A Guide to the Beasts of East Africa (6 page)

There was, thought Brian Kukuya, something
rather nice about being a government minister. He looked around the spacious room that
served as his new office. High ceilings, wide windows, cool tiled floor. In front of the
fireplace lay a lion-skin rug (or, to be zoologically precise, lioness-skin rug) of pale
tawny hue. He'd had the walls painted to match it and was rather pleased with the
result. The painters that his assistant Jonah had organized had really done a
first-class job, not like the usual lackadaisical tradesmen you always seemed to get
these days – no, not at all. But that is as it should be – nothing but the best for a
minister of state. On the wall beside his desk was a discreet but impressive bookcase
filled with discreet but impressive books, on the opposite wall a photograph of himself
and the President, shaking hands and beaming at the camera. And after years of hustling
and hustings, of constituency meetings and barroom meetings and back-room meetings, the
Honourable B. Kukuya, Minister for the Interior, had at last reached the position he
knew he deserved. Mind you, it had been a close-run thing. At the last minute it had
been rumoured that Zakiya Mohutu was going to get the job and he would be left with the
Ministry of Transport.
Several favours had to be called in, several
promises made. But in the end all had turned out well, and now he could afford to ease
off a bit. He could relax. He could delegate.

He pressed a button on his desk.

‘Ah, Jonah. What have you got for me
today?'

‘Just a few letters to sign, Minister,
then there's that appointment at ten – it's in your diary and I've put
the briefing on your desk. Oh, and I just got a call from the PM's office. This
afternoon's cabinet meeting has been postponed. The Swiss delegation's
running late again but the PM thinks he should see them anyway as soon as they arrive.
Shall I phone the golf club?'

‘Thank you, Jonah.'

Brian Kukuya leaned back in his chair and
clasped his hands behind his head. Yes, there
was
something jolly nice about
being a minister. Not that it was something anyone could do – no, not at all.
Delegating, for instance. You had to be sure that the people to whom you delegated were
up to the job. Which was why he felt lucky – no, not lucky, far-sighted was a better
word – to have let Jonah Litumana keep his job as ministerial private secretary after
the last minister had been forced to resign. It was important to have continuity, and to
have someone who appreciated that a minister does not want to be bothered with details.
Big-picture stuff, that was his job, long-term vision. But being in so senior a position
had its minuses as well as its pluses. As Brian Kukuya was only too happy to explain to
anyone who asked, and many who didn't, he probably worked harder now than at any
time in his life.

‘Can't switch off, you see.
Morning, noon and night – thinking, thinking.'

For instance, a casual observer at the
Sandringham Country Club this afternoon might think he was playing golf; afterwards it
might appear that he was relaxing in the bar, enjoying a drink. But really he would be
thinking, thinking, working, working, all the time.

He glanced down at the desk. Ah yes, the
letters. Though he was sure that age and experience had improved his long-term vision,
the Hon Brian Kukuya had to admit that the years had done little to improve his
day-to-day sight. He was at that time of life when arms seem to get shorter, lights
dimmer and print smaller. He was also at a position in life when he was particularly
conscious of his appearance. Oh, he didn't mind an expanding waistline and he
didn't mind a few grey hairs – his wife told him they made him look distinguished
and his mistress told him they made him look trustworthy – but spectacles were out. Last
month he had heard about some exercises to counteract the effects of age on eyesight and
had asked Jonah to order the book on the internet. Any day now he would start doing them
– if he could read them, that is. But it didn't really matter. Jonah always
provided a verbal summary of anything important, and he could still see well enough to
know where to sign the letters that Jonah put in front of him. He picked up his pen.
Only four letters this morning and, judging from the colour of the paper, a couple of
departmental memos. He signed each document with care – you had to be careful if you
were a government minister – and dropped them into the out-tray. His finger again moved
to the button on his desk.

‘All right, Jonah. You can send Mr
Khan in now.'

Since leaving Kenya in the sixties the Khan
family had
prospered. Harry Khan and his two brothers had seen the
family firm diversify from the retail business his grandfather had founded into hotel
and restaurant franchises and, more recently, into shopping centres. With his good looks
and affability, Harry had naturally moved to ‘front of house', leaving his
brothers to look after the management and accounts. It was Harry who took the investors
to lunch, it was he who ran the seminars, it was he who looked after the
franchisees' wives. He was very good at looking after the franchisees'
wives.

‘Mr Khan, delighted to see you.'
The minister waved him to a chair with open hand. ‘Please, sit down. So, how do
you find our country?'

Harry flashed him a wide white smile.

‘Kenya will always be the jewel of
Africa for me, Minister.'

‘How long since you were last
here?' Having glanced at Jonah Litumana's briefing, the minister was well
aware of the answer to this question – but small talk was small talk.

‘Too long,' said Harry Khan.
‘But last time, that was a family thing – my mother, you know, she wanted to come
back and see what the old place looked like.'

‘Of course, I remember now – you were
born here. You are as Kenyan as I am. But first, tell me – everything all right at your
hotel?'

‘Those guys at the Hilton always look
after me just fine.'

‘Good, good. If there is anything you
need – the manager is a personal friend of mine, you know.'

‘You are too kind,
Minister.'

Harry Khan looked around the room.

‘Nice place you've got here. I hear
you haven't been in the job very long. Your predecessor – he resigned, am I
right?'

‘Indeed so. Personal reasons. Very
sad.'

‘That's not exactly what I
heard. Wasn't there something about it in the
Evening News
– that
“Birds of a Feather” column?'

‘So you've come across Dadukwa,
Mr Khan? Then let me assure you that the whole thing is based on nothing more than
imagination and innuendo.'

‘But some of that imagination and
innuendo, it must be coming from pretty high up, right?'

The smile on Brian Kukuya's face
slipped a millimetre.

‘You are indeed well informed, Mr
Khan. And you may rest assured that the government, and I as Minister for the Interior,
take all such leaks – such threats to national security – seriously. Very seriously. I
have made it clear that any information leading to the unmasking of this unpatriotic
scallywag will be well rewarded. It was one of my first directives. You have been
reading it, this column?'

‘No, not exactly. I met a few guys
last night; they filled me in on what's been happening.'

‘That would have been at the Asadi
Club, I suppose?'

Harry Khan smiled.

‘You too seem well informed, if I may
say so, Minister.'

‘It is my job to know what is going
on. Anyway, you may be interested to know that the
Evening News
will soon be
closing down.'

‘Is that right?'

‘Yes – some technicality with its
registration, apparently. I don't know if you ever heard of a certain fire in
1940? It started in the office of the then Military Secretary. You may
have heard of him – Lord Erroll?'

‘Oh yeah. The white guy who was
murdered, right?'

The minister nodded.

‘Most unfortunate. No one was hurt in
the fire, but an awful lot of government records were destroyed.' The minister
turned to look out of the window. A jacaranda tree was just coming into bloom.
‘Where was I? Oh, yes, the
Evening News
. After my predecessor's
unfortunate demise my assistant thought it might be prudent to conduct an audit of
newspaper registration documents – just routine, you understand. As I'm sure you
know, Mr Khan, all organizations need to be registered – for tax reasons, health and
safety regulations, that kind of thing. Unfortunately, he could find no such document in
the government records.'

‘Don't tell me – it was one of
those that got burned in the fire. But they'd have their own copy,
right?'

‘Yes, you'd think so,
wouldn't you? They came up with some excuse, a burglary or something – just last
week, they claim. But I ask you, what kind of burglar would steal a company registration
document? No, it's quite clear that all this time they have been operating as an
unregistered company – completely illegal, of course. We've tried to help.
We've given them two weeks to produce the document or shut down. Such a shame –
just after they've had their offices refurbished and redecorated and everything.
But we really have no choice.'

‘I guess not, Minister, I guess
not.' Harry Khan nodded towards the fireplace. ‘Nice rug.'

‘Yes,' said the minister,
looking down at the skin of the
lioness, legs splayed, mouth showing
teeth that though somewhat yellow were nonetheless fearsome. ‘She's quite
old too – over fifty now. Shot on the first of February 1956. Does that date mean
anything to you?'

Harry Khan shook his head.

‘Can't say it does.'

‘You have heard of Elsa, Mr
Khan?'

‘Elsa – you mean Elsa the lioness, Joy
Adamson,
Born Free
, all that stuff?'

The minister smiled.

‘I see you remember your Kenyan
history, Mr Khan. And you no doubt recall that the reason Joy Adamson brought up Elsa
and the other orphaned lion cubs was that her mother had been shot – by her husband
George, in fact.' He gazed down at the flattened form. ‘Ah yes, poor
Elsa's mother. I, um, acquired her after George Adamson died – that was after Joy
was murdered, of course. He was murdered too – by poachers, they say.'

‘Right, another lucky lion skin. Seems
quite the thing round here.'

‘Lucky?'

‘That's what they think at the
Asadi Club. They've got a lion skin too – not a rug like that one, but a stuffed
one. Not in such good condition either, but I guess it's even older than yours.
Anyway, according to club tradition, as long as the lion's OK, the club's
OK.'

‘Oh, what a quaint idea. But tell me,
Mr Khan, what brings you to Nairobi this time? Visiting family again?'

Harry Khan leaned forward in his chair.

‘No, Minister – and hey, call me Harry
– this time it's business, straight business.'

‘Business? Tell me more.'

‘As you may know, our company is quite
a big player in the shopping centre game over in the US; mostly eastern seaboard, but
we're moving into the west – San Diego, Seattle. After my last visit here, I got
to thinking. Maybe we could use some of the lessons we've been learning over
there, over here.'

‘I wonder, Mr Khan, could you be a
little more specific?'

‘I'm talking megamalls,
Minister. I'm talking one-stop. I'm talking food, clothing, entertainment.
I'm talking thirty, forty, fifty thousand square metres of air-conditioned retail
space with car parks to match – maybe residential too. We've been looking at the
market here in Nairobi pretty closely. We think now could be the right time.'

‘What you propose sounds most
interesting, Mr Khan, but surely this is simply a commercial venture? I don't
quite see –'

‘Where you come in? The way I look at
it is this – and correct me if I'm wrong here, Minister. We're talking about
a large investment. I won't bother you with the details of finance and
stakeholders and all the boring stuff, but we're talking – OK if I use US dollars?
– we're talking millions, tens of millions, maybe even nine figures.'

The minister sat back in his chair.

‘Go on, Mr Khan.'

‘Like I say, it's a pretty big
wad. It's going to be big for Nairobi, and what's good for Nairobi is good
for Kenya – right? That's why I'm here. I thought I should start by getting
the advice of someone high up, someone at the
top. There's going
to be money in this for a lot of people. That's why I came to you.'