Mombasa Raha, My Foot: Mombasa Raha, My Foot, #1

By Haroun Risa

All it took was Ruth Adhiambo-Khan's discovery of her sister's body outside her doorstep, with a missing organ, for her to make a decision.

 

A decision that introduced her to a shocking world that continued unnoticed along the Indian Ocean.

A decision that changed the lives of a group of university students who thought they had won an all-expense paid vacation in the Kenyan Coast.

 

A decision that changed everything about the tourism industry in Kenya, and revealed the most haunting of reasons why Mombasa is now a source of human trafficking and sex tourism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haroun Risa
• Release date: May 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201120207

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Superdesk A (Ruth’s office)... Present Day.

Five weeks after Catherine’s burial...

Concentration wasn’t a problem to Ruth, but several things in Catherine’s diary did not sink in. Grief had overpowered her for the four weeks after September 20, the day Inspector Raju knocked on her door.

Ruth was someone who did her best in withholding many things, but the moment curiosity got the best of her, she was one who couldn't ignore its strong pull. In this case, the strong pull came from a black A4 book she had discovered as a result of the most tragic of events.

Her sister’s death.

As the funeral continued in the fifth week, she was reminded once more how in African funerals, allegiances between family members were made afresh amid hypocritical proclaiming of love and appreciation.

Funerals were among African events where family members from distant livelihoods arrived in their wagons, and in their quest to be accepted would show everyone how successful they became despite different ideologies which forged and tore apart; in the process, deals were discussed and made as the loved ones of the deceased braved the podium to say a few.

The greed she had encountered in ‘tenderpreneurship’ Kenyans mirrored the majority of her family members...particularly after they had lost the battle to grab Ruth’s father’s house after his death.

Ruth always knew she was her own nurturing parent around her family...but she hadn’t realized Catherine felt glimpses of the same issue in her endeavours.

As Catherine was lowered six feet under, a few family members cried bitterly...something which made Ruth remember how strong regret was.

She was among the last family members who looked at the grave for one last time, and in Ruth’s case, she felt determination rising from within.

Determination to find out why such a bad omen had to strike right at her doorstep...

I will find everyone who did this to you... said Ruth out loud. I don’t care if it means I join you down there.

***

Ruth stared at the black A4 notebook again. She couldn’t hold herself back any longer, and for the first time, she opened it.

She flipped through the pages and traced her fingers along the lines etched with Catherine’s meticulous penmanship. It was obvious several pages were ripped from the book, but this was no doubt her sister’s handwriting.

A home truly is a feeling, not a building ...

The recurring quote which echoed in Ruth’s mind since opening the diary; a quote she realized Catherine strongly believed in her whole life, alongside beliefs which made her be the sibling who got cut from a different cloth, physically as well.

The sentence which gave Ruth a disquieting feeling which couldn’t be clearly explained, until the memory of kicking out Catherine from her father’s house came back, giving her chills up her spine.

Her tears, which for some time she just kept shedding, were the inevitable guilty response she couldn’t stop bursting from within herself, and started to realize how prolific she shockingly was.

Anyone who was in a Superdesk was always called to deal with the unexpected.

Catherine had linguistic gifts which surprised Ruth to the core, but she felt Catherine wasted her skills since the one catalyst which completely turned Ruth’s life purpose around came from such linguistic gifts.

Catherine was among the young women who didn’t just discover her passion for modelling but made sure she lived her life having walked a few runways, notwithstanding living lies occasionally.

She never knew how Catherine felt about matters at home, but the feeling about never belonging was always felt, only she got to feel it longer than Catherine.

Ruth flipped the page, and found a strange diary entry with no date, after a ripped page, which read:

ISIOLO,

NORTH EASTERN PROVINCE, KENYA.

WEEKS AFTER MEETING SUSAN IN NAIROBI...

...I looked around, and realized I was in exceedingly deep problems...

What on earth was this girl doing in North Eastern?! blurted out Ruth, asking herself.

"...I had been placed on the truck floor, among many other Kenyan girls; a few looked underage, mouths covered like mine.

They were all unwilling passengers in a commercial truck which was going to a location the driver and God alone knew.

Many of the girls’ clothes had traces of blood, and just like one girl next to me, many had salty traces of tears along their faces. Those traces of tears were more than enough for any observant onlooker to know deaf ears listened to temporary sexual cravings more than the cries of those girls.

Thankfully, I didn’t see any trace of blood on her trousers, and no part of her trousers were ripped, though I knew it was going to be a short-lived moment of relief, based on how fast and strong the excitement for temporary craving spread.

There was a silence I couldn’t explain as the truck came to a stop, but I too felt the tense feeling of never knowing what was coming next.

A door was abruptly opened, breaking the silence, and three Al-Shabaab operatives climbed into the truck, with ski-masks on their faces and the trademark AK-47 rifles hanging in front of them.

Two were standing guard outside, but weren’t as focused because they simply cared about the lust boiling from within, making their ears deafer.

As the three took off their rifles and handed them over to the two standing outside, once again, we all felt the repercussions of their strong, animalistic but temporary craving..."

***

Ruth stopped reading. She brushed strands of her dreadlocks from her face.

Her long fingers had begun trembling again.

A glance at her laptop time was enough for tears to flood her eyes again.

No...not again...

She quickly closed her laptop...not wanting to see the website again.

Not after overcoming this.

***

October 2019. Two years before Catherine’s death...

Who would have ever thought..., said Catherine. She placed her phone on the dusty dining table and tapped Ruth’s shoulder twice.

Ruth’s eyelids fluttered. Who would have ever thought what? she muttered, lying on the couch with her right arm dangling to the floor.

You’re a shittier daughter than I turned out to be, said Catherine, looking at the alcohol bottles before switching off the TV.

Shut up, Catherine, said Ruth, covering her eyes with her forearm. Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be with your sponsors in your Bedminton sessions, screwing each other till morning?

Well, at least with me, I get to enjoy it more than you ever will, said Catherine, opening another curtain. Besides, how would you be a parent when the way you live is worse than the way you think?

Yeah, but at least I didn’t give up on Dad’s legacy! blurted out Ruth.

And here we go again... said Catherine.

Catherine had to point to the alcohol bottles for Ruth to see her reflection in one of them. It was a reflection which made her realize she was truly slipping away...

Too bad I’m going to be the reporter now, and tell our relatives about how you drink more than the uncles we have, said Catherine, walking to the back.

A wave of disappointment coursed through Ruth for a moment, carrying with it a realization her dreams and goals were slipping away through the escape of the bottle.

Now, the family members never saw how much Ruth’s skinny hands used to tremble after 5p.m, which explained why she always wore something to cover herself up, no matter what kind of heat surrounded all.

Catherine, however, thanks to having friends who lived their lives being more alcohol-dependent than Ruth, saw through the attempted cover-up. She didn’t look back at her as she walked towards the front door, carrying a backpack.

So where are you going this time?

Somewhere more fulfilling... said Catherine as she opened the door. Where booze tastes better, too.

The painful reality kept echoing within her, with every turn of the lock...

...if they find out about this, they will grab this house...

Ruth, being the strong-willed woman she was, slowly began rehabilitating herself, and focusing more on her journalism pursuit despite her slightly yellowing eyeballs, a physical reminder of her expiry date on its way, and a reminder of tenacity no family member ever possessed, in particular, Catherine.

Ruth’s self-rehabilitation included maintaining their late father’s legacy, which was in the form of the house which would have been grabbed long ago, had she not changed the locks. Her father always felt no stranger should possess what belonged to his family, so as Ruth acted quickly, she also had to be the sole caretaker of the house.

These were among the actions which made Ruth sober up...until when a bad omen came knocking on her doorstep on September, forcing her to take her first bottle since quitting.

But as Ruth sat looking down, she could feel the slight tremble...and as she looked down at her laptop, she knew she now had to make the most difficult of choices with the minuscule amount of time she believed she had left on Earth.

One of them, was to accept she could not afford a liver transplant...if there was any.

CHAPTER 2

September 2020.

Mombasa, Kenya

...It still hurts, said one girl to another.

Shut up! the other replied, crouching down on a small bucket.

You can't be serious, said another.

Do you see any latrines in this stuffy container? She retorted in Marathi. Be grateful you're far away from Mumbai in the first place!

Let's not forget whose fault it is we are miles away from home, responded the first girl in Marathi.

Oh, so you’d rather be where you are the one to pay dowry? the crouching girl answered back.

Leave her, Deepika. She's naïve. She'll learn, said another girl who was biting her nails.

Deepika, the girl who was crouching, finished her business and closed the bucket lid, extracting a small jar of hand sanitizer from between her breasts.

The forklift driver hopped out the truck, handing a briefcase to a tall, slim man who wasted no time opening the briefcase and inspecting the files.

It’s not my job to ensure everything’s there. I just deliver. the driver replied.

That’s good to know, the man said, as he stacked one-thousand-shilling notes into the briefcase. Everything better be there, delivery guy. The man said, handing the briefcase back to the driver.

***

The forklift driver climbed into the truck and tossed the briefcase in the back. One more delivery, he sighed and fumbled for his keys. What the... he yelped before a rag was forcefully stuffed down his mouth and jammed down his throat by two hands wearing gloves. The driver gagged in pain as he inhaled the fumes of chloroform, swallowing its lethal liquid as the key fell into a cup holder.

With every attempt to resist, every breath he took failed to be oxygen.

A few moments later, two Indian men briskly walked to the truck and entered it, one of them engaging the truck’s second gear.

It then got waved off by a distracted port official, as it continued its journey.

***

The game show’s going on...thought the port official, reaching for a bottle of water.

Great, he mumbled as the bottle fell over.

Before he grabbed the bottle, a realization made him look up.

Hey...the forklift is gone.

He stood up straight and looked on to the left, ignoring both the bottle and the game show presenter’s usual greeting, Who’s Smarter...

Now, he said out loud to himself, looking at a pair of feet lying out on the tarmac. What is this one doing here?

Another weirdo thinks this place can double up as a hotel. Again... he thought.

He walked over to where the feet were, but stopped in his tracks abruptly.

Looking at what he thought was one person, he now found himself staring at two unconscious bodies.

Isn’t this Jared? He thought, looking at the feet of the original forklift driver.

Wait... The last truck ...

Oh, no... he said to himself as he quickly dialled a number.

Madame, we have a colossal problem, he said.

CHAPTER 3

18 November 2021.

I told you, there was no such thing in the Indian Ocean, said Saul.

How would you know? Maybe one does exist, but with a different name, said Paul.

A black Subaru Forester stopped nearby the tour Land Cruiser, and switched off its lights.

Ruth and Bernard, the young man famously known as BMW in the underworld, stepped out and walked to two investigative journalists, Paul and a short-haired colleague called Saul, who were both leaning on the Land Cruiser bonnet, chatting.

If a super-yacht did exist, don’t you think you’d have seen selfies of people aboard it, in particular a government official? said Saul.

Gentlemen, My name’s Ruth and BMW here has been secretly working with me, said Ruth, interrupting everyone.

Nice bracelets, said Saul, looking at BMW’s hands.

Paul turned to Saul and said, pointing at Ingrid’s face, You see this woman here? This woman, in 2004, became the CEO of the beach resorts I worked in as a driver, but the grapevine always mentioned one story. A story I’m sure BMW knows about, too.

BMW nodded.

The rumour mills were always saying one thing, said Ruth.  Madame Ingrid Orchardson-Yusuf was married to Feliciano Kaluga, who had undergone some plastic surgery since Interpol started looking for him. Thanks to his ill-gotten wealth he had gotten significant support from associates who made sure he had lied low when the genocide ended.

Everyone who has worked in any Orchardson-Yusuf hotel branch can tell you why the CEO’s husband was rarely seen in public, said BMW. But it also explained why Madame Ingrid Orchardson-Yusuf occasionally took these strange ‘business trips’ abroad. She was helping Feliciano Kaluga to spend time with the few relatives who managed to get out of Rwanda before 1994.

And also, why do you think Madame Ingrid Orchardson-Yusuf never talked publicly about her marriage or relationships, something the legendary Taarab musician, Bi Kijembe, almost blew the lid on during a Taarab concert? said Ruth. Bi Kijembe knew the truth, but never lived long enough to expose it.

Doesn’t it strike anyone as odd, a few months after Madame Ingrid gets arrested, Bi Kijembe ends up dead? said Paul.

For a brief moment, no one spoke; Saul bit his nail as everyone was lost in their own thoughts, reflecting on Bi Kijembe’s death, after Ruth’s expose.

BMW wrote something on a piece of paper before he handed it to Paul, saying, This is Meshach’s phone number. Wait till all this chaos is over before you start calling him. His attitude has kind of changed now.

Changed? What do you mean? asked Paul.

With Meshach, being unreasonable and emotional is the tip of the iceberg, replied BMW.

Paul nodded, saying, Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll make sure I remind him of my previous identity. He’ll remember me.

Let me guess... Jack, said BMW, making Paul smile at his former name.

CHAPTER 4

20 September 2020 - Mumbai, India.

It is time! said the petite, elderly woman in Marathi, excitedly pulling out passports from a manila envelope. The girls stopped their choreographed dance number and rushed to the woman.

Finally, we can have a life away from here! said one girl, staring wide-eyed at the Kenyan tourist visa stamped on her passport.

I'll get a car of my own just like Deepika, said another girl.

Now we can pay dowry for ourselves, said a third girl. 

Pay dowry? I won't! said the first girl. There are Indians in Kenya, whoever will be lucky to make me say yes is the one to pay.

I hate the fact girls are the one to pay dowry here, added the second girl. And most times the boy's family ask for expensive things. Things they know for sure we can't afford.

In Kenya we will have a new life, said the first girl. Then we will come back to Mumbai and help our parents.

I'll build Mama a better house, and take my younger brother to college, said the second girl.

As the girls shared in the excitement, the old lady silently walked out to a payphone, making sure she has not been spotted by the ecstatic girls as she dialled a number written on a notepad.

They are ready, she said in Marathi. Yes, sir. I have their tickets.

After a brief