Playing a Dangerous Game Read online

  PLAYING A DANGEROUS GAME

  PATRICK OCHIENG

  ACCORD BOOKS

  For Carol, Ian, and Jairus: the three pillars of my life. And for Mum and Dad.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ***

  MAMA IS ALL SMILES. She rubs her hands together and runs her tongue against her lips. She does that when she is excited.

  “The opportunity to join Hill School doesn’t come every day,” she shouts louder than the railway siren, and you would think she’d won the lottery.

  Baba has been promoted. The day before yesterday he came back from work waving a yellow letter that said he was now a manager.

  “Oh Lord, shelter your servant from all those who would wish him harm,” Mama went down on her knees and prayed when she saw Baba’s promotion letter, and we had no option but to follow suit. “Shelter him under your wing, oh Lord. Scatter all the doubting Thomases to the four corners of the earth. And Lord now that your servant has been promoted it is only right that he gets one of those management houses, up on the hill . . .” She went on and on, stopping only after Baba loudly cleared his throat.

  The very next day, a Friday, my younger sister, Awino, and I sit the Hill School admission interview and pass. Me, I suspect those snobs of Hill School just wanted to see who they are admitting into their posh school.

  They allow us a whole week to make preparations before starting at Hill School, but Mama insists that we get all the stuff we need early enough.

  “Saturday would be a good day to do the shopping,” she says.

  “Why not wait until Monday when all the shops are open,” Baba suggests, and Mama reluctantly agrees.

  She spends the weekend writing a list of what she says will make us look like real Hill School kids.

  IT’S MONDAY MORNING, and though shops in town do not open their doors until eight, Mama wakes us up at dawn. I rub the sleep from my eyes and watch Deno curled up in a ball under his blanket and envy him. Deno is twelve, two years older than me. He is in Standard 7 and will be doing his final exams this year, so Baba thought it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to change schools. He’ll be staying on at St. Josephs Primary School.

  I head for the bathroom, but Awino is already at the door, a towel wrapped around her head.

  “Please let your little sister go first,” Mama says after Awino’s shouting attracts her attention. You would think Mama is requesting, but me, I know it’s an order that can be enforced with a smack, so I let Awino use the bathroom first, and she stays in there forever.

  Mama’s threats finally get her out.

  Eight on the dot and we are off with Mama striding ahead. She stops at the foot of the rail overpass, to take Awino’s hand. She grabs out for mine but I’m too quick for her. But she gets a grip on my hand when we approach a white, gated house on Desai Street that has remained unoccupied for years, ever since a white woman and her daughter died mysteriously in it. Mama drags us to the opposite side of the street, like the house is a threat.

  “The further one stays from that evil house, the better,” she whispers, and increases her pace.

  I steal a glimpse of the imposing house behind an unkempt hedge. A tall zambarau tree sways above its rusty iron roof.

  “Mama?”

  “Yes, Awino?”

  “Is it true a girl and her mother died in that house? And that the girl’s father later committed suicide?” she glances over her shoulder.

  “You are too small to be talking about such things,” Mama drags her forward.

  “Are there ghosts in that house?” Awino persists.

  “Now who has been feeding you that nonsense?”

  “Deno says . . .”

  “Wait until we get back home, then I’ll teach that stupid brother of yours to stop filling your mind with such stories,” Mama says, and I’m glad I’m not the one who told Awino about the ghost house.

  MOST OF THE SHOPS are opening when we get to River Road, which Baba often says is the heart of Nairobi city. Cars are already speeding up and down, their horns blaring.

  “You keep pulling your hand away and those crazy bus drivers will run you over,” Mama makes another grab for my hand.

  I’d rather some bus ran me over than be seen by my friends as I’m dragged all over the place by my mother, I tell myself. Of course, I don’t say it out loud. If I did, I’d be dead, and it would not be because some crazy bus driver ran over me. Mama would beat them to it.

  People are selling all sorts of stuff. They walk about, waving their wares in your face: combs, pens, books, cups, glasses—everything you can think of. Others are on the sidewalk, polishing shoes or shaving hair. They shout out offers for all manner of services. They argue, shout, and even scream out. They use different tones to sell their wares and it sounds like one big band with musicians playing different instruments and singing different songs at the same time.

  Mama says the pickpockets of River Road can make away with your socks without removing your shoes, as if that were even possible. She stops to wag her forefinger at a thin man in an oversize brown jacket, who smiles, winks, and slinks away.

  “The fool thinks he can steal from me? I’ve lived in this town for so long I can spot a ‘pickie’ from a mile.” Mama clucks and makes us increase our pace.

  A small crowd has gathered around a man rolling a die on a board. He covers the die with a plastic cup and deftly moves two other cups on a board. “Hapa pata, hapa potea,” he shouts and invites onlookers to place bets over which cup hides the die. Me, I think I have it figured out but Mama drags us across the road.

  “Only crooks and fools play pata potea,” she says, like she has read my mind. “You can never win.”

  After lots of shoving and sidestepping we stop outside a shop with pictures of some white boys and girls in school uniforms and the words PERFECT UNIFORM FITTERS on a sign above its doorway.

  Why can’t they have pictures of Black kids? Maybe the painter doesn’t know how to paint them. The pictures we draw in school are also of kids with straight hair and pinched noses. It’s easier to draw such pictures because the books we read have such pictures.

  The shop owner chats Mama like they have known each other all their lives. He says he once lived in Nyanza and had a shop in a dusty village called Kwa Wahindi. He wishes he had stayed there, where people were honest and not “crooks” like they are in the city.

  Mama points out the items she wants, and the shop owner shouts orders to a wiry man who clambers up a rickety ladder and uses a forked stick to bring them down from the shelves.

  “This one isn’t gray enough. That’s not the white I want. Which mosquito were these socks made for? No one is that small. I said white, not cream,” Mama goes on and on and I’m thinking if the shop owner does not reach over the counter to strangle her, the wiry man will most certainly smash his forked stick on her head.

  Soon enough everything is piled on the counter and you would think we are about to buy every item in the shop.

  Mama sifts through the mountain of clothes, chooses what she wants, and the wiry man struggles up his ladder to return the rest. Then the price battle begins.

  “That will be twenty-five shillings,” the man says when Mama inquires about the price of a gray skirt for Awino.

  “You must think I’m mad to pay that for cloth with a few stitches running through it,” Mama narrows her eyes.

  “The factory in Jinja is closed, mama. Amin sent everyone away. This is coming straight from India.”

  “I’m still not paying twenty-five shillings for it.”

  “How much you are willing to give?” he asks, but Mama is already on another item.

  “How much do you want for those faded gray shorts?”
r />   “Those are best quality. I sell at twenty-two shillings, but for you, my very good customer, I will give at twenty only. It’s best price.”

  “Eish! Someone thinks I print money.”

  “How much you will pay for the trouser?” the man asks.

  “Five shillings,” Mama says without as much as a twitch on her face.

  “You want me to close my shop? You want me to go back to Kwa Wahindi to sell kerosene? I will give you for fifteen shillings, throwaway price. That is what I purchased it at.”

  “I’ll pay nine for the skirt and ten for the shorts,” Mama says.

  “Okay, I will take fifteen shillings for the trouser and ten for the skirt. How many piece you are buying?” he says, but Mama is already dragging us out.

  “Come back, mama! Fine, I will give at your price, but you must not tell anyone.”

  Mama reaches under her blouse for her purse and unzips it to reveal a smaller one. She pays the shop owner, who looks relieved to see the last of her. He pinches Awino’s cheeks, hands her sweets, and pretends to smile.

  He smells of cigarettes and onions.

  WE STOP OUTSIDE a Bata shoe shop that says: FIXED PRICES NO BARGAINING. Still, Mama asks the frowning shop attendant for a discount. They make me try on different shoes before settling on two pairs, both a size too big.

  “Your feet will grow into them,” Mama says, as if I’m supposed to wear the pair for a decade.

  Hungry and tired we struggle home, where Mama makes us dress up and parade about like models, with Apondi passing comments. Apondi is from Mama’s shaggs and has lived with us for as long as I can remember. Mama says she is her sister, but then everyone who comes from Mama’s village in Alego is her sister or brother.

  For the millionth time, Mama reminds us that Hill School is not St. Josephs, where they allow you to dress in rags. “Remember, everyone is watching.” She looks me up and down as I struggle out of my new undershirt and shoes. “Your father is now a manager and you have to look the part. And you, Lumush, I don’t want to see you running around the estate in torn sneakers, with your wild friends,” Mama warns.

  I wonder how that will even be possible. Other than Awino and me, the only other kid in Hill School who’s from Railway Estate is Roba. So where does Mama expect me to find new friends to play with in the estate?

  Those thoughts just stay in my head. No reason to allow them to grow into words.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ***

  IT’S WEDNESDAY EVENING, a couple of days before I report to Hill School. I’m with my friends hanging out at our favorite spot behind the estate, near an old Zephyr car that rests on stones. They have just come from school and are still in uniform.

  “You think those snobs will welcome you in that posh school of theirs?” Odush sniggers. “They’ll probably wash their hands with soap every time you greet them,” he slaps palms with Mose then tries to do the same with Dado.

  Dado ignores him.

  Odush, Dado, and Mose are my best friends. We are neighbors at Railway Estate. Odush is a class ahead of the rest of us at St. Josephs, but he still hangs out with us.

  “Remember the time the snobs from Hill School came to St. Josephs for a debate? They brought their own food, stuck out their noses in the air, like our school was stinking,” Mose pinches his nose and sniffs loudly. “They even refused to drink the soda we offered them. We ended up drinking it all after they left.”

  “And they were not as smart as they made themselves out to be. We licked them in the debate,” Dado says.

  “I’m not interested in joining that stupid school,” I laugh, as if I have a choice. But then what am I supposed to say?

  “And you think you have a choice? Once your parents decide, that’s it,” Dado says, as though he has read my mind.

  “I hear there are students who drive cars at that school.” Mose widens his eyes.

  “And how would I know? I’m not even in Hill School yet,” I say, but I’ve also heard about students revving up in slick cars at Hill School, though I still don’t believe it.

  “You could arrive there pushing a hand cart,” Odush laughs. “At least you’d have a set of wheels.”

  “You think that’s funny, you loud mouth?”

  Odush talks too much. Though he is taller and stronger than the rest of us, whenever there’s trouble it’s his heels we see. He can take off faster than those Americans do in the one-hundred-meter sprints. In a tight spot, I’d rather have Dado by my side, anytime. Mose, on the other hand, loves to clown around. He never takes anything seriously.

  “Hey! I hear they even have a swimming pool in that crazy school,” Mose says and rolls his eyes.

  “Better not try out the river style you learned in shaggs. Those show-offs would laugh you right out of the pool,” Odush says, and even Dado laughs.

  “I’ve been to the Railway Club pool. I know how to swim,” I protest.

  “Some of those kids at Hill School probably have pools in their homes,” Dado says.

  “And when are you people moving up the hill now that your father is a boss?” Odush sticks out his stomach.

  “Who said we were moving?”

  “But all bosses stay up the hill. You can’t stay here now,” Odush spreads his arms.

  “You want to see something good?” Dado changes the subject, to my relief. He removes a glossy magazine poster from under his shirt and spreads it out on the Zephyr’s hood. It has half a dozen girls in colorful bikinis, standing by a pool.

  “Wa, wa, wa,” Mose goes, and Odush tries to snatch it, but he’s not fast enough.

  Me, I’m just glad we’re not talking about Hill School anymore.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ***

  IT’S FRIDAY MORNING, the day we are to report to our new school. I don’t even know why we have to go on Friday. Couldn’t it wait until Monday? But try telling that to my mama. She escorts us all the way to the huge metal gate at the school’s entrance.

  “Now remember, everyone will be watching, so you better be on your best behavior. Don’t you start acting wild like that boy who lives in a kiosk with his father . . . what’s his name again? The one who doesn’t go to school? Oh yes, Zgwembe,” Mama warns.

  “Yes, Ma.”

  “And you must speak in English at all times.”

  I nod.

  “Make sure you take care of your little sister.”

  I nod again.

  I glance over my shoulder to watch her receding form. I then resign myself to my fate and allow myself to be swallowed behind the huge pine hedge that surrounds Hill School. You’d think someone just sat down with watercolors and painted Hill School on a canvas, complete with neat sidewalks, trees, and buildings. The school’s imposing administration building stares out at you like you are an intruder. You never get a chance to stare back, though, because a frowning prefect stands there to find fault with everything you are wearing. Either your tie isn’t properly knotted or your socks aren’t pulled up high enough.

  Awino is almost in tears because a prefect says the top button of her blouse is not done. She tries to fit the button in but the buttonhole is too small.

  I step over to help, but another prefect points his forefinger at me and waves me along.

  AT HILL SCHOOL the first activity before classes begin is the morning parade in the quadrangle. Once we are gathered there, two unsmiling prefects march past like they are inspecting a guard of honor. After a short prayer, we sing the national anthem:

  “Oh God of all creation.

  Bless this, our land and Nation . . .” we chorus out.

  Though I’ve never memorized all the words, I move my lips in sync with the others. I am convinced that no one can tell I’m faking until my eyes fall upon a tall prefect staring straight at me, like he can read my mind.

  Our class teacher is a portly white man called Bumbles. He wears a brown tweed coat and walks like he is floating above the ground. He speaks through his nose, swallowing most of h
is words. He does not waste any time in showing that he dislikes me.

  “You can fool the others, but not me. I will be watching your every step. Import any of your filthy habits to Hill School and you’ll have me to reckon with,” he warns.

  He calls me something that sounds like “Loper.” Soon enough I find out the word is “interloper.” That’s someone who doesn’t belong, like a gate-crasher. I guess the “inter” gets lost somewhere in between Bumbles’s thin lips and his golden mustache. I kind of like the sound of the word, though I don’t like what it means.

  It’s in the attitude of the other pupils, this interloper thing. It’s in their looks and their smiles too. They clear their throats each time I approach and the accusation is all over their faces. They exchange knowing glances before they talk to me. I’d love to say I don’t care but I do.

  Even Roba, who only joined Hill School a couple of months ago, treats me like an interloper. He too has an accusing look on his face, though he must have been treated the same way when he first joined Hill School.

  IT’S MY THIRD DAY IN HILL SCHOOL, a Tuesday, yet it already feels like a whole year. I’m exhausted from trying to figure out all that’s going on around me. I’m walking toward the school lab, when a voice booms out from behind:

  “Some of us have no intention of getting anywhere before the sun goes down.”

  I turn around and it’s the headmaster with his eyes fixed on me.

  “If I were you, I would put some urgency into that walk,” the Headie says, and I’m off, like the ghosts in the deserted house on Desai Street are after me.

  The Headie teaches English language and says “English is King”—and God help you if he catches you speaking in “those native languages.” He goes on and on about discipline and makes it sound like it is three separate words: “disc-i-pline.” After a long lecture on “disc-i-pline” he moves on to “clean-li-ness,” which he says is next to “God-li-ness.” I wonder why he teaches English, when there are actual Englishmen like Bumbles in Hill School. They might as well have Bumbles teaching Kiswahili.