he would have remotely expected to be thinking about him. The two had not met in a period of about fourteen months owing to Vanaya’s busy schedule. She often spent much of her time overseas, usually for long durations within which communication wasn’t regular. Within no time, Jim cleared with the call and made his way to the common bathroom. And although he had almost an hour to himself, he soon left for the Crime Detection Agency (CDA) Headquarters where he was undertaking homicide investigation classes. He swiftly navigated his way out of the slum settlement and joined a long stretch of casual workers heading to their respective places of work. It would eventually be a hot day.

The handsome energetic smart boy could no longer concentrate during the training session after a rumour went round that the colonel would not, after all, be turning up as expected. But of course he couldn’t, not when he was wallowing in nostalgia over memories of days gone by with a rich girl he had barely known. No sooner had it clocked twelve than he sneaked out and left for the city.

The weather condition by now had totally changed. Jim hurriedly walked up and down the streets as the sun got hotter and hotter every tick of the clock. As usual, the commotion in the pavements was hectic, yet the boy was getting quite late for a date. Commuters travelling upcountry to take part in the general elections as well as the New Year celebrations had been stranded in various bus stations owing to shortage of public transport. The operators, just to mention, had as usual hiked fares quite unreasonably, and to my dismay, without restriction. Anyway, that is the beauty of the capitalist ideology of the so-called free markets, which our fathers ceremoniously ushered in.

Within no time, Jim eventually made his way into the luxurious and fine-looking Intercontinental hotel where he was to meet Vanaya for lunch. He looked around for her while whispering little misogynist remarks about women being late and then took a seat at a table near the door. He was not used to these five-star hotels where you’ll have to learn how to give decent tips. He sat and unlocked his phone, but just as he scrolled down the list of numbers on his phonebook, Vanaya appeared. The next few minutes saw a perfect display of a host of emotions, ranging from excitement to a breathtaking exchange of intimate feelings as you would only see on our screens in the wee hours of the night. The hug, just to mention, was too prolonged that everyone close to their view had a fine choke. With their eyes closed and hands soothing their backs, the picture was undeniably pretty. They sat, their eyes now completely stuck onto each other and their voices so hesitant as to be almost inaudible. The waiter did not take chances and quickly intercepted, courteously enquiring what the guests would have for lunch. They both sat and gave a good look at the menu, fancily arguing over the best choice before they finally settled on their respective tastes.

No sooner had the waiter disappeared than Vanaya began a narrative about the ups and downs in her life since the two last met. She spoke with a lot of enthusiasm, descriptively explaining her orgiastic up class experiences, much of which Jim was still quite green to grasp without extra exposure. I, however, for some credible reasons though, still highly doubt whether Jim was paying attention at Vanaya’s words or rather he was having his good time into an aesthetic contemplation. If the latter was the case, and which was most probable if his body language was anything to go by, then take it from me that there was a rational justification to that effect. His eyes were passionately glued onto Vanaya with that note of special attention, somewhat roaming around her nice, round, light-toned face, the natural shiny black hair that ran halfway down her back, the silk outfit plus the complementing accessories, and maybe her prosthetic golden tooth, which could show every time she gave him her usual flashy smiles. Trust me, I mean, do not question my taste, but she was nothing short of what you would expect of a modern global fashion model, and in my words, a bit of all right. Jim, needless to say, had all the reasons to build castles in the air. On the other hand, the son of Waithera was a sensuous gent in a fine athletic body, breathtakingly good looking with what women called fine supple lips and a smile to die for. He had expressive eyes, kept a neatly trimmed beard and long silky hair. The lunch meal was perfect with some nicely smoked aubergine bruschetta, the orecchiette with roasted fennel and olives and some mushroom sauce. God knows why they use some of these names.

It did not take an hour before their plates ran empty. By then Vanaya had exhausted her narrative and thereby threw the ball over to Jim’s court. The son of Waithera, on the other hand, had no idea that giving an account of one’s life can at times be a hard tussle especially when everything is out of sorts, and I must particularly insist that he was not forthright in offering reasons as to why he had not joined campus as earlier anticipated. The waiter, however, must have received a divine calling and providentially walked over to clear the table, thereby inadvertently disrupting the discussion. ‘I presume the meal was perfect, wasn’t it?’ he asked smilingly. The lovely couple simultaneously smiled back in appreciation and uniformly said, ‘Yeah it was.’ In response, the charismatic man in a black-and-white suit immediately excused himself and left. Jim only wished the fellow knew how relieving his innocent interruption had been.

‘I’m sorry for the interruptions,’ Vanaya said. For a couple of seconds, the two lovebirds gazed at each other as if none could remember what the issue on discussion was before the waiter broke their conversation. Vanaya seemed distracted, a lot of people smiled at her and said hello, and Jim could see that she was well liked. ‘Can we relocate to some more conducive environment?’ she asked. Jim in reaction firmly nodded and stood. The beauty queen, on the other hand, quickly offered to clear the bill and immediately led the way out to her convertible Porsche. They comfortably jumped inside and drove off to Lavington, one of the posh suburbs on the outskirts of the city where Vanaya resided.

Soon after they settled at the balcony of the impressive mansion, Mrs. Parker brought some wine unasked, though the two somehow needed it to toast the reunion. ‘Is there anything wrong?’ Vanaya asked Mrs. Parker. The ageing woman had for a while been gazing at Jim, so attentively that one could tell that she was quite shocked. ‘No dear. Anything else you need?’ she evasively asked, somehow recollecting herself as she absentmindedly walked away. ‘Not at the moment, but in case of anything, I will let you know,’ Vanaya retorted with a creased face connoting real confusion. ‘At your service, ma’am,’ Mrs. Parker added, just a short moment before she pulled the tinted glass door behind her back. Vanaya turned to Jim, she was expecting him to say something. He felt her glance upon him and raised his eyes to meet it. ‘Any idea as to why she stared at you?’ she curiously asked. ‘Maybe she mistook me for someone else,’ Jim answered, shaking his head swiftly.

Hardly were the wineglasses half empty when Wambua came running up the stairs and flaring up in fear. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, Mrs. Parker has fallen as she climbed down the stairs,’ he exclaimed. In what was a technically quick response, the three hurriedly ran down the stairs in great shock, quickly administered first aid on the unconscious woman and immediately rushed her to Diplomat hospital, where she was admitted. Mrs. Parker was a Kenyan of white descent whose British husband had died in a mysterious car crash only a year after they had settled in the Republic of Kenya. With no connections, a prerequisite requirement to secure a job in red-carpeted offices down here, she resorted to working as a typist at Royale Enterprises, a firm owned by Vanaya’s dad. In the course of her employment she had luckily been promoted to a senior secretary, but when old age caught up with her, she timidly took up an offer to live with Vanaya. They were great friends.

The long corridor connecting the wards to the reception was well air-conditioned and lit. Jim, Wambua and Vanaya eagerly sat on a bench as they waited for the doctor’s report on Mrs. Parker’s condition. Three hours into the waiting, neither of the three seemed to have figured out even the slightest idea as to what may have occasioned the accident. It was a few minutes to eight when the doctor finally came with the news that Mrs. Parker was in a stable condition though she was still suffering from a severe concussion following her fall. A surgical operation was to be conducted the following morning to check on any internal injuries she may have sustained. That was just as much of a doctor’s assurance as was enough to send the trio back to Lavington with a shared feeling of relief.

Immediately they got home, Vanaya quickly brewed some coffee perhaps just to calm the tension in the house. Jim and Wambua were on the other hand watching the news bulletin at nine, but there was nothing unusual except the notorious political drama that is always a prelude to elections. From the general look of things, this time the campaigns were a bit competitive though chances of a change of government were still as short as a dream. Not when the reigning oligarchy was still in possession of all sorts of public resources, and sadly, the majority of voters remained sunken in abject poverty not to mention illiteracy. Absolute influence.

‘I beg to leave. Time is of essence when you’re walking on the streets of Nairobi. At this hour you either become a trumped up enemy of the state if not a happy meal for the night shift buglers,’ Jim comically said as Wambua laughed his head out. ‘Don’t mind, Wambua will drop you home as he drives to his house,’ Vanaya retorted. Wambua was Ketan Rajan’s, Vanaya’s dad, official chauffeur during his short but frequent visits to Kenya. He was a spirited gentleman, old but full of life, with a masters in the business of news mongering during the Voice of Kenya era as an old school freelance journalist. After a brief conversation, both Jim and Vanaya agreed to meet at the hospital the following morning. But before then, it would be an honour for the smart boy to enjoy a posh ride home in a 5.2 Vogue.

CHAPTER TWO

I T MUST HAVE BEEN the longest night Vanaya had ever spent in her entire life. She had sat on her bed all night long trying to figure out whatever it was that may have led to the accident without much gain. Mrs. Parker had been her best friend since she was a young girl and all along she had never been a victim of such an incident. It therefore followed that the actual accident in light of the preceding events was not something her conscience would simply treat as normal. And as you would expect with every other top flight attorney, Vanaya was having a hard time trying to connect the dots that may have led to the accident. Laymen assume, lawyers deduce—no prejudice. Was there a link between Mrs. Parker’s prolonged gaze at Jim and the subsequent collapse? That, only Mrs. Parker could tell, but could Vanaya being in tenterhooks gather the patience? Anyway, they say one swallow does not make a summer and Vanaya had no choice than to pray for Mrs. Parker’s quick recovery. Perhaps then she would easily dig out the truth from her.

The unrelenting lady had barely gathered enough rest when the doorbell rang. It was then that she noticed a beam of sunlight penetrating through the lightly tinted windows in her bedroom and woke up. She twisted her hands in the skirt of the big bathrobe she often wore on weekends, slipped on her shoes, and climbed downstairs to check on the door. Wambua was shivering with cold as Vanaya helped carry in the trays of eggs, bundles of packed milk, and carbonated water. The fellow immediately made himself a cup of coffee and sat on the couch. ‘You seem troubled,’ he commented as Vanaya switched the TV set on. The news anchor was saying, ‘The Electoral Commission has warned political parties to refrain from using public funds for campaign purposes.’ Vanaya contemptuously sneered at the screen and angrily turned away.

‘What worries me now Wambua is how to handle all these together,’ she empathetically said, pointing at the bulk of files on the dining table. ‘I cannot stand losing that appeal. The case holds the future of thousands and I will not sit back and watch the suffering of the masses, courtesy of some few greed prone political clowns. At least not when hopes for change narrow by the day,’ she restlessly added, somehow pointing at the screen in disillusion. ‘In the struggle for liberation, sacrifices have to be made and I am willing to make one,’ she whispered, switching off the TV set angrily. There was a short moment of silence as the two took breakfast. ‘You will make it, ma’am, because you’ve got all that it takes. I will help you look after Mrs. Parker whenever you are busy,’ Wambua said. ‘That reminds me that we ought to be at the hospital to check on her after the operation,’ Vanaya responded. ‘I bet you have to be fast before we are too late to catch the doctor who was on duty last night,’ Wambua commented. ‘Oh yes, Dr. Matata. I won’t take long,’ Vanaya said as she rushed upstairs.

By 7:45 a.m. they were travelling to town on the main road through the heart of the tea country. The sun was above the trees, off to Wambua’s right front, and his radio had been tuned in to the BBC World Service for the latest global news updates. The road was gently curved and little birds sang and chirped in the fields. Vanaya was busy on her mirror, listening to the radio with half an ear while brushing her eyebrows. Within no time they got to the hospital and parked close to the casualties block. Almost immediately, Vanaya noticed Jim on his Suzuki bike and waved as he approached. After the usual gamut, they all walked to the reception where Dr. Matata had been waiting for them and immediately led them to Mrs. Parker’s room.

The old woman seemed okay though she still had not regained consciousness. After a quick prayer, Jim shifted his attention to the doctor; he was closer to his age, fitting specs, impressive build, and all in all, what the ladies would call handsome, which, I guess, is one of the reasons he felt like kicking his damn teeth in. Jim might have been more pleasant to the doctor except that he was annoyingly throwing glances at Vanaya, who regrettably seemed to catch them and possibly pitch back. I am not trying to suggest that there was any chemistry, but you would have had to be blind not to figure out what was going through their minds. Jim at some point had actually considered running in this guy without an arrest warrant for seducing his girlfriend when they had important business at hand but then ran short of supporting legal provisions. Indeed, it can be devastating to watch your foe bruise your ego, and more so, in the absence of somewhere to turn to for reparation.

Back to business, Dr. Matata was quick to explain that Mrs. Parker might have fallen as a result of fatigue. She had no major injuries apart from a fracture that she had sustained on her right ankle. A little while into the brief, Vanaya glanced at the wall clock and a minute later intercepted the doctor, ‘I am sorry I have to be in the office by 9:00 a.m. I will catch up with you later in the afternoon.’ ‘Do have a good day, I will be here in case she wakes up,’ Wambua answered as he gave out the keys to the CLS 500. Almost immediately, Jim and Vanaya hurriedly walked back to the reception where Dr. Matata was waiting. He took them through the medical report and assured them that Mrs. Parker would be just fine. At the parking yard, Jim quickly jumped onto his bike and promised to keep in touch. He was rather late for his last lesson.

As usual, the morning was characterised by heavy traffic jam as supporters of the various parties chanted slogans in support of their respective candidates. With only a few days to the elections, campaigns were at their peak. Vanaya actually had time to buy a copy of the daily newspaper and peruse through the pages as she drove. However, there was nothing new from the usual postcolonial stories of political wrangles, striking civil servants, corruption scandals and financial ‘aid’, which, anyway, make up every copy of the paper all year round. Same script same casts, but do I say? The only article, which amazingly caught her eye, was the Hansen Corey land narrative. This was a court case that had clearly brought out into the limelight the injustices the masses were facing in a country whose leadership had, ideally, embraced the typical capitalistic ideologies of respect for human rights, good governance, democracy, and the rule of the law.

Hundreds of indigenous citizens had for over a period of about five months been forcefully evicted from their native land in the name of giving room to a foreign investor who allegedly was to establish what had only been known on paper as a ‘development oriented project’. All that crap was happening without relocation or even a single penny as compensation to those ill-displaced. And going by the fact that this class of proletariats has literary no funds to oil the wheels of justice in a jurisdiction where justice was often bought than sought, the situation was indeed worrying. What was particularly amazing to Vanaya was the way in which the writer had brought out the facts if I am to call them so. These were not the days when one could publish articles expressly or impliedly against a government seeking re-election unless you were both ready and willing to join the world of the exiles, and mind you, that is if you fortunately miss that of the dead. Despite all that, the writer had taken the opportunity to express the grief and concern of the community by plainly bringing out the unfairness, inequality, and injustice in the then-governing regime. Vanaya had been brought out as a heroine who had taken up the cudgels by voluntarily embarking to fight for the rights of the poor. She had a reason to smile. She was the lawyer acting on behalf of the affected society, tentatively seeking an injunction to stop the ‘investor’ from taking over their land. She had also filed a suit against the government over the massive violations of human rights during the unpopular evictions. ‘These are the writers we desperately need,’ Vanaya whispered to herself.

The elevators to her seventh floor office were in every shift overloaded as workers hurriedly ran to their respective offices. After a quick thought, she decided to use the stairs as part of her keep-fit programme. The corridor to her office was also packed, either by clients who had come to see her co-advocates or the representatives of that community whose case she was handling. She had not gotten used to working under such pressure. After settling at the boardroom, she called in her clients purposely to prepare them for the hearing of the case. They were to adduce evidence in court and Vanaya had to ensure that they were all fit for the task. She could not dare lose the appeal as a result of improper legal analysis. Rumour had it that the previous advocate handling the case had lost the battle simply because the affidavit supporting his plaint was undated. That’s our judicial system, undue technicalities defeat substance.

However, I still highly doubt whether that was the genuine reason. The alternative or even correct explanation, more convincing and a little less alien to our day-to-day way of life, was that the lawyer was compromised with a handsome package in return for dropping the suit in a suspicion-free style. Reading in between the lines, it was clear that this was a fraudulent deal by premier public figures to grab land. With elections just around the corner, the masterminds could not have risked the lawyer tarnishing their image and thereby silenced him using a nice gift hamper wrapped in beautiful ribbons. Whether Vanaya would prove to be more daring was the issue in question. She ensured that no stone was left unturned in the two-hour meeting as she took in questions and gave immediate answers thereto. A stitch in time saves nine, she could not risk any errors. Deep inside her she well knew that it was hard to win the case due to political influence, but that, in itself, did not wear down her hope. That the doctrine of separation of powers solely served academic purposes down here was not a new phenomenon even to a newborn. Vanaya was literally climbing uphill, and mind you, without pay, all because her humane heart could not stand watching the suffering of innocent lives.

‘Should we meet in court on Tuesday?’ she rhetorically asked. Nobody around the conference table uttered a word as they rose to their feet and thankfully made their way out. At the reception, Vanaya promised to offer them transport from their camping site to the court, and they finally left. The process was cumbersome, but she nonetheless had to get through it. If by any chance she won the case, she would incredibly earn herself more than prestige and honour not only from her clients but also across the borders. Aspiring to be a laureate was not a bad idea after all. Her co-advocates in the office did not show interest in the case. In actual sense, to them, this was merely trying to square the circle. It did not occur to any of them that any bit of success would emerge from Vanaya’s efforts, not in a continent where the law is used by personalities for very instrumental purposes.

Despite public outcries in both the print and electronic media to have the government intervene in the rescue of its citizens, not even the member of parliament representing the affected community had responded to their quest for justice. He and the minister concerned were said to be in London representing the country in an international conference. For how long, only God knew. And with this absurd patriotism, I highly doubt whether they actually attend those conferences. It was not funny when an important delegate was reported absent from a commonwealth summit only to be sighted busy on the streets of Berlin shopping for the best teddy bears to bring home for the sons and daughters. This was the breed of leaders whose main preoccupation was to increase the inequality gap, in which, we have undisputedly beaten the whole world.

Goodness! The fellows just did not give a damn. After all, what one needed were two trucks of maize flour on the last day of campaigns to secure an overwhelming win in his constituency. God forbid, but these crude opportunists knew very well who they were representing. Long gone were the leaders who could partner with the common man to solve his problems, and no wonder our rare examples of Mandela, Nyerere and Nkrumah date decades back. The contract between the electorate and the elected had for all purposes and intents been long breached. And sorry to say, the mechanisms and channels of redress put in place simply colour and fill our books of the so-called law. Chances of change by the vote were also doomed, not when most of the previous leaders desperately sought to retain their positions amidst our illiterate population enslaved in a tradition of pleasing the political elite.

Vanaya eventually filed her documents and joined the rest for the morning tea break. It was as she poured some coffee into a cup that an anonymous call came through her mobile phone, one that her instincts kept on pushing her not to receive. In a rare act of defiance, Vanaya pressed the green button and said, ‘Hello!’ The caller, though composed, did not bother with the niceties and directly went on to deliver his brief message. ‘I note that you are a young girl with a promising future but it has come to my attention that you have regrettably decided to indulge yourself into deadly business, particularly the already bloody Hansen Corey land dispute. May this call serve as a warning to you to keep off the row before the system takes you out,’ the caller said in a deep voice and hung up. This menacing message came at the eleventh hour, only a weekend to the hearing. Vanaya reticently put her hands as if in prayer and sat back to absorb the shock. It was one of those dramatic mornings that are always a prelude to something not so appealing.

CHAPTER THREE

T HE SATURDAY MORNING SUNLIGHT had brightly illuminated the office. Fred, the senior partner, had just come in and did not seem in a hurry to announce his presence as he usually did. He was impatiently tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair as he seemingly thought something up in his subconscious. He always had an aura of composure and everybody assumed that behind those bright eyes was a fine brain. Being the firm’s managing partner, the image was necessary. Viola, a law student undertaking her internship at the firm, had her papers from her briefcase spread all over her desk. Vanaya had by now noticed the plateful of donuts on the secretary’s desk but did not bother. ‘I am sorry I took long,’ Viola said as she handed over some documents to Vanaya. She was essentially helping her with the research work on the land case and thereby took her time to explain a few elements. After a brief discussion, Viola excused herself for a minute during which time Vanaya gathered herself.

The entire block was virtually quiet when Fred stood and went about to pour himself a cup of coffee at the front office. Within no time, he came back and locked himself up in his small administrative office where he usually preferred spending his time alone. Vanaya turned her seat and peeped through the transparent window, only to find Fred all eyes on her. He had not had a chance to say a word to her that morning, so he winked at her. She however felt uncomfortable under his intense gaze and averted her glance.

Suddenly, the digital clock on the far wall close to the door beeped. It was mid day. Fred nervously stood, opened the door, and walked towards Vanaya. He leaned on her desk, glanced at her and was about to say something, but didn’t. He let a second or two go by, then asked, ‘Have they called you?’ The question, taken together with the preceding events, was so clear that Vanaya did not doubt its apocalyptic genesis. ‘Just before you came in,’ she answered. She looked at Fred with renewed interest, as if they were in an interrogation room, and it was clear from the look on his face that he had long given up on the case.

‘We are dealing with an exceptional opponent, Vanaya, big men well connected to trace our cell phone numbers. I am not ready to jeopardise our lives and business for fame, not this far,’ Fred whispered. Vanaya could not believe what she had just heard and desperately shook her head. ‘What do you mean and who the hell are big men?’ she asked, wearing that crinkled face suggesting total irritation. Fred looked around the office and noticed that they were attracting unnecessary attention. He therefore silently turned around and stared at the great view of the city through the window behind Vanaya’s back, posing as if he was running through some options in his mind. Vanaya could not stand the shock and quickly stood, thereby giving Fred a piece of her mind in a low tone. She then flipped her car keys from her drawer, picked her bag, and left.

Aisha and Mwanahamisi, Vanaya’s housekeepers, had reported back to work after a short break. Vanaya walked into the sitting room and fell back exhausted on her sofa but she could not close her eyes. She lay there for half an hour in the grip of such anguish, such an intolerable feeling of limitless terror, as she had never before experienced. Suddenly, a bright light illuminated the room; Wambua had come in with a bowl of muteta soup. He looked at her, and seeing that she was not asleep, put the bowl on the table and began to set out the things he had brought: boiled sweet potatoes, salt and a spoon.

‘Why don’t you say something?’ he asked at last hesitantly, in a weak voice. Vanaya stood and went to the table, picked up a small pink file, opened it, and took out from between two pages a small coloured photograph. It was a picture of her clients, a group of young and old men and women, who had become refugees in their own country courtesy of a possibly ghost private developer. She gazed at the innocent, delicate little faces, shook her head, and gave the picture to Wambua. ‘They are spending days and nights in the cold, probably without food, and their hope rests on the shoulders of a woman who is now battling a siege mentality,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘What is this all about? Have you been threatened?’ Wambua asked curiously. Vanaya had liked Wambua since he was employed at Royale Enterprises eighteen years ago. He was her father’s best employee; loyal, respectful, and above all, clever. His great sense of judgement always reminded her of an incident when gangsters ambushed their car just a few metres away from their Karen residence. Had it not been for the bulletproof thing and his skilful driving, they would have all been locked up somewhere, probably six feet below the ground.

‘Someone called me this morning, threatening to take my life if I do not let go of the land case. Fred alleges the same thing and has already withdrawn. Money sounds to be an issue too,’ Vanaya recited and pitifully shook her head. ‘All along Fred knew that you were helping these people, why the sudden change of mind at the very last minute?’ Wambua asked suspiciously. The two remained in silence for a few seconds after which Wambua added, ‘Could Fred have met these guys and made a deal?’ At the close of that question, Vanaya turned with fright and stared at Wambua, gave him that look of ‘how could you think of that’, and then clasped her hands as if in prayer. She thought for a second or two and then said, ‘Possible but not probable.’ She had never been in a situation where she could not trust the people she was working with. It would be a real challenge learning to smell for rats and listen to what is not said. All along she had not suspected that Fred would blackmail her, perhaps partly because their relationship was not just the workmates thing. They had actually liked each other. Fred was in fact the person who had introduced Jim to Vanaya. They were good friends despite some normal misunderstandings occasioned by differences of opinion, gender, age, background, and probably blood type. God knows what else. That’s a long story.

Within no time, Aisha knocked on the door and came in to invite her guests for lunch at the patio adjacent to the swimming pool. It was then that the fax machine beeped. ‘These people have my fax number too! Goodness!’ Vanaya exclaimed as Wambua checked the message. ‘Relax, ma’am, this is Fred,’ Wambua said as he handed her the fax. Vanaya had a problem being referred to that way but then she had learnt to live with the unsolicited honour. The ‘title’ had stuck in her employees subconscious minds long ago than she could possibly erase. The fax message was an apology from Fred for what had transpired that morning. He also sought an urgent meeting with Vanaya to sort out some unspecified things. After a quick thought, Vanaya picked her handbag and followed Wambua to the patio.

The meal was indeed delicious though Vanaya was not up to her best appetite. This was of course not one of her usual good days. She scrolled down her phonebook as she pecked on her food until she got Fred’s cell phone number and called, thereby inviting him over to her house. By then, Wambua was already on his third course, a nice blend of ice cream flavours. Soon after Vanaya hung up, the much celebrated chauffer changed the topic and said, ‘Mrs. Parker finally woke up, though she is still nonresponsive.’

In what was a show of delight and relief, Vanaya looked up into the sky as if to pray and then sorrowfully said, ‘How I wish she was here.’ Mrs. Parker was her best friend and mentor, always had something to say whenever things did not seem right. ‘I would have liked to hear her take on all these,’ Vanaya said while pointing at the fax. She let a few seconds pass as she munched her food and then said, ‘By the way, Dad will be coming home tomorrow evening. He will be here for a month or less. You better get prepared.’

It was approaching 2:30 p.m. when the gate bell rang. ‘That must be Fred,’ Vanaya guessed. Wambua in response hurriedly stood and went on to press the gate switch. The magnificently designed two-door gate electronically opened, thereby exposing Fred’s red Golf. He drove in, parked close to the garage, and jumped out. Wambua showed him in and immediately after excused himself to polish the cars.

The expression of discomfort on Fred’s face was instantly clear as he sat. Almost immediately, Vanaya asked him if he would like something to drink, which he politely declined. The two warmly chat and gossiped for a while as Vanaya drained her glass of Duque rum, though they both could feel some tension roam around their table. All through, Fred did not appear his usual self, but nevertheless, Vanaya thought it wise not to question. She knew that flies are easier caught with honey than with vinegar. At some point, Fred glanced at her to see if he had her attention, which he most certainly did not, and then impatiently said, ‘I have a confession to make.’ All of a sudden, the pretty one raised her eyes and ears at once. Sometimes a word or a phrase comes up in a conversation, and it becomes something to think about. ‘These guys offered me ten million shillings to drop the case. I almost considered it but…’

Almost spontaneously, Vanaya fell back on her seat startled and actually held her forehead in disbelief. ‘But what Fred?’ she asked, sounding very agitated. Fred calmly explained the financial crisis he was in and apologetically called for forgiveness. And being who she was, Vanaya sympathetically softened her stand and indeed offered a listening ear. Of course, Fred’s theory did not justify his actions though Vanaya found it arguable that his situation may have well torn him apart. The fellow was