John Goldbach - It Is an Honest Ghost

We both laughed and I poured a very modest amount of the hot sauce onto my plate. ‘I’ll be careful,’ I said.

Alexi ran over and grabbed at his mother’s leg, crying, and she picked the boy up and patted his back.

Martin waved his hand in exasperation. ‘Stop coddling the boy,’ he said. ‘The boy cries too much.’ He looked at me and shook his head.

‘He’s fine, Papa,’ Sveta said. And she carried the boy inside, away from the table.

‘It’s important for Alexi to learn to be a man,’ said Martin. ‘He’s surrounded by too many women.’

Boris said, ‘All right, guys, one more shot and then I have to go to bed.’

He filled three shot glasses, said cheers , and we drank back the vodka.

‘Make sure John gets to the hotel okay,’ said Boris, as he walked toward his room.

‘I will,’ said Martin.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said. ‘I’ll just grab a cab and I’ll be fine.’

Both Boris and Martin laughed.

Boris said, ‘Look, man, it’s your first time in Nairobi and it’s nighttime. We’ve been drinking. You can’t just hail a cab.’

‘I’ll call my driver Billy,’ said Martin. ‘Billy Mutinda. Billy will take care of him. I’ll ride with John.’

‘Oh, no, you don’t have to do that!’ I said. ‘If we just call Billy, that’s good. I don’t need an escort.’

‘We’ve been drinking a lot,’ said Boris. ‘Martin will see you to the hotel.’

‘I don’t want to put you out.’

I felt like an encumbrance, and I was anxious to recuperate alone.

‘No, no, not a problem,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll get Billy to drop me at the bus station anyway,’ he added. ‘I have to go to Mombasa. I’ll pack a bag and take the night bus.’

‘How long is the bus ride?’ I asked.

‘About seven hours,’ said Martin. ‘Maybe a little longer.’

‘Oh wow. That’s long,’ I said, surprised.

‘I’ll sleep,’ said Martin.

‘All right, guys, goodnight,’ said Boris.

‘Goodnight,’ I said.

I went to the living room and all the lights were off. I searched for my suitcase in the dark and gathered my gear and carried it out the front door, not rolling the broken suitcase, moving as quietly as I could. They must’ve put the boy to bed, I thought, and waited for Martin outside.

It was dark out now and a beautiful night and I was excited to be in Nairobi and my blood was charged with surfeit vodka shots. I looked up at the starry sky and took the night air deep into my lungs. I felt very free, standing with my suitcase, waiting for Martin and Billy Mutinda, the driver.

Martin came out the front door carrying a small brown leather bag and clapped me on the back. ‘You’re swaying a little,’ he said. ‘Good thing you have your suitcase to prop you up!’ And he laughed good-naturedly, resting his hand on my shoulder, towering above me.

A small grey Mitsubishi sedan pulled up to the gate and Martin said, ‘Aha! Here’s Billy!’

He opened the gate and Billy got out of the car and greeted us.

‘Billy,’ said Martin. ‘My son-in-law Boris is in town. This is his friend John.’

‘Hi, John,’ said Billy.

I said hi back.

‘I want you to look after Boris,’ said Martin.

‘Okay, yes, yes,’ said Billy.

‘And I want you to take care of John,’ said Martin.

Billy smiled.

He packed our luggage into the back and we set off for the hotel.

‘Is the hotel far?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Martin. ‘Maybe fifteen minutes.’

He talked to Billy in Kiswahili and they both laughed and I looked out the windows but the night outside seemed blurry, though I knew we were still on the outskirts of the city, making our way closer to the lights. There were a series of churches with their crucifixes climbing skyward on a stretch of road before the hotel.

Soon we pulled up to a high black steel gate, where a security guard in a white shirt stood before the U-shaped laneway to the hotel’s entrance.

Martin informed the guard that I was a guest staying at the hotel and the security guard peered into the car and looked at me and I waved and he went in his little booth and automatically opened a section of the gate. Billy pulled up to the entrance under a concrete canopy, with a skylight. He hopped out of the car and unloaded my luggage and Martin let me out and said to Billy, ‘Give John your number. So he can call you if he needs a car.’

Billy dipped into the driver’s seat and emerged extending a business card toward me. ‘Call me,’ he said. I took it and closed an eye to focus on it — there was a rather accurate cartoon of Billy’s Mitsubishi on the card and his name, Billy Mutinda , and below his name it read For All Your Drivings Needs …

‘If I find out you didn’t take care of my son-in-law and John,’ said Martin to Billy, ‘I’ll kill you!’

And they both laughed and piled into the car. A valet approached me and put his hand on my suitcase and Martin said from the passenger-side window, ‘Okay, it looks like you’re set.’

‘Thank you so much, Martin, for everything,’ I said.

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Good luck. Enjoy Nairobi! I’ll see you when I get back from Mombasa.’

‘Bye,’ I said and waved to them as the security guard opened the gate and the car pulled away from the Heron Court Hotel.

The concierge, a handsome older gentleman in a blue suit with round steel glasses, smiled at me from behind the high front desk as I fumbled for my passport, then handed it over. A portrait of President Kibaki looked down on us.

He typed on his computer for what seemed like a long time and I took notice of the bar and restaurant to the right of the lobby, which was fairly happening, I thought.

‘How late is the bar open?’ I said.

‘It’ll be open till at least midnight tonight. Perhaps later if it is busy,’ said the concierge.

‘And it’s ten o’clock now.’

‘That’s right, sir,’ he said.

‘I might check it out,’ I said, pointing barward.

‘Excellent, sir, everything seems fine,’ he said, passing the passport back to me with my room keys. ‘You’re in room 229. Just up the stairs, walk outside, and turn left at the swimming pool. It’s three rooms in.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

‘We’ll have your bags brought to your room for you, if you’d like to visit the bar.’

‘That sounds good,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

‘ Asante sana ,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much.’

There was a washroom to the side of the lobby, which I visited before hitting the bar. I washed my face again and confronted myself in the large mirror. I was still perspiring, though the alcohol had buttressed me a little; there was a little more colour in my face. I decided I’d drink one beer, so as to get my bearings, but no more than one. I figured it’d do me good, a cleansing ale. Then, bedtime.

I walked into the restaurant and passed the tables and diners and walked up a few steps to an elevated bar with several high barstools surrounding it. I awkwardly climbed onto one and said hello to the young gentleman behind the bar.

‘What kind of beer do you have?’ I asked.

‘We have Pilsner and Tusker.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘They are both lagers. There isn’t much difference but I prefer Pilsner.’

‘Then Pilsner it is!’

He produced a large perspiring bottle from a small fridge behind the bar, popped the cap off with an opener and placed it in front of me on a Tusker coaster, and then he gave me a glass, too. I paid in Kenyan shillings and drank from the bottle.

I drank that bottle and then ordered another and moved to a nearby table to watch cars pull up to the front entrance and the people attending the literary festival get out, with their suitcases and knapsacks, looking somewhat dazed from the travel. Ostensibly, that’s why Boris and I were in Nairobi — to attend a literary festival. But really Boris had been trying to convince me to come with him for years. We just needed an excuse.