Black Star Nairobi (17 page)

I had to learn Kiswahili. Yes, most Kenyans wanted to practice their English, a sort of rap English, with an American, but still, O, Muddy, Janet, or even anyone at Broadway’s Tavern—they could all have been my teachers. But there was a part of me that resisted, that made me want to never fully belong, and I had begun to suspect that, deep down, I wanted it that way—there was a part of me that wanted to remain American. The dreams I enjoyed most were those in which I was eating heart attack food—meat lover’s pizza from Domino’s or the properly named Kill Me Quick Double Cheese and Bacon Hamburger at the Paradise Bar in good old Madison, Wisconsin.

I was sure about one thing though—I was excited that I would be home, back in the U.S. California and Wisconsin were worlds apart, but it was still home. If we solved the case, maybe I would take Muddy to Madison to meet my parents! Shit, maybe I would get to propose in Madison, by Lake Mendota.

“You planning on coming back with us?” Muddy, sitting between us, asked O, who was looking out pensively into the clouds.

“Of course, where else would I go?” O answered.

“No, I mean … are you planning on surviving the case?”

“Do I look suicidal to you?” O asked defensively.

Muddy cast a glance my way, but I pretended I wasn’t listening.

“You might fool Ishmael, but not me, O. I know that look!”

“What look?” he asked.

“The look of a man or a woman who is not planning on coming back. I know that look from men and women … even children who had lost everything. In Rwanda, they held their AK-47s and marched forward, never looked back and never
stopped. They kept walking, fighting, until a bullet stopped them. And for the unlucky ones, the war ended,” Muddy said, flipping through the in-flight magazine, trying to be nonchalant.

“Just because that’s what you did doesn’t mean that’s what I will do,” O said.

Muddy didn’t take the bait.

“At some point you … you have to think things through—see yourself in the light of day and the truth that surrounds you. I did not close my eyes when I was being raped and tortured. I certainly did not close them when I was killing …” she responded.

“Sounds like the beginning of one of your poems,” I said to her.

“Fuck off, fake husband,” she said as she put her head on my shoulder and promptly dozed off.

O and Muddy, sometimes they spoke in a different register—a language that, even though it was in English, I could never fully grasp. At an intellectual level I knew what she was telling him—plan to stay alive, and don’t be too gung-ho about seeking revenge or turning this into a suicide mission. I knew this because I was worrying about the same thing, but when it came from Muddy it felt like she was speaking to O on another level, and, gruff as he was, her words would have communicated something to him that I myself could not say.

O finished his drink, leaned against the window, and went to sleep. I was exhausted as well—too exhausted to sleep. Flipping through the in-flight magazine’s guide to Mexico, I was envious of the people who ate at the glossy, luxurious restaurants, shopped in the malls, visited the museums, and took romantic walks on the beaches. I took consolation in the thought that just like I had seen a side of Kenya the tourists would never see, so would I experience Mexico, through its underbelly.

O was clearly having a nightmare. I didn’t wake him up; this was the most sleep he had gotten since Mary’s death. I lifted two blankets from the floor, careful not to wake Muddy either, tore into the plastic with my teeth, and covered us both. She nestled deeper into my shoulder. Not long after, I too was off to sleep.

James and Jane Mwangi and Patrick Onyango had no trouble getting through airport security with their tourist visas. There were no double glances and checks—compared to what we would have undergone at a U.S. airport, we were practically waved into Mexico. To be fair, not that many Africans are trying to enter Mexico illegally.

The first thing we saw on reaching the gate was our false names hoisted high up in the air above a sea of placards. We cut through the crowd and found a tall, skinny, fit man dressed in blue jeans, beat-up old sneakers, and a black dress shirt. He appeared to be in his fifties, and had I seen him on a Mombasa beach, I would have thought him Swahili—he was black, lighter than me, but with coppery skin. His short afro was neatly combed. His eyes conveyed the kind of humor I had come to associate with Kenyans, as well as relief that we had made it.

“You must be the black gringo,” he said to me, and then turned to Muddy. “And you, you have the look of a flower, truly a rose among thorns,” and he pointed at O and me.

“Naturally, a man gravitates toward beauty,” he said as he took her hand and squeezed it, letting out a delighted laugh.

The Muddy I knew would have delivered some kind of retort or, in some instances, with drunken fools, a backhand slap, but now she smiled almost shyly.

“And you, my friend—we are not neighbors, like with this
black gringo—but we come from the same place—mother Africa. All of us,” he said to O, placing his hand over his heart and making the sign of the cross.

The mythical Africa that everyone, even Africans, craves … I had yet to see it, I thought to myself.

“Me, my name is Julio—and I am at your service,” he announced. “I will provide you with a ride from Mexico to the United States of America.” And he made a gesture indicating a bumpy ride.

“Of all the places I have ever wanted to go … Mexico was not one of them. Not even in my wildest dreams,” O said, breaking into laughter. “But here we are.”

“
Órale!
It’s good, then. Let’s hit the potholes. My friend,” Julio said, turning to O, “you will find many, many, many similarities between our fine country and yours.”

We got to Julio’s car—a Mercedes-Benz that looked like it was being held together by rusty coat hangers. He opened the trunk and we threw in our carry-on luggage. A surprise was waiting for us—on the outside, the car was a beat-up old Mercedes. Inside, it was brand-new—still had that brand-new smell—and it had gadgets I hadn’t seen before, like an iPod Touch that plugged into the car’s music system.

Julio laughed as he looked at our surprised faces.

“In my line of work, appearances deceive, two faces—always,” he said.

“And what line of work might that be?” Muddy asked him.

“In Mexico, a man must have many hands in many pockets. I have as many lines of work as there are pockets. Many hands like an Indian god,” Julio answered. I noticed that he kept looking at the rearview mirror. We all looked back too, but didn’t see anything.

“We cross the border tonight?” O asked him.

“No, my friends—you get to see more of Mexico. Two days’ time. Jason called me too late, I have to plan. If we rush … mistakes in Mexico are very expensive,” he said.

Two days of waiting was going to feel like a long time, but I for one did not see a need to protest. We needed to rest, regroup, and do some hard thinking.

“How do you know Jason?” I asked.

“My friends, it looks like my deception did not work very well,” he told us. We looked behind us again and saw a black SUV gaining on us. My question was lost to the moment.

“Enemy or friend—best not to find out.” Julio stepped on the gas and the Mercedes lurched forward, picking up speed, and the SUV became smaller and smaller as the distance between us grew.

Suddenly, he veered into a dirt road, stopped, and ran to the trunk. He called us over and we found him removing our luggage. Just when we were about to protest, he lifted the mat. His trunk had a false bottom and all around his spare tire were guns—Glocks, two M-16s, the universal AK-47s, and something I had never seen in the trunk of a car before, grenades. He motioned to us to choose our weapons—O and Muddy armed themselves with AKs while I reached for a Glock. We could see dust rising as the SUV picked up our trail. We piled back in and roared off.

“Ambush,” I shouted over the noise. No one heard me, so I yelled again, “Ambush them.”

“In Mexico, everyone you want to kill has bulletproof windows,” Julio said.

“Do you?” Muddy asked him. He smiled.

“Of course. But they’re no good when they’re open,” he said
as he rolled up his window. We followed his cue and double-checked that all the windows were rolled up tight.

The SUV was now a few hundred feet behind us. They opened fire. The bullets rained on the rear window, leaving small pockmarks. They let out another burst that skirted all around us.

“The tires, they are trying to get the tires,” Julio shouted.

Then out of nowhere a gate appeared—and someone opened it before we hit it. The SUV came to a screeching halt, furiously backed away, and drove off.

With the gate behind us, I now saw rows and rows of barely standing slum houses, made of corrugated iron and stitched together with rusty nails and rope to make odd-shaped boxes. Looking up the hill, I could see heat rising from the tops. If it weren’t for the skin color of the inhabitants and the bright graffiti decorating the shacks, I could have sworn I was in Kenya. I didn’t understand what we were doing in a Mexican slum, much less why the SUV had stopped.

But what was going on soon became apparent, as four jeeps with heavily armed young men joined the Mercedes to make a convoy. Old women were smiling and waving at Julio while little children in ragged clothes ran alongside us. On the tin rooftops, I could see armed men perched, barely managing to hold on. No one was going to bring war to this slum unless they were ready to pay a high price. It was Julio’s slum. Relief set in.

Julio didn’t think we were the SUV’s targets.

“Only Jason and I know you are here. And in Mexico, everyone is a target,” he explained with a laugh. “And sometimes you do not know who wants you dead until you are dead already—and what good does that do you?”

We drove up a muddy road full of potholes. Just when I was wondering how the Mercedes would make it all the way up the
hill, we came to a tarmac road with lights running alongside it. Where it ended, there was a huge fortified gate that opened on to an extravagant lawn. The next thing I was expecting to see was a McMansion. Instead, I saw a number of identical-looking houses, lower-middle-class-type homes made out of brick—about ten of them.

“You are living well,” Muddy said, pointing downhill to the slums, where the candles flickering through the windows resembled a night vigil.

“
Mamacita
, you judge as fast as you are beautiful. We haven’t even broken bread,” Julio replied.

“Our lives are in your hands … you can understand why we are a little bit concerned—the SUV,” I said to him, trying to sound casual.

“What do you do?” O asked him. “We need to know.”

“Let her ask. Questions about what a man does should come from the rose, not the thorns,” Julio said with a laugh.

“I have asked,” Muddy said. I could tell from the tone in her voice that she was getting irritated. We came to a stop in front of one of the houses.

“You know. You know what I do … This is Mexico. A secret is a dollar or two away. That is how the SUV found us. There are no secrets here but you, you are big detectives so you know that. You want to know, who is Jason? How I do know him? What is a CIA man doing working with an Afro-Mexican from the slums? That is what you are asking. So I want to ask—what is a black gringo doing in Mexico trying to tunnel his way into his own country? The Africans I can understand, but you, my friend, why? How do I know I will still be breathing and walking on my two legs after you are gone? We all have questions, my friends,” he said, and for a moment I thought he would show us the true colors of a drug dealer living literally on top of his people.

But then his face softened. “Come inside. We put something
in our bellies, and then we talk as much we want,” he said as he opened the car door. “Besides, and I am not trying to scare you, if you face the truth, what choice do you have? Like you say, your lives are in my hands. No?”

“Ain’t that the truth. Amen to that, brother. You got a joint? Such a long journey to get to your part of the world calls for a celebration,” O said.

“Do I have a joint? Is this African
loco
?” Julio asked, genuinely amused. “Do I have a joint?”

And just like that, the tension that had been building since we spotted the SUV was gone.

We walked into one of the brick houses. It was dark but as soon as Julio reached for a switch, the place was flooded with noise, lights, the sound of beers and whiskey bottles being opened—it was a surprise party. There was no time to ask questions; bottles of tequila were shoved into our hands and a few moments later Muddy and O each had a joint.

Every person Julio greeted had flowers or a cheap gift—a beaded necklace or a belt—for him. One old man even had a chicken for Julio, and another a cigar—
Cubano, señor
, he said to much laughter—someone even gave him a Fanta. It reminded me of those stories you hear about doctors in rural areas being paid in kind.

I walked over to Muddy and O—I didn’t want to, I didn’t like their high talk—but there was no one else to talk to.

“A drug-dealing Robin Hood?” Muddy was saying while laughing.

“No, Muddy, Julio is a drug-dealing revolutionary … like the Cuban, Che …” O said.

“Che? What the fuck, O? What the fuck are you smoking, O?” Muddy asked as they broke into conspiratorial giggles.

“Muddy, that is your problem—the example doesn’t matter. You fixate on the example and not the principle of the statement,” said O.

“But your example is proof, you know, like in a science experiment, if your experiment is wrong, you cannot say the …” She paused, looking for a word. “You cannot say the …”

“Hypothesis,” I interjected and let out a groan.

“You cannot say your hypothesis is correct,” she finished.

“Don’t you guys care about what’s going on? Here we are in Mexico, we just almost got shot, we’re with a drug-dealing slumlord following a case that for all we know should have been solved back in Kenya,” I said. Muddy leaned into me and brought a bottle of tequila to my lips.