Yvonne Owuor - Dust

“Should he have?”

“Sit down.… Tea?”

Tea, the national balm of Gilead . She sits. “Your neck?” She watches his face.

“Some stupid jamas tried to jack me. I was lucky. Cops twanga-ed them.”

Ajany studies the floor, biting inner lips.

Musali looks away, tea in hand; he says, “Odi, man. I’ll tell you.”

Silence.

“That jama , man, AJ, everything black and white for him. Shit , look, I feel bad. Y’know, we started this thing together. After campo.” He glances over his shoulder.

“Where’s my brother?”

“Don’t know, man.”

“Your friend?”

“Long ago.”

“What, friendship?”

Musali sighs. “There was a deal.”

A time in the life of Kenya when the long and short rains failed. El Niño. Odidi had chased after a contract for the repair of the nation’s dams. He had lobbied, argued, and dazzled. Their company, Tich Lich Engineers, had won the contract with the power company. A two-hundred-and-seventy-five-million-shilling job.

They had “made it.” Doing what they loved, designing with water. They had signed the bottom line, signed nondisclosure agreements — part of the procedure. Dated everything. Received a quarter of the money. Bought guzzling cars and started to dredge the dams. One day, they were summoned for an urgent meeting. They waited in the boardroom for half an hour until a senior magistrate came in.

They were given a paragraph to recite. An oath of secrecy, subject to the Official Secrecy Act. A man in the proverbial black suit witnessed it all. A week later, Odidi, as chief engineer, received top-secret instructions to silt the dams. Contract to “service the turbines”—in other words, render them incapable of delivering power to the public.

At the same time, news of the sudden flooding of the lower reaches of the Tana River. Traveling to the dam site, they found the dam gates opened.

“We knew what was happening. Told that jama to back down and shut up. Why be martyrs, man?”

Odidi had insisted on talking to the managing director, who was in another meeting. Odidi had left a note, setting out what he had seen and asking for an explanation.

“Who did he think he was? It wasn’t rugby, y’know?”

A few days later, the managing director was on national television, showing journalists how low the levels of water in the dam had fallen. In sorrowful tones he announced an imminent power-shortage emergency and the enforcement of a power-rationing plan. As if by coincidence, obsolete diesel generators from Europe and Asia happened to be aboard cargo ships on their way to Kenya. They would take care of the shortfall in power at 3,000 percent above the usual cost. A company to administer the supply of power from these generators had already been registered. Tich Lich had been contracted to install and service the equipment.

Odidi barged into the minister of energy’s offices the next day.

“Something’s wrong,” he shouted.

Musali smiles as he remembers.

“The minister listened, then said, ‘put it in writing.’ ”

So Odidi wrote a letter to the minister headed Acts of Treason Against the People and Nation of Kenya , backed with data and evidence, dates and figures.

When there was no response from the minister’s office, he circulated it to the dailies. It was not published. Musali grimaces when he recalls Odidi rushing to record a statement with the police. “He even wanted to see the president.” He wipes his eyes.

A minor functionary told Odidi to record another statement, and as he did so, more diesel generators were brought into the country. Tax-free. To cope with the national emergency caused by the power shortages.

“We were offered five percent of profits for ten years, y’know?” Musali says. “Odidi called a board meeting to demand that we resign the job and expose everything.”

Musali sips his tea. “I told him, ‘We have to survive. This thing of mahonour ama patriotism, man — you must be practical. Mortgages, mbesha . Y’know?” Musali rubs the edge of his bandages.

“This was big. Really big. When you see something like this, man, you say yes or you die, y’know?”

Ajany reads in Musali’s shiftiness the extent of her brother’s isolation.

“What happened?”

“We voted.”

“And?”

“Opted to stay with the job. Odi took it badly, man.” Musali leans over. “Went crazy!”

Ajany flinches.

Odidi broke into the office of the managing director, having driven through the company gates in his new green Prado. He shouted that this was treason. Everyone who gathered to hear him watched and did nothing. The managing director’s bodyguards hustled Odidi out, tearing his shirt in the process. In an hour’s time, a board meeting was called.

“The chairman called for a vote. We voted out Odidi.” Silence. “He was being difficult. Wouldn’t listen. We’re talking billions, man. Y’know?” Musali pushes out his lower lip.

Tich Lich’s partners received instructions to reregister the company under a different name if they still wanted the contract. Within two hours, an oily Ivy League university — graduated lawyer who represented the establishment personalities turned up with relevant documents extracted from his brown, black, and gold python-leather case. As they looked through the documents, the lawyer played classical music from a small device, hummed musical phrases, and witnessed the signing of the company reregistration documents.

“That man,” Musali says, giggling. “Insane! After we sign, he speaks mara Beethoven mara Heili-Heiligenstadt Testament. Imagine.” Musali adds that he had looked up the testament and learned to say Heiligenstadt properly.

Tich Lich was renamed T. L. Associates Engineering.

Odidi was no longer a partner.

Ajany’s whole body has been shivering; her teeth chatter.

Musali touches her shoulder.

Ajany shrugs his hand away, ducking her head.

Musali asks, “Which Kenya did Odi grow up in? That jama could be so, so, so stupid, y’know?” Ajany hisses. “Sorry, man, just that, you know …” Musali shrugs, a practical man.

When he showed up for work, it was Musali who told Odidi what they had done.

“Tough day, that.” Musali shivers at the memory of Odidi’s look.

He had told Odidi to leave the premises. Urged him to take a break until the contract was serviced. Promised him that when it was over Tich Lich would return. “You know what he said?”

Ajany glances up.

“Nothing.”

Musali stares at the carpet.

“He just left.”

Ajany asks, “Where’s my b-brother, Musali?”

Silence. Then, “Don’t know.” Adds, “Lost touch.” A tinge of malice. “Heard he’d been moving from office to office with a petition form for citizens to sign.”

Musali stops short of revealing to Ajany that Odidi had once been spotted speaking on street corners. Cannot tell her that, seven months after he had walked away from the offices, Odidi had phoned Musali for money and a place to stay. The bank had all of a sudden recalled his mortgage and had then thrown him out with his things. They were auctioning the house. No lawyer would take up the case against the state. Odidi was threatened, followed, summoned, booked for loitering with intent. Some NGOs he visited made the right sympathetic noise but emphasized to him that AIDS, women, malaria, girl children, and boreholes were priorities.

Musali gives Ajany a direct look. She sees the cold glimmer of a green mamba’s stare. “We silted the dams. No choice. We have our money.”

National power shortages worsened.

Companies closed down.