white girl – existed in the outside world. When he was in that world, he was visiting and he behaved accordingly. He did not carry his bad dreams and conscience into it. But sometimes those from his world went to the outside world and did terrible things. And when he came across them, or they crossed back into his world, there were no rules, and there was no law. There was a duality to him that was so complete that he moved between the two worlds seamlessly.
‘Come on, Ishmael, we have to go,’ O said gently as smoke started to fill the room. ‘He was supposed to have died a long time ago.’
But even as O turned to leave I fell to my knees and threw up. Having narrowly escaped being killed twice in the three short days I had been in Nairobi, I had wondered whether I was becoming blasé about the taking of a human life, but obviously a little piece of my conscience was still alive and well in this fucked-up place. I understood that in O’s world justice was long overdue, but that didn’t stop me from pitying the old man – there was something pitiable in him and perhaps, forthat reason alone, we should have let him live.
We heard a loud explosion as we finally made our way out of Lord Thompson’s room, and following the noise we soon found ourselves in what turned out to be a massive sitting room. The Africans who worked for Thompson had, using God knows what, blown up the wall safe and dollar bills and pound notes were floating in the air. I understood. They had to get what they could that night. Sure, the old white man was dead, but it wouldn’t be long before some rich African bastard ended up with the farm, and then they would be right back where they started. It was the way of the world everywhere.
‘Let us pay Samuel Alexander a visit,’ O said as we made our way out of Lord Thompson’s mansion.
I watched the fire spread through the house as O called the station on the Land Rover’s radio. A few minutes later someone called back with an address.
‘What if the old man had more for us?’ I finally asked.
‘He didn’t,’ O said confidently.
‘How the fuck do you know?’
‘People like him have no loyalties … they protect nothing … would not die for anything. If he had something more, he would have spilled his guts,’ O reasoned calmly, ignoring my tone. ‘And, anyway, we got what we came for. We are making progress, no?’ he asked sounding a little like Joshua.
I felt too exhausted to question his logic or interrogate what he was calling progress.
‘Ishmael, we are bad people too,’ O said as he started theLand Rover. ‘The only difference is that we fight on the side of the good. I hope you have no illusions about that.’
Samuel Alexander, no surprises, lived in Muthaiga. We went through several heavily fortified gates before we got to his house, which itself was surrounded by a high wall topped with razor wire and broken glass. ‘This place is like a prison,’ I said to O as we rang the doorbell.
Seeing a flicker behind the peephole, O showed his badge, explaining we were on urgent police business and we wanted to ask the boss a few routine questions. The man behind the door then asked that we slip both our badges under the door, which we did. Finally, he opened up – revealing himself to be an elderly African with a dignified face – and invited us into the house. He led us to the sitting room and told us to wait there while he ascertained whether Samuel was home.
The man returned to say that his boss wasn’t answering his knock. Did he check the bedroom? He said no, he had just knocked. Was he sure Samuel Alexander was in? No, he wasn’t sure, sometimes he came home late. He started to protest as we made our way to the first floor, but O just pushed him aside.
O knocked on what we guessed to be the bedroom. There was no answer. He tried the door and it opened. The bed was empty.
O drew his weapon and I did the same. The housekeeper, who had followed us up, backed
‘Come on, Ishmael, we have to go,’ O said gently as smoke started to fill the room. ‘He was supposed to have died a long time ago.’
But even as O turned to leave I fell to my knees and threw up. Having narrowly escaped being killed twice in the three short days I had been in Nairobi, I had wondered whether I was becoming blasé about the taking of a human life, but obviously a little piece of my conscience was still alive and well in this fucked-up place. I understood that in O’s world justice was long overdue, but that didn’t stop me from pitying the old man – there was something pitiable in him and perhaps, forthat reason alone, we should have let him live.
We heard a loud explosion as we finally made our way out of Lord Thompson’s room, and following the noise we soon found ourselves in what turned out to be a massive sitting room. The Africans who worked for Thompson had, using God knows what, blown up the wall safe and dollar bills and pound notes were floating in the air. I understood. They had to get what they could that night. Sure, the old white man was dead, but it wouldn’t be long before some rich African bastard ended up with the farm, and then they would be right back where they started. It was the way of the world everywhere.
‘Let us pay Samuel Alexander a visit,’ O said as we made our way out of Lord Thompson’s mansion.
I watched the fire spread through the house as O called the station on the Land Rover’s radio. A few minutes later someone called back with an address.
‘What if the old man had more for us?’ I finally asked.
‘He didn’t,’ O said confidently.
‘How the fuck do you know?’
‘People like him have no loyalties … they protect nothing … would not die for anything. If he had something more, he would have spilled his guts,’ O reasoned calmly, ignoring my tone. ‘And, anyway, we got what we came for. We are making progress, no?’ he asked sounding a little like Joshua.
I felt too exhausted to question his logic or interrogate what he was calling progress.
‘Ishmael, we are bad people too,’ O said as he started theLand Rover. ‘The only difference is that we fight on the side of the good. I hope you have no illusions about that.’
Samuel Alexander, no surprises, lived in Muthaiga. We went through several heavily fortified gates before we got to his house, which itself was surrounded by a high wall topped with razor wire and broken glass. ‘This place is like a prison,’ I said to O as we rang the doorbell.
Seeing a flicker behind the peephole, O showed his badge, explaining we were on urgent police business and we wanted to ask the boss a few routine questions. The man behind the door then asked that we slip both our badges under the door, which we did. Finally, he opened up – revealing himself to be an elderly African with a dignified face – and invited us into the house. He led us to the sitting room and told us to wait there while he ascertained whether Samuel was home.
The man returned to say that his boss wasn’t answering his knock. Did he check the bedroom? He said no, he had just knocked. Was he sure Samuel Alexander was in? No, he wasn’t sure, sometimes he came home late. He started to protest as we made our way to the first floor, but O just pushed him aside.
O knocked on what we guessed to be the bedroom. There was no answer. He tried the door and it opened. The bed was empty.
O drew his weapon and I did the same. The housekeeper, who had followed us up, backed