Mombasa Road Retravelled Read online

  Chapter 2

  Everyone had warned me about the Nairobi traffic, but the diesel fumes, the standstills and the snarl-ups have exceeded expectations and it's already early lunchtime before we pull up outside Kiwi John's little bungalow in Langata.

  The crude gates of corrugated iron demean an otherwise attractive cypress fence, which is overlooked by jacaranda and eucalyptus trees. We sit outside with engine idling for some minutes before the gates are cautiously pulled back by a gaunt askari. And suddenly, staring us straight in the eyes, there she is, my dead brother Steve's old 750 cc Honda Africa Twin trail bike, restored and glistening, her shiny black trim glinting dully at us in the noonday sun.

  'Complete refit, mate,' Kiwi John purrs. 'All done with my own two hands, save for the odd bit of help from Guarav. Come and spark her up, mate, and listen to the roar.'

  I would like to do just what Kiwi John says, but am beaten to it. For Little Stevie's already out of his door and on the saddle of the Africa Twin before my feet even hit the ground. It's doubly bad timing too because Laila, Kiwi John's Somali wife, is coming out to greet us, and she is followed by their two teenage daughters, Almas and Lulu.

  Little Stevie will be lost on the bike now for some time and that's a double shame because I want him to get off to a good start with Almas and Lulu.

  Laila gives me a full-bosomed hug and we look each other up and down:

  'You don't look any different, Brian,' she shrieks raucously, clasping me round the shoulders. 'Wallahi, you haven't changed at all!'

  Sadly we both know that the intervening twenty years haven't been quite so kind to Laila. She has filled out enormously, and for the first time I catch myself thinking about another Somali lady: Jameela, ex love-of-my-life, ex love-of-my-dead-brother-Steve's life, shot dead twenty years ago in front of my eyes. How would it have been between us now, if Jameela were still alive and had claimed her rightful place as Little Stevie's mum-that-never-was? A shudder of something long-forgotten sweeps fleetingly across my tightening chest. That's good: I'm older now and heavily battle-scarred, but I see that maybe I haven't completely fossilised. Not quite yet.

  Almas and Lulu are beautiful girls. Half-African, half-European like my own son, they are the new tribe of Africa. And the rich genetic mix always seems to add a little something extra from outside the parents' gene pools, either in terms of physical beauty, athleticism, intelligence, strength, or all three. Almas, the older of the two, is quite the young lady, wearing just enough make up not to look overdone, her straight hair tied loosely behind and a sylph-like prance. Lulu is maybe thirteen and quieter. She's all cheeky, sly smiles but keeps close to her mum.

  Sadly, however, they'll be strangers to Little Stevie for a few minutes longer because my son is still busy checking out the Africa Twin in serious detail and has found a willing tour guide in Kiwi John. Before long I'm called over too and we finally start the bike up. It's a very satisfying roar, but I'm hoping against hope that Little Stevie's interest will switch soon enough to one of the girls. That's one of my long-term plans, you see.

  The small courtyard is littered with old vehicle parts and wrecks. The presence of a rooster and a couple of hens scratching around between the wheels adds an African touch. There's a small garden to the side of a house and a barbecue already whetting our appetites, so we leave the bags in the Land Cruiser and head for that.

  'Why won't Little Stevie say hello to us?' Almas asks. I'm sure the girls have already been told, but I like her directness, even if I shrug it off:

  'Little Stevie's always like that when he first meets new people. But if you do manage to get his attention, Almas,' I wink, 'you might just find the opposite problem!'

  Lulu cups her hand over her mouth and we all laugh. Kiwi John slips a cold Tusker in my hand and we chink bottles:

  'No run for your old dad today, Little Stevie,' I shout over to the bike. 'Drinking beer at lunch time is one of Dad's bad old habits you haven't seen before.'

  This unwelcome news is enough to get Little Stevie off the bike, but instead of coming whingeing to me, he's instantly distracted by Lulu and Almas and is off playing frisbee with them on the grass, laughing and bounding around without a second thought for me. He has moments like this when he can slip suddenly and effortlessly out of his condition and take up with people like an easy-going socialite, and whenever it happens I'm fighting back the tears in my eyes. And this time it's extra special, because it's now and it's with them.

  In no time Kiwi John and I have made up the missing twenty years. He and Laila giggle and then roar when I describe the day-to-day existence I have led for two-thirds now of Little Stevie's life, living in a yurt in the woods in West Sussex.

  'And you've never needed to work again, mate?' Kiwi John asks.

  'No, never,' I smile. 'All we need is our wifi internet connection, though on big match days we sometimes cruise over to watch the live games with friends who have satellite TV. Otherwise it's laptop and digital radio with the rain ringing down on the sweet chestnut leaves above us in the thick of the woods.'

  'And you really make enough to live on just by betting on football matches?'

  'Betting? Betting! I scoff. 'We never bet, mate, we're investors! Anyway we make much more than enough,' I lighten up, grinning. 'Little Stevie has got a unique ranking system set up on his laptop. All the data from every game played in English football, Spanish La Liga, Italian Serie A, the Bundesliga and the French Championnat is logged, stored and used to set up a form ranking system that's got us on a win ratio of 73% over the last five seasons. And what's more, it's all coming to Africa!'

  I can read the scepticism on Kiwi John's face. There's a lot I haven't explained yet:

  'So who's the brains behind the operation, mate: you, or your autistic genius son?'

  'Well, Little Stevie is amazing with all the data logging but his weak spot is that he can't really use any of it to make his own predictions about future matches. So sadly, the actual selection process is where he's entirely dependent on me for now. As for genius, well I don't know about that, but his memory is phenomenal. Sometimes I wonder why Little Stevie bothers logging all the old scores onto his computer, 'cos he can reel them all off from memory faster than his fingers tap the keyboard.'

  We both laugh at this and Kiwi John looks impressed, but I know he won't be too interested in the details of our football betting business, so we move on and talk Africa and old friends and enemies instead.

  Then before long we're tucking into steaks and salads and knocking back more beers while the children continue to get on just fine.

  'So what's the big plan, mate?' Kiwi John asks once Laila has gone inside with the dishes and in the corner of the garden the girls are getting more words out of Little Stevie than he normally uses in a week. 'How long are you staying in Kenya this time?'

  'It's for good, mate,' I sigh. 'And what's more, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve this time round.'

  'Tricks?'

  'Yeah. The football's only the start of it. You see, I reckon that if we can get every freeloader in Kenya hooked into our new football betting charity, then I've got another project even more special, which I want to run by Dismas himself.'

  Kiwi John scowls then spits into the fire at the mention of Dismas Mosiro's name.

  'You know that turncoat Masai bastard is a minister now?'

  I nod:

  'That's mainly why I came back here to Kenya, mate, instead of Venezuela, Angola or anywhere else in bloody Developing Worldia. This time, I'll admit I am speculating, but speculation or not, I just fancy my chances of getting my old friend Dismas Mosiro to remember what he was spouting off about round the camp fire in Magadi when he was just another herder all those years ago. And if he does, I know we'll all be in for some real fun.'