Yvonne Owuor - Dust

A soft whistle from Ali Dida Hada.

Walahi! That was how Nyipir was doing it. In plain sight. Livestock standing on boxes. And inside the boxes …

A livestock train had approached. From what he could see, five men drove them. Ali Dida Hada moved behind a tree. Just when they would have passed him, he got up, raised a hand, and hailed them.

“Keifilhal?”

“Alhamdulillah.”

“Your family is well?”

“They are well.”

“And the animals?”

“They are well.”

“And you?”

“Masha’llah.”

“Alhamdulillah.”

Silence.

“And what blessings do you carry?” Ali Dida Hada asked, moving forward, and bringing his rifle forward, a finger on the trigger.

“Small things. Why anger? You can see livestock, dates, coffee, okra, khat, amber.…”

“You are here?” Nyipir said as he approached Ali Dida Hada’s flank.

“I’m here.”

“The house?”

“In order.”

“Its people.”

“Are well.”

A direct look. “I see,” said Nyipir, sweat beading his upper lip. “You are on your way to someplace?”

“In a sense.”

Ali Dida Hada moved abruptly, a gesture directed at a camel and the cargo on its back. The camel spun, the bundle dropped. A box crashed to the hard ground. The spooked camel bolted. Others tried to follow. The camel keepers ran after the animals. The box’s lid slipped off, and the butt of a rifle peeped out. Inside the date boxes and salt caches were self-loading pistols, assault rifles, submachine guns, AK-47s, an assortment of G3s, bullets, and two rocket launchers in long cases.

Just as he had thought. “Don’t move,” Ali Dida Hada ordered, covering Nyipir with his rifle.

A rumble from Nyipir: “How will you catch me?”

“Don’t move,” repeated Ali Dida Hada.

“And I … I’ll go peacefully with you?” Nyipir had scorned.

Ali Dida Hada pointed the gun at Nyipir’s head.

“What do you want?” Nyipir stretched out his arms.

“We’ll charge you with waging a war against the people of Kenya, treason, engaging in activities that jeopardize the lives of citizens, conspiracy to murder …” recited Ali Dida Hada.

“So many terrible words to describe this simple trade?” Nyipir sighed.

“Consorting with the enemies of Kenya …”

Nyipir said, “I wondered if you were Special Branch.”

Ali Dida Hada’s eyes were narrowed; his finger rested on the trigger.

Nyipir said, “How far do you think you’ll go with these men behind you — each one a partner in this trade? How far can you run before you die?”

Ali Dida Hada had thought of this.

He asked, “What do we do about it?”

“You let me go.”

“Maybe.”

“Tell me your real name.”

“Why?”

Nyipir lowered his hands. “To welcome a business partner, there must be, at least, an exchange of names.”

Silence.

“A quarter of profits, shares in all trading,” proposed Nyipir. “And you do your part.”

“What?”

“Look everywhere but where we are. We trade in information, too.”

Ali Dida Hada lowered the rifle.

Nyipir said, “To start … twenty thousand shillings. Goodwill.”

Ali Dida Hada took a deep breath.

“Cash,” explained Nyipir. Added a non sequitur, “Livestock bring profits in Zaire.”

Wind-borne silences seeped into sands, hills, and scrub. The sun took its time shortening and then lengthening shadows. Ali Dida Hada’s silhouette shifted and twisted under the light. He inhaled the northern-frontier essence, the breath of camels, its many promises. He asked Nyipir, “Where were you taking these?”

“To friends.” Nyipir leaned over to pick up a strand of dry grass to chew on.

“Where?”

Nyipir paused. “Sele Bedirru.”

Ali Dida Hada lowered his rifle. “You need an escort?” It was why he was there.

An alliance among scorpions , thought Ali Dida Hada then. Watching for an unguarded moment when one might sting the other to death. But from then on, Ali Dida Hada warned Nyipir about impending military ambushes. He also misdirected government informers, restructured their messages when he dispatched these to headquarters, and provided cover for unregistered consignments.

These activities took precedence over his halfhearted search for Hugh Bolton, which he did continue. There seemed to be no records attached to his name anywhere. Was it possible for a man to erase traces of his existence?

Life had hobbled along. Ali Dida Hada now knew some peace, as if he were kept in the armpits of God.

Petrus drags out his crinkled cigarette pack, studies a single cigarette with its chewed-up end. Ali Dida Hada stares at blue sky, red fire. How did Petrus find me out?

Petrus insists, “We are the same, Ali, trained collaborators for shit . Scavengers who read entrails, and then what? Mboya? Argwings? J. M.? Pio? Ouko? Ward? Goldenberg? Anglo-Leasing? The Artur scum? Parallel forces to traffic, massacre, poach …” He snorts. “And once a season shining tin pins and ornamental shoulder pieces to pin onto uniforms”—his hands cover his squinting eyes—“for our silence.” Weariness in Petrus’s voice. “What does honor mean for the men of this land?” For himself.

Cooing doves, a bristling insect, wind. Ali Dida Hada thinks, We are the ghosts that consume us .

Petrus swivels on his heels to glare at Ali Dida Hada. “Can you remember what peaceful sleep was?” He makes a harsh sound. “What it’s like not to thirst for blood to spill?” He lifts his unlit cigarette to his mouth, fingers shaking. “When our type retire, we die within a year, three if lucky. You hear?”

Ali Dida Hada coughs.

Petrus stares at his shiny shoes. “Won’t happen to me, understand?” Four steps left, six steps right, a swivel. “What say you?” A sly look. “Amnesia! At last, a solution.” His laugh is a grunt. He rubs his chest. Unreachable ache.

“Oganda’s alive.” Ali Dida Hada denies Petrus’s predictions.

With a downturn of his mouth, Petrus drawls, “You’re bewitched by him.”

Ali frowns.

“You left your wife and children for him.” Petrus gestures.

Ali Dida Hada grunts, “She left me.”

“You did not follow.”

“She’d gone.”

“You did nothing.”

“Nothing to do.”

“You didn’t try.”

“You don’t know that.” Ali Dida Hada sweats.

“But I do. Nyipir Oganda, a cryptologist’s riddle, a seduction no discontented wife could match, mhh? I understand. Oganda made me an apostate. Turned my eyes away from the mesmerizing glower of my deathless president.” A scoffing sound slips past Petrus’s unlit cigarette.

Silence.

Ali Dida Hada stares at Petrus. For all his inquisitiveness, Petrus knows nothing of Akai.

“So?” asks Ali Dida Hada, suddenly unruffled and suddenly sure he would return to Wuoth Ogik.

Within Petrus, a memory deluge from his lifetime of witnessing so many blood-stained transactions, hard cash for souls to slaughter on arcane power altars. He had abhorred the low-grade crudity of the exchange, the furtive compromises. He had noticed how the chief casualties were always those whom the soul-seller had thought he loved.

An imperceptible hesitation.

Then, “Our business,” says Petrus, a waver in his voice that he corrects as he pulls out a medium-sized black notebook. Inside, in neat green-ink letters, are banking details. He carefully tears out the page and, with a direct look at Ali Dida Hada, says, “Our oath of silence.” Then, in broken Tigrinya, Petrus asks, “Ezu yibehai ezi b’Tigrinya?”— I’ll forget everything I know after the money has been transferred? A slow smile. Ali Dida Hada pales. “I know. I know. But people do listen better in the language of their umbilical cord.” A chortle. Petrus tucks his paper into Ali Dida Hada’s pocket. “Amnesia and amnesty, you and me. We are Kenyan originals. We can use money to Sellotape our war wounds.” A tiny wink. Petrus laughs.