Mombasa Road Retravelled Read online

  Chapter 4

  It's murky the next morning, with a hint of the November short rains in the air somewhere behind the Ngong Hills. Despite all the beer with Kiwi John the night before, Little Stevie is up at his usual pre-dawn hour and forces me outside for a run. I've got altitude and a near-miss hangover to contend with; Little Stevie's got youth, the natural athleticism of his Ethiopian mum and the calm his ritualistic mind finds in such repetitive activity urging him on. Don't bet on me for this one, my friends. You've got more chance on Scotland for the next World Cup or Sepp Blatter for sainthood.

  We find the main road to the Karen dukas with Little Stevie in the lead all the way, sitting on my shoulder in an effort to nudge some extra pace out of me. It's an annoying habit but is easily outweighed by the thrill of cool dry air in my lungs and the warmth of the sun on my back.

  Beneath our heels, the hard-baked, roadside paths waft smells of burnt grass and red soil up at our nostrils, and looking behind me I can see large, puffball clouds of this primal dust, which linger like nosy intruders over the tops of the cypress hedges fringing either side of the road. And sequestered behind these neatly-trimmed evergreens, we catch occasional glimpses of settler-style villas, each set in its own opulent acreage of lush lawns interspersed by clumps of flame trees or eucalyptus.

  There's a surprising amount of pedestrian traffic too for a Sunday morning. In English suburbia, you'd find the odd old man walking his dog to the paper shop, stepping gingerly round piles of last night's vomit, fast food boxes thrown out of car windows by scum drivers and a collection of empty beer cans rattling around in a sere and chilly breeze. But here in Nairobi at this hour the roads are full of penniless askaris striding purposefully homewards after another night spent guarding the houses of the rich, and judging by the gusto of their whistling, the watchmen are not complaining too much about life just yet.

  'What are we doing today, Dad?' Little Stevie asks, lingering just in front of me again and allowing me to catch up.

  'We've got someone to see in Nairobi first,' I answer, glad for any excuse to get Little Stevie to ease up a little. 'Then it's a two-hour ride out of town to a secondary school somewhere hot and dusty called Magadi. You're going to love it down there, I guarantee.'

  'What about our selection meeting, Dad?'

  'We'll do that quickly after breakfast and get our bets on before we leave.'

  Having run now for twenty-five minutes on the outward leg, we turn and take on the clock and the traffic for the return leg. Little Stevie surges ahead all the way now and I've got my work cut out even to keep him in sight.

  Back at Kiwi John's house, breakfast is already near the table. We shower and I drink coffee while Little Stevie is busy at his laptop, preparing for the ritual of our selection meeting.

  Kiwi John and Laila are chirpy, but I sense that they have sacrificed their Sunday morning lie-in in our honour. There's no sign of the girls; unlike Little Stevie, they can evidently manage a proper teenage Sunday morning lie-in.

  The run has fired me up and I'm anxious to get on with everything. We eat quickly, discussing our plans with Laila and Kiwi John between forkfuls of sausage, beans and toast, while Little Stevie continues to divide his attentions between a plate containing nothing more appetising than his daily ration of plain, dry toast and his laptop, before finally pushing aside the laptop to write four or five names on a scrap of paper, which he then passes on to me. Kiwi John looks on in amusement as I circle two of the names and hand the paper back to Little Stevie.

  'Is that your selection meeting?' he asks.

  'That's it,' I laugh. 'Just two games I fancy today from Little Stevie's recommendations: in-form Villarreal to beat Atletico Bilbao in Spain and home specialists Sampdoria against Livorno in Italian Serie A.'

  'I'll be checking online later, mate,' says Kiwi John with the conviction of a new believer. 'And I'll call you tonight with the results.'

  It's just after nine when we're finally ready to leave, our borrowed camping gear and a few supplies packed into the panniers Kiwi John has welded on to the Africa Twin. We've got our leathers on too, and I know that Kiwi John, Laila and I will be feeling a sense of nostalgia as I kick-start the Africa Twin back to meaningful life after twenty years out.

  The engine roars awake on the third kick, and my throttle churning is enough to bring Almas and Lulu into the courtyard. They appear in dressing gowns on the verandah, yawning one after the other, stand for a while among the geraniums, squint into the mottled sun, and then move towards us to tap the top of Little Stevie's helmet. He turns to give them a very serious wave before jumping on to the saddle behind me.

  'Stay out of trouble this time!' Kiwi John shouts at my back. I give them all a couple of toots on the horn and a thumbs-up. We're off.

  Twenty years ago I rode this machine round more of Kenya than I'd ever planned on seeing, trying to find out why my little brother Steve had been shot and murdered on the Mombasa road and which bastard had done it. Now he's back with me in a curious sort of way, riding just behind Little Stevie, his wraith wafting somewhere in the tailwind. I'm choking with love for the both of them, and together with the joy of being back here in Kenya and back on the Africa Twin, it's almost all too much as the sun probes through the morning grey and we speed towards Karen and the Ngong Road, making for town.

  The traffic is light at this time on a Sunday morning, consisting mainly of a few matatu minibuses ferrying church goers in starched shirts to mid-morning services. There's a lot of yellow sported by the ladies, and I know that Little Stevie will be picking up on that vibe: Villarreal play in yellow and are known as the Yellow Submarine. I feel Little Stevie's head bobbing busily from side to side and I wonder what he's making of it all. But on second thoughts, I don't want to know about that just yet; right now I'm being overwhelmed by nostalgia, and for me this road will be measured in years, not miles.

  These affluent suburbs around Karen are lush green and were once full of whites that must have been born into the sort of indolence I've had to spend years avoiding hard work to achieve. Like me, I doubt whether any of these Kenya Cowboy types ever had to do a meaningful day's work either in between the pony galas and the golf course, but I believe the sun has largely set on the frontier the Kenya Cowboys once patrolled and the new guard has moved in. So these days there are probably just as many blacks as whites encamped in the country villas behind the lines of cypress and eucalyptus, but I'm pretty confident the change of colour hasn't done much to help the likes of that rag-tag crowd sitting in ill-matching clothes round that collection of roadside dukas. They wait in tatty throngs with the patience of Africa round these rickety outposts of the free market system and seem to be saying, We've found our way to your shops, just give us some money and we'll consider buying something from you.

  At the Karen crossroads we turn right. It's a morbid curiosity that takes me the length of the Ngong Road before cutting across past State House and down into Milimani Road. Of course, Kiwi John has told me that Buffalo Bill's Bar has long gone and that the crowd of hookers, good-time-girls, overlanders and misfit whites that once frequented this notorious dive has moved just a little further up the road to a new place called Annie Oakley's. But after all these years I finally feel able to bring myself to see where it all came to such an horrific end last time around, so I nudge the handlebars to the left and we swing into the courtyard of the Heron Hotel.

  In the courtyard I dismount and walk towards reception. Little Stevie drags behind and I can feel his sulky reluctance at this detour.

  'Is this where we're going, Dad?' he asks reproachfully.

  'No,' I answer. 'Just stopping for a quick look. I was curious to see this place again.'

  'Why, Dad?'

  'Something happened here to someone I loved very much.'

  'Was it something good?'

  'No, quite the opposite, son. She was shot like Uncle Steve. In fact, she was shot by the same man who killed Uncle Steve. Right up there,' I add
, pointing to a balcony four floors up.

  My words are like bleach in his eyes and Little Stevie's hands shoot out to cover his face while he turns himself away from the fa?ade of the Heron Hotel.

  'Don't like this, Dad. Don't like it all. Why did you bring me here? Not good, Dad. Not good at all.'

  I want to put an arm round my son's shoulder but he pulls vehemently away. So I try to explain the mixed-up jumble of emotions that did bring me here, but my words are a predictable failure and Little Stevie slumps to the ground in the onset of Distress Mode. Thank God he doesn't have his comfort books handy, though; they've been accidentally stashed underneath all the gear on the bike, so instead of resorting to Ronaldo or the right ascension of Regulus, Little Stevie makes an unusual attempt to talk his feelings through.

  'You're the only person I love, Dad, and if something bad happened to you I would never go to the place it happened ever, ever again. And even if someone did make me go there, I would scrunch my eyes up so tight I wouldn't be able to see it. That's what I'd do.'

  By this time I'm standing virtually on the spot where Carter landed when he hurled himself from the fourth-floor balcony above after gunning down Jameela in a jealous rage. But curiously, I don't feel anything now, nor has coming back here conjured any of the magic of Jameela back inside my heart; I suppose life has moved on for us all, and right now I think Little Stevie has probably got the best take.

  'You're right, son,' I tell him with a bittersweet sigh, pulling myself out of my selfish reverie. 'Let's get the hell out of here and leave the past behind.'

  But as I'm wrestling with the kick-starter I notice the battered old red telephone box where the conman Musembe used to lurk outside what was the entrance to Buffalo Bill's, and this time the memories do all flood back with a sudden rush. I can almost see Musembe now, propped up against the telephone box, a Tusker-sized grin cleaving his sly face, drug-pinched eyes rheumily concocting rip off schemes that never bore fruition. And how I miss the old bastard! What did Kiwi John say he'd heard about Musembe? Died from Aids? Died of an overdose? Died from liver failure? Hacked to death upcountry in ethnic fighting? The circumstances varied but the prognosis was uniformly bleak.

  Little Stevie is prodding me in the back and I sense he's still trying hard to look away from such a place of ill omen, so we roar off and I make the engine snarl back up the hill all the way towards Kileleshwa and Parklands, where the comfortably off from among Nairobi's Asian community live in once-better houses along lunar-surfaced roads. It takes me a few hit-and-miss attempts before I recognise Guarav's family's house. The askari isn't expecting us and has to go inside to ask for instructions.

  But soon enough Guarav himself is opening the door along with a dozen curious nephews and nieces. He's still a good-looking fellow, jet-black hair slicked back on either side, clean jeans and a white t-shirt.

  'How's the bike repair business, Guarav?' I shout above the engine roar, as we park up behind the family's fleet of ancient, nondescript Japanese vehicles that all have gold tassels draping down from white dashboard covers.

  'So, so,' Guarav grins, now I've cut the engine and we dismount. 'You know how it goes here, Brian. Never easy to make a shilling in Kenya, especially after all the political troubles and now the terrorism too.'

  'Wow,' he says, admiring the Africa Twin. 'Haven't seen it fully assembled yet. And this must be Little Stevie?'

  Little Stevie doesn't answer, but he must have read instantly that Guarav is not as close a mate as Kiwi John, for he's not delving for the rucksack to fish his comfort books out.

  Instead, he wanders away from us further into the courtyard, finds a football and starts to practise his keepy-uppies. One, two, one, two - at least that's better than the bloody football almanac with pin-up boy Ronaldo on the front.

  So I leave Little Stevie to it and follow Guarav inside the house to meet his sister, Luxmi. Despite my long-standing friendship with Guarav, it's Luxmi, a trained accountant, I've really come to see. The people I want to enrich have no access to bank accounts, so as far as middlemen go, Guarav's sister should be the perfect link.

  She's younger than Guarav, short but very pretty too and dressed in a smart, Sunday sari. There are a lot of family hands to shake inside the living room too; they are preparing dinner and it seems they're expecting us to stay. I warn Guarav of Little Stevie's restricted diet and taboo food combinations.

  'No problem,' he shrugs. 'I'll get him some chicken and chips from up the road in Westlands while you two sort your business out.'

  I'm grateful and ask Guarav to get a few extra portions, so Little Stevie doesn't starve where we're going.

  Luxmi shows me down a long corridor full of gaudy paintings of cavorting Hindu gods till we reach her office. It's basic inside here, which suggests that business isn't booming for Luxmi right now. And if that's the case, I'm happy because I reckon she'll be spending a growing amount of time helping me out with Football Kenya from here on.

  'Do you mind if I show you online?' I ask.

  'Go ahead,' Luxmi replies, head swaying gently from side to side in the Hindu style.

  Soon I've connected to Betfair and I let her note down the passwords for the new Football Kenya account I've created for half of Kenya to share.

  'My God!' Luxmi whispers, 'that's a lot of money you're trusting me with, Mr Brian.'

  'I'd trust Guarav with anything,' I answer. 'That's why I chose you to run things, Luxmi, as soon as I discovered that my old friend's sister is a qualified accountant. And when Football Kenya is up and running, I expect you'll get very busy. In fact, I bet that as soon as word gets out that the ?100 starting gift really does translate into cash in the hand courtesy of you, you'll need a battalion of GSU on your gates to keep the feverish watu out!'

  But Luxmi looks more pensive than amused.

  'OK, Let me remind myself of the details you sent me in your e-mail, Mr Brian. Each person you give a named ?100 share to has to wait till their ?100 doubles and must donate the extra ?100 to somebody else of his or her own choice before they can withdraw any cash.'

  'That's it, quite simple really, isn't it? And, naturally, you'll get your small commission each time you withdraw from the Betfair account and pay it on request to a member of Football Kenya. Remember, though, if they take all their money out, there's no coming back again for more. I'm giving an initial sum, but from then on, it's gotta fund itself.'

  Luxmi nods, then looks up from the monitor screen and catches my eyes.

  'All that is fine, Mr Brian, but what I don't understand is, why are you doing all this? Giving away money to perfect strangers, I mean?'

  I smile and look out the window into the courtyard, where I'm thrilled to see Little Stevie actually taking turns on the football with some of Guarav's nephews, who must be near his own age.

  'Come and look out here,' I say.

  Luxmi swishes across in front of her desk to join me and we both look out the window at Little Stevie, now apparently getting on quite well with her nephews and nieces.

  'That's him, that's my boy,' I continue. 'He's my window to the world. When I look at Little Stevie, suddenly I feel exactly the same way I do for him about every other child in the world. The Lottery of Life gave Little Stevie his fair share of problems, but even all of those are nothing compared to the shit-hand that got dealt before birth to the kid from Kariobangi slum down the road. Every time I see my son, Luxmi, I'm filled with a father's love for that kid from Kariobangi too. Love, and a whole heap of sadness as well.'

  'Sadness?'

  'Yea, sadness. 'Cos Little Stevie's is the generation that inherits shit!'

  Luxmi looks like she's choking on my bad language, so I explain quickly.

  'Sorry, but what we're passing on to the next generation is an overpopulated planet that's been fatally poisoned by greed. Whether it's here in Kenya or back in the UK, look what Little Stevie and your nephews inherit: all the land and all the world's resources were long ago carved up and s
old off. These guys are the last to arrive at the party, so there's not much left for any of them and the crumbs that remain are all at premium price. But that's just the start of their problems. This generation will be called the Children of the Warming. They have it all coming to them as Planet Profit fries and overpopulated masses fight for living space on the garbage tip, squabbling over the dwindling reserves of resources we're all over-consuming.'

  'My God, you're pessimistic, Mr Brian! Maybe we'll find new ways of making clean energy and all the pollution will be brought under control.'

  'A techno-fix!' I snarl bitterly. 'That's what the President of the USA believes in. Well he would believe in miracles, wouldn't he? But as you know, Luxmi, I'm a betting man, and believe me, the odds on fixing all the problems that the Planet Profit brigade have left for Little Stevie's generation to fix seriously stink. Don't touch them!'

  'OK maybe,' she shrugs, 'but why don't you just donate your winnings to a children's charity, Mr Brian? There's lots of good work done here for the Nairobi street children, for example.'

  'I bet you're right,' I smile ironically, as Guarav comes in and announces lunch. 'I'm sure there are some great causes I could help. But the problem is that all that shit, however well-intentioned, is just part of the System, the same System that brought us all this mess in the first place. No, I'm sorry, but I'm done with all that. What I want to do is to poke some fingers in a few hypocritical faces. I can't wait to hear the ranks of the sanctimonious recoil in horror when they hear I'm getting poor people into betting! And if Football Kenya does kick off with the bang I'm hoping for, then? well, I don't want to let on too much yet, but I'm hoping it will all eventually lead in quite a different direction.'

  Sunday lunch with Guarav's family is exquisite. There's a selection of vegetarian thalis set up in a huge buffet. I fill my plate many times over while Little Stevie picks fussily at his chicken and chips. I can tell at a glance that the chips will be too soggy for him and the chicken is a whole one, meaning I have to cut thin slices of breast and remove all trace of the leg bones before he will eat any.

  But despite the gourmet lunch, as soon as it's polite to leave I'm anxious to get off. The itch for the open road is in my veins and I'm desperate for the heat and isolation of Magadi. And as I make our excuses, get to my feet and release Little Stevie from his torture of cold chicken and chips, Guarav announces that he'll ride with us to Magadi.

  'I'll carry plenty of extra drinking water, Brian. You'll need it down there. Oh, and this is yours too,' he says, handing me a mobile. 'It's got plenty of credit and you can buy the top up cards at any duka.'

  I thank Guarav for his kindness, too shy to tell him that I already have a satellite phone that Kiwi John has lent me, and we say our goodbyes to all his family. So with Guarav leading the way on his vintage but pristine Yamaha XT 500, we set off on a trip that I last took with Kiwi John all those years ago, when he wanted somewhere out-of-the-way to tell me about the stash of money he and my brother Steve had stumbled across in the wilds of northern Kenya.

  It's early afternoon and I can't believe these roads are so busy. There's a middle class well entrenched in Nairobi now and they're all apparently off to those ghastly new shopping centres like the one you all saw on television in that terrible terrorist attack. Regardless of that awful tragedy, however, they keep springing up all over Nairobi, and rumour has it there's even an ice rink in one of them. I rest my case and wonder if they're replacing melted glaciers with plastic lions and savannah in Greenland.

  Past the Bomas of Kenya we turn left into the Magadi road and enjoy charging over the speed bumps that bite the four-wheelers all the way to Ongata Rongai, a sprawling shanty town that has always, it seems, insisted on compliance with the curious bylaw that all chickens and goats must feed strictly and exclusively on the tarmac of the Magadi road.

  This town always gives me a bad vibe, and I believe I heard it mentioned on the radio back in the UK during the latest round of ethnic violence. A line of vehicles has been blocked in both directions by a crowd of pedestrians, making it hard for us to weave past them. I glance back at Little Stevie and try to guess what he's up to - probably counting yellow shirts again, but I could be wrong and hope it's something more in line with the orthodox sightseer.

  Guarav finds some daylight through the crowd and I follow his path. We pick up speed outside Ongata Rongai and the traffic eases off, letting us enjoy the steepening undulations all the way past Kiserian to Baridi Corner, where the Rift Valley plunges in spectacular splendour to the west of the Ngong Hills. Here, we pull over and dismount, helmets off to enjoy the cool breeze and the panoramic view spread-eagled beneath us.

  'Never fails to take your breath away,' Guarav sighs.

  'He means it's really beautiful, isn't it?' I add, before Little Stevie asks if we'll need oxygen supplies down there.

  'Yes, it's beautiful, Dad.'

  Then I notice him checking his watch:

  'How long till kick off in the Luigi Ferraris, Stevie?'

  'One hour forty-eight minutes, Dad.'

  I could just stay here for hours gazing at the heat-brown contours that unfold for miles before us, but I can't see Little Stevie savouring the view in quite the same way with Sampdoria versus Livorno on his mind, and in any case the tinkling of bells behind us means we're already the afternoon entertainment for a couple of herdsboys and their flocks. With the heat, the view and the cool breeze I'm on a high now and I put on a show for everyone, pretending to ride the herdsboys' goats like a motorbike. Soon everyone's giggling and smirking, while Little Stevie is laughing loudest of all; he always loves me playing the fool and is quick to join in.

  We say goodbye to the boys and I give them a five-hundred shilling note each. That's far, far too much for these infant herders, I know, but it's worth it just to see their astonished faces. They wave enthusiastically as we kick the bikes into life and shout loud goodbyes, sprinting behind the bikes for as far as they can.

  The tarmac takes a succession of twists and dives and soon cuts away below us at a twenty-five per cent gradient. A couple of giraffe are nibbling acacia to our right. Insects in the burnt scrub all around have been programmed to screech speed warnings at us every time the bike exceeds 40 mph on this downhill slalom. The puffball clouds that haunt the jagged crests of the Ngongs turn and twist in the thermals and wave streaky-fingered goodbyes to us as we descend into the cauldron below. Little Stevie pats my right shoulder gently twice, his usual signal when he's found something he's glad to have seen.

  The dry heat wafts up from beneath our boots, increasing in intensity the further we drop, while the thorn bush retreats into palisade patches pulsating with grasshoppers. There's recent road kill just ahead too: a squashed male puff adder. Little Stevie taps twice in quick succession on my left side, but I didn't even need the cue: I knew he'd want to take a look and was already pulling over. Guarav has gone on ahead and it's some time before he realizes he's alone and cuts back to rejoin us.

  'Puff adder, bitis arietans,' Little Stevie smiles at me triumphantly.

  'Well done you boff, give me five!' I laugh and before I know it, Little Stevie is kneeling down on the hot tarmac, squinting at the carcass out of the corner of his eyes, shifting his position to see the squashed snake from different angles. This squinty-eyed, multi-angled viewing of objects is just another of those autism things he does. Of course, I'm well used to it, but Guarav looks bemused.

  'Look out!' I shout prodding the tail to make the puff adder's squashed head move.

  'Dad!' Little Stevie jumps at me laughing, and we start play fighting across the road.

  'Oh sorry, mate,' I say, remembering Guarav, and we're soon back on the bikes.

  No traffic on the road from here on, just beautiful, dry heat. A secret longing makes me want to ride without a helmet again, just like the old days, but I know that whatever I do, Little Stevie will insist on copying. So there's a moment's indecision before I decide to risk it.

>   'Come on Little Stevie,' I say, 'Let's clip these helmets on to the gear behind. We'll be a lot more comfortable without them.'

  Of course, I'm right. It's heavenly cruising along at the bottom of the escarpment with the wind in our hair and sun on our faces. I drop the speed and we pass long lines of Masai cattle straddling the road, following a seasonal river to our left for several miles before passing the prehistoric site of Olorgasalie. Guarav draws up level from time to time and Little Stevie gives my right shoulder two gentle pats every time we pass a Masai moran. I'm so glad he's enjoying this.

  The country soon turns even more desolate, the Masai pedestrians more sparse, until there, at the top of a short steep hill, we glimpse for the first time the stale red waters of Lake Magadi.

  'Njeri's brother's school is through the town on the south side of the lake,' I shout behind to Little Stevie.

  No reply from him, but I guess I wasn't really expecting one.

  The bikes get plenty of interest from the tartan-clad denizens of the corrugated iron shacks of Magadi town. We stop for sodas by a quiet duka with a noisy radio and look around.

  Sunday afternoon in Magadi is not too dissimilar from Sunday afternoon in market town Britain: lots of Masai moran wander in drinking groups up to a dozen-strong. They've obviously all had a few and tartan shukhas do down here instead of replica football shirts and slogan t-shirts, but unlike their British counterparts, these young lads are apparently able to refrain from vomiting over the nearest war memorial, and despite the spears everywhere, I bet there's a lower incidence of knife-crime too.

  Guarav asks the woman behind the cast-iron grille for directions to the school. She points solemnly down the road in the direction we were heading then breaks into a conspiratorial grin:

  'They are expecting you,' she whispers with a flashing smile of beautiful, white teeth.

  And shit, they are! A couple of hundred yards down the dusty track just past the last shacks we turn into the courtyard of Magadi Secondary School, which is the cue for banks of waving, uniformed school kids to burst into song, dancing and swaying about like we're all in some bloody Baptist Church.

  What's more, I recognise Njeri and her husband, Julius Chege, standing outside the main reception waving towards us, and this is all far more than I ever expected.

  We park the bikes in the shade of an acacia tree and immediately, long before I'm off the saddle, Njeri comes running towards me, giving me a huge bear-hug, while Julius Chege stands grinning behind.

  'We thought we'd surprise you, Brian,' Njeri laughs.

  'All her idea, not mine,' Julius Chege laughs, shaking my hand.

  Next up I'm introduced to Njeri's brother, Daudi, while all around the kids are still singing and dancing. A tall and attractive man like his sister, Njeri, with the same obsidian-dark skin, Daudi is the headteacher here and the reason why we are starting our project in Magadi.

  In all the emotion, I realize I haven't introduced Guarav, let alone Little Stevie, but Njeri's already got an arm around my son's shoulder and curiously, he's unusually relaxed about being touched up by a stranger, or is it that Njeri's model looks have bypassed all his malfunctioning brain areas and lit up more basic sequences of neurons that fire exactly the same way in every red-blooded male.

  Njeri and Julius have three kids of their own, a girl, Nancy, and two boys, Lucas and Alfonse, who are brought forward for yet more introductions:

  'Mr Chege used to be a local journalist,' I say, introducing him to Little Stevie, 'who found out lots about the bad people mixed up in Uncle Steve's death. But I expect he is something far more important now.'

  'East Africa correspondent for CNN,' Daudi chips in proudly. 'Julius gave a talk to the leavers just before you arrived, Mr Wood.'

  'Well, no wonder I've never bloody heard of you since,' I wink at Julius. 'Now if you were covering something really important like football, for example?'

  They all laugh, especially Julius. He's lost none of his joviality but looks even shorter than I remember, and the height disadvantage he's always conceded now exposes a balding pate that is poorly compensated on his chin by a squashed shrub of a goatee.

  Julius takes Guarav's hand and makes Guarav feel at home too - I'd forgotten that he and Guarav had never met - and we wave to all the kids in the courtyard once again before following Njeri and Daudi into the comparative cool of the main reception, a large and bare hallway with flaking plaster and no other decoration save a yellow photo of the last-President-but-one.

  Outside in the courtyard, a bell goes and the welcoming choruses subside, while lungfuls of dust are swept inside towards us by the pupils' departing feet.

  'I have arranged for you to talk to the leavers in a special assembly, Mr Brian,' Daudi tells me. 'They are sitting down in the big courtyard right now.'

  'Christ, Now I'm shaking!' I laugh. 'All this formality? really not my style, you know, Daudi.'

  And I mean it too.

  'That's what you deserve,' Njeri laughs, relaxing her grip on Little Stevie for the first time. 'That's our revenge on you, Brian, for being out of touch all these years! We thought we would never hear from you again. It was so surprising when Kiwi John came round with your e-mailed letter last August.'

  I shrug my shoulders and catch Little Stevie eyeing his watch.

  'How long?' I whisper.

  'Ten minutes into the first half, Dad. Is the mobile switched on?'

  I pull it out of my pocket, check and nod:

  'Don't worry, I'm sure Kiwi John will tell us just as soon as there's any news.'

  'Is this one of your matches?' Julius asks.

  'That's right. We're in Italy right now and then one game in Spain starting in two hours' time.'

  So while I explain a little about our betting operations to Julius, we are joined by his brother-in-law, Daudi, looking flustered and concerned. Daudi takes my arm and draws me aside:

  'My sister has explained what you want to do, Mr Brian,' he whispers. 'You are very generous for sure? but? gambling?' he breaks off, shaking his head. 'Gambling is very dangerous business! I don't want these children to learn gambling!'

  I laugh and shake my head,

  'Neither do I, Daudi. In fact, I avoid gambling like the plague! Which is why the way Little Stevie and I make a living certainly can't be called gambling! No, we're in the business of making carefully considered investment decisions about select footballing outcomes based on expertly researched computer predictions.'

  'My God!' Julius laughs loudest, slapping me on the back. 'Brian, Can I believe my ears! I never thought I would hear all that coming from you! You sound just like the money men you always hated so much!'

  I'm laughing with Julius, of course, but deny the comparison.

  'No mate, I'm just out to show the real gamblers up for what they are. And while I'm about it, I'm gonna bring a few scraps for the underdogs to chew on for a change, while the captains of the good ship Planet Profit continue to steer us on a steady course for the Edge of the World.'

  Which makes Julius rock with laughter. And behind him, I can hear what I guess is Njeri admonishing her brother in Swahili for talking to me rudely. I didn't mind anyway, so I glance behind them to see what Little Stevie's up to, and notice that he and Guarav are over by the acacia tree checking chain tension on the bike chains. I'm glad my son is learning all that from an expert.

  Just then the mobile phone goes. On the other end, Kiwi John sounds solemn.

  'Bad news for you, mate. Livorno have gone a goal up. Guess you can't always win, eh?'

  I check my watch.

  'It's still only the first half,' I tell him. 'Give the Blucherchiati time!'

  And I ring off, walking over to Little Stevie to break the news to him.

  No reaction there; instead, he carries on checking over the bike with Guarav. And he's right not to fret too, for he's learned from me long ago that when you're playing a system, you're in it for the long term and not the single game. Even if this one
goes south, it's just a temporary glitch, but I know our recent record sequence of winners is there on his mind, and part of him will be secretly fuming inside just like me that patchy Livorno are threatening to puke on our parade.

  There's a welcome breeze blowing now, and I turn into it to wash some much-needed relief from the heat across my face. Daudi, Njeri and Julius have rejoined us and Daudi is apologising profusely for causing offence. It's hard to convince him that none was taken, but finally I do and suggest we don't leave the leavers waiting for us any longer.

  Meanwhile Njeri is tugging at loose strands of her expensively straightened hair, the highlighted ends of which are gathering dust in the dry wind. She clasps Little Stevie's arm and I'm surprised to see that, for once, my son doesn't shun the physical contact; on the contrary, he seems happy with the touch of Njeri's long fingers and that's just what it takes to get him away from the bikes.

  I chat to Julius and their children as we all follow Daudi around a rocky path that leads via the back of the classroom blocks to a courtyard, which is mercifully largely shaded by the overhang of the buildings and a couple of stunted thorn trees.

  As soon as they set eyes on us, the students burst into another rich round of song. Daudi strides in front along the path till he arrives in front of his sixth formers, then turns to point at me and Little Stevie. The students, all forty-three of them, as I've been told, fall instantly quiet while Daudi starts to address the assembly.

  'Wanafunzi, really this will be a day to remember for all of you! Just half an hour ago you were given some very special career advice by my brother-in-law, the famous journalist Mr Julius Chege, and now I call on you to give a warm welcome to our visitors from England, Mr Brian Wood and his son, Mr Little Stevie Wood.'

  The students erupt into another paean of song and it's a few seconds before Daudi's energetic hand-waving can bring them to silence.

  Though one side of me is chuckling deep inside to hear Little Stevie become Mr Little Stevie Wood, with Sampdoria 1-0 down and the young gentleman in question a very realistic prospect of throwing a Distress Mode tantrum just behind me, I'm suddenly wondering what the hell I'm doing here and whether coming down here to Magadi was all a big mistake.

  Hedging my bets, I reach instinctively for Little Stevie's arm just behind me, ready to pick him up if he makes a dive for the ground, but quickly realize that my luck is strangely in. Far from writhing in the dust to my rear, Little Stevie is looking unflinchingly at the students without any fuss or reluctance, and just then I realize why: their uniforms are blue - what a result!

  'Good afternoon Young Ladies and Gentlemen,' I begin and am ready to continue before I hear forty-three Good Afternoon Mr Brian Wood and Mr Little Stevie Wood's chanted back at me.

  Before I can continue, the mobile in my pocket goes off and Little Stevie holds it to my ear so we can both hear the news. On the other end, Kiwi John is yelling in excitement.

  'Sampdoria have equalised and what's more Livorno have had a player sent off!'

  'That's more like it,' I growl, giving Little Stevie a bear hug as I speak, while I can't stop myself punching the air and shouting 'Yes, Yes, Yes!' all of which is copied by my son. And I've clean forgotten that we are standing centre-stage!

  It takes a crescendo of stifled giggling from the students to remind me that I'm supposed to be talking to them, not celebrating goals. And while I'm making an exhibition of myself here in front of the assembly, the poor students are trying to be polite, cupping brown hands around white teeth to keep the noise down. They probably think all this air-punching is planned and part of a regular act.

  So I bring myself under control and start to speak.

  I start by telling the assembly a little about me and Little Stevie and what we do for a living, but it doesn't take a genius to see that the students are either being extremely polite or haven't really understood anything I've been saying. Probably both. Something else will be called for. And for the second time Kiwi John is right on cue:

  '2-1 Sampdoria, mate! Just on the stroke of half time and all!'

  I pass the phone back to Little Stevie and turn to the students with renewed confidence. This time my voice is shriller, and I try the old preacher-man delivery:

  'When was the last time any of you were given something for free?' I thunder.

  I see white teeth flashing at each other; again the same cupped hands cover covert faces.

  'Who?' I repeat, voice hectoring even louder. 'Come on, tell me please, who among you has ever been given something for nothing by anyone other than your parents, friends or family?'

  It's a rhetorical opening gambit that is not expecting an answer, but contrary to expectation, my speechifying doesn't go unchallenged. A cautious first hand rises tentatively to begin with, then gains self-belief and sprouts jumpy wings, swaying about increasingly histrionically in the air, till it is joined by a couple of even more-confident, straight-backed rivals.

  'Yes, you there,' I point to a lithe young woman. 'You're going to tell me you've been given something for nothing, are you?'

  'Yes, sir! At church, sometimes they give us free clothes.'

  It's a good point and I am forced to nod in concession.

  'OK, fair enough. Maybe in church. But are you sure these clothes are really completely free? Isn't there something you have to give the church in return, young lady, to keep the free clothes coming?'

  'No, we don't have to give anything, sir. We just have to love Jesus and always praise his holy name!'

  A big chorus of 'Praise him, praise his holy name!' breaks out in certain sections, though segments of this brainwashed idolatry are mercifully drowned out by the burgeoning late-afternoon breeze, gusting in behind our backs.

  The wind whips at the flagpole, on top of which a large Kenyan flag flutters and flaps, keeping look-out up above us, while down below the starched white shirts of the students ruffle to the same rhythm, and this freshening, arid air feels as delicious to me as 30,000 Genoese blowing kick-Livorno-arse kisses downwind to us all the way from the Luigi Ferraris.

  'Free clothes sounds good,' I continue unabashed. 'But what I'm offering you is every bit as good as free clothes, and hopefully much, much better! For as soon as you are all signed up in a few minutes to become the first members of Football Kenya, it won't be free clothes, you will be receiving; it will be free money! Clothes might look good, but money talks! And what's more, you don't have to praise anybody in return for this money, not me or my son here or even the football teams that do the winning. You just get it, for as long as we keep on winning.'

  Suddenly there's a good deal more focus among the students, backed up by a lot of murmuring. A flurry of hands now shoots up and some of the serious expressions on these seventeen-to-eighteen-year-old faces really crack me up.

  I take a question from a lanky young man who looks implausibly old for the shorts he's wearing. Imagine a black Peter Crouch dressed in a cub scout's uniform:

  'Please sir, when can we taste this money?' he smiles.

  'I glance at my watch. Right now each one among you has ?100 sterling (which is over 15,500 Kenya Shillings) placed on an Italian team called Sampdoria from Genoa. If Sampdoria win their match against Livorno in the Italian Serie A (and they're winning 2-1 as we speak) you keep the 15,500 shillings in your account and you then get another 16,000 shillings to go with it thanks to the Sampdoria win.'

  There's a satisfyingly large communal exhalation of forty-three breaths, which I'm about to deflate.

  'But there's one catch,' I add. 'The first 15,000 shillings you make you have to give to a friend by signing them up into Football Kenya, just like my son and I are doing for you today. This person can be anyone from among your friends or family members. Now that wasn't so bad, was it?'

  Eighty-six eyes stare back at me in varying shades of relief.

  'And when you've chosen this person, just text us their name and mobile number. Then they too can start to enjoy what you're getting and
you can begin to take your money whenever you like. Only remember, if you take out all the cash in one go, that will be your lot and we won't be giving you any free start-up money again. So it's best to build up a pot well over 50,000 shillings before you take anything out. And even then, only little by little.'

  The Peter Crouch double looks like he's going to wet himself, so I take another question from him:

  'How will we get this money, sir? How will you send it to us?'

  I shake my head:

  'I'm afraid I can't do that for you. When you are ready to take some cash out of your account, you will need to go to a very nice Asian woman in Nairobi to collect it. That's the best I can do, I am afraid, for people without bank accounts. But don't worry, we will give you this lady's details when my son, Little Stevie, logs all your names and contact numbers onto his computer.'

  A thin looking young man with a gaunt face and extended front teeth is next to catch my eye.

  'So the money will keep on going up, until we are as rich as you Mzungus?'

  Behind me I can hear Julius and Njeri chuckling, and I laugh with them.

  'As long as the teams we choose for you keep on winning and you don't take all your winnings out in one go, then yes, you can make some good money; who knows, maybe you will all end up Wabenzi, like the fat guys in the government!'

  The students cheer big time at this and now everyone has a hand up. But I've got one eye on my watch. Little Stevie and I need to get going soon to reach the place we will be camping before it gets dark.

  'Well that's enough from me for now, ladies and gentlemen,' I say, shaking my head at all the hands. 'It's time for you to give your names and mobile numbers to my son and he will log you into Football Kenya on his computer. The rest, as they say, will be history!'

  Daudi, the Headmaster, rushes over to see that an orderly queue is formed in front of Little Stevie, who's sitting with laptop open in the partial shade of a thin thorn tree, accompanied by Julius and Njeri, standing right next to him to help him spell out the names.

  Many of the students have burst into a new song, with the girls leading the refrain. I can't understand the words, but every now and then I make out Sam - door -ria and I just hope they realize that the blucherchiati of Liguria are not a permanent cash cow and are unlikely to be on our investment horizon again in a hurry if they can't put 10-man Livorno to the sword more convincingly.

  I keep one eye trained on the corner of the courtyard to watch how Little Stevie is interacting with the chanting students, while Julius leaves his wife alone to act as Little Stevie's solitary aide and wanders over to grab my shoulder.

  'I hope you don't end up disappointing these youngsters, Brian. They haven't really understood your business properly, but they're certainly excited.'

  'We've done all right out of it over the years,' I shrug, pointing at Little Stevie, and we both smile.

  Julius and I chat some more while Little Stevie is recording the students' names and mobile numbers - just as well it looks like even the poorest Kenyan has a mobile these days. Every so often Little Stevie has to look up while Njeri helps him spell out a name, and I love to keep half an ear out for these little exchanges while Julius asks me all about my plans.

  In turn I ask Julius about some of the names from the past: Dismas? Chege shakes his head. Musembe? But the legendary conman of Buffalo Bill's was never in the social circle of such high-flyers as Julius Chege. Detective Peter Baragoi? Promoted several times by now and transferred, Chege thinks, to Mombasa, though he can't be sure.

  By this time Little Stevie has nearly finished, so we saunter over to Julius's Land Cruiser, where his three kids are waiting, looking bored.

  Guarav is also hanging by the bikes and is similarly anxious to move. I chat a while longer with Julius and Guarav joins in, but I'm not really listening to the conversation: what's intriguing me far more than the talk is that Little Stevie is coping with Njeri's help all by himself and hasn't felt the need to follow me round from the big courtyard or do anything anyone else would interpret as even borderline weird.

  And eventually, here he comes, striding purposefully round the corner of the school, clutching the laptop tightly under his arm. Behind him Njeri follows, grinning broadly and chatting to her brother, while they are all escorted by forty-three young adults, now adding our names to the Sam-door-ria chant.

  'Job done?' I smile to Little Stevie.

  'All done, Dad.'

  'All done,' Njeri beams, 'and the first forty-three members of your Football Kenya are all duly signed up.'

  'And it's all over in Genoa, too,' I grin at Little Stevie, showing him the text I received from Kiwi John a couple of minutes ago:

  Full time: Sampdoria 3, Livorno 1.

  'Oh yes!' I shout, raising a clenched fist.

  'Oh yes!' Little Stevie repeats after me, while I break out into my customary victory dance, which probably looks a lot like an African witchdoctor with swollen knees dancing round chicken bones that have been known to snap at the odd passing ankle. Anyway, I'm sure Didier Drogba does something similar a whole lot better every time he finds the back of the net.

  Little Stevie copies me as usual and the students are whooping in delight at our celebrations. Guarav is smirking slyly, sitting patiently on his bike while Chege and Njeri are almost writhing in laughter in the dust. Behind us their daughter, Nancy, is joining our victory jig, jutting out her elbows and bum out the way I do and echoing our meaningless 'Oh, a, oh, a,' chant.

  We finish our jig to rousing applause and I remind all the students that they now have enough money in their accounts to go and find a friend, whose details they will text to Luxmi's mobile number, which Little Stevie gave them on a scrap of paper as they registered in the courtyard.

  It's getting much later than I planned and time for some swift goodbyes. We embrace Julius, Njeri and their kids fondly and wave to Daudi and all the students.

  'The next game kicks off very soon in Spain,' I shout. 'We'll pass by tomorrow to let you know the result. Just remember you've all got 15,000 shillings already invested in it.'

  'Which name?' they ask. 'Which name shall we sing for?'

  'Sing for Villarreal!' I shout back, kick-starting the Africa Twin. 'They play in yellow.'

  Already I can hear the girls working the name of Villarreal into a new chant as we mount the bikes and join Guarav in churning throttle, with Chege and Njeri waiting to follow us back as far as Magadi town.

  Daudi comes rushing up just as we're about to move and leans conspiratorially towards me to whisper into my helmetless ear:

  'Mr Brian, I have one favour to ask.'

  'Go ahead.'

  'Even me, I would like to join your Football Kenya.'

  I give Daudi a thumbs-up and pat him on the shoulder.

  'No worries mate, consider it sorted,' I shout above the engine roar, and with that we move on out, tooting our horns and waving at the chanting pupils, following in Guarav's dust trail as he picks a careful path through the volcanic rocks that litter the track all the way back to Magadi town.

  At the main junction in town there's more tooting, waving and shouting out pledges to meet up with Julius and Njeri back in Nairobi as we part company and turn left towards the lake. The police checkpoint barrier hasn't changed much in the twenty-plus years since I last saw it. We have to switch off and dismount, going inside a corrugated iron shack to sign our names in a greasy ledger before we can cross the lake via the causeway and head west towards our destination, the Ewaso Ngiro river, which flows dark and low beneath the smudged contours of the Nguruman Escarpment.

  Fortunately it's only a thin stripe of red down the trouser legs of the Kenya Police uniforms, which are, in every other detail, almost totally blue. I point this colour bias out to Little Stevie and he seems comfortable with the fact, while Guarav tells the policeman that he'll be passing back the other way on his own just after dusk.

  We cross the lake with the sun low in front of us. Behind me
Little Stevie is wriggling and shifting position, and my guess is it's the powerful stench of the soda lake that is irritating his sensitive nostrils.

  At the far end of the causeway I let Guarav go on well ahead so I can enjoy the scene. Lake Magadi is one of my favourite places in Kenya and I can even recall almost verbatim the way this stretch of rocky track was described a long time ago by the guy who wrote up the saga of my first time in Kenya:

  "They crossed the lake on the narrow mud causeway, following a rocky trail on the other side that threw stones the size of tennis balls at their sumps. Cloying dust, intense dry heat, loneliness and freedom. Brian thought he had found something almost as uplifting as making love to Jameela - a place that THEY hadn't yet touched yet: Eden before profits and privatization."

  The 'stones the sizes of tennis balls' still seem to be in the right places, but the feelings? Well, almost. Shit! I wish for a second I hadn't remembered that bit about Jameela, but then again, this stretch of track is tougher riding than I had recalled, especially with a helmetless passenger sitting just behind me who's worth more than all the Jameelas of my most vividly nostalgic and erotic reveries. All my concentration is needed to keep the bike upright and there's no time to rake up twenty-plus years of stagnant mud just now.

  Guarav is well out of sight ahead and sudden stretches of thick dry sand start to outdo the stones in their attempts to unseat me and Little Stevie. I'm sweating heavily with all the exertion of keeping the bike upright, and it's something of a relief after what seems an eternity of swaying, tilting and counter-balancing on outstretched legs when we finally draw up alongside Guarav.

  My old friend is pointing at a barrier to the right of the track, and this unwelcome fencing certainly wasn't here before. We read a large sign in scratchy, white handwriting that informs us that the local Masai have turned this stretch of the banks of the Ewaso Ngiro into a huge open-plan campsite. Should I applaud and admire their entrepreneurship or bemoan yet another sliver of Planet Earth lopped off and lost to private ownership?

  Sure enough, it's no joke, for two Masai herders soon emerge from behind some thorn scrub to collect our fee. The transaction is processed quickly and almost silently and there's even a receipt, though they aren't buying Guarav's protestations that he's heading back to Nairobi before dusk and they charge him for a night's camping just the same.

  I can only laugh and pay Guarav's fee for him while he throws up his hands in despair. For me it's the crowning irony, for just a couple of hundred yards upstream from here lies the very spot where one December night twenty-something years ago Dismas Mosiro, then a simple herder, now lawyer and minister in the Kenya government, stepped out of the fidgeting bush like a spirit of fire and put the magic of words and names to the restlessness that had impelled my punk-rock anarchic spirit since birth.

  Little Stevie dismounts while all this haggling is going on and kicks up clouds of the thick alluvial dust underfoot. The sun has long passed behind the Nguruman Escarpment ahead of us, colouring the highest contours a deep, dark purple. Cows are lowing all around from unseen thickets, while tree frogs and insects chirrup the night's imminent approach to larger denizens of the bush who talk in sturdier grunts.

  We share a few swigs of water and restart the bikes. The thick mud is a nightmare and at times I have to get Little Stevie to dismount and run behind the bike to make it through. But the running soon appeals to him more than the riding, and he runs as gracefully as a Masai warrior to my right while I slip and slide through the pathless bush on the big Africa Twin.

  Every so often I rest up to let Little Stevie draw level until we reach a spot where a sandy overhang perched above a bend in the river seems like the perfect spot to pitch camp and strike fire. I have to flash and toot for Guarav, who is way ahead as usual, and we've already got the tent off the bike before his XT500 growls up alongside.

  'Sure you don't want to join us, mate?' I ask. 'It's getting late and you'll be riding in the dark back to Nairobi.'

  He doesn't and makes his excuses. I know Guarav has no love of the outdoor life so I don't press, but am grateful to keep the large jerry can of extra drinking water he's brought for us and make plans to sink a few beers together when Little Stevie and I return to Nairobi.

  So with Guarav's bike now disappearing into the bush downstream, I set Little Stevie to work collecting brushwood for our fire, while I put the tent up in something of a moral dilemma: should I have told him to watch out for scorpions and snakes while gathering the wood, or was I right in guessing that the mention of creatures of such fascination would have severely prolonged a straightforward task?

  Probably I did the right thing, for he's soon back with armfuls of brushwood, all done without a squeal or a yelp of pain. I strip off naked and take a luxuriant dip in the cool, dark river, which is delightful after the heat and sweat of the day. What makes it even more enjoyable is that the strength of this Ewaso Ngiro heat has overcome Little Stevie's reservations about being in water, and he cautiously follows me in, right up to his knees.

  'This river's always best for swimming in the dark,' I shout, splashing water over my hesitant son.

  'Why's that, Dad?'

  'Because you can't see all the diluted cow shit you're swimming in!'

  Little Stevie starts to kick water at my face and we muck around for a while in the river, but I soon get out before the darkness is total and make Stevie check the pockets of his leathers for scorpions.

  I've calculated well. There's just enough light to find torch and matches by and it only takes one strike and one page of the Daily Nation before this kiln-dry brushwood is roaring. I cook camp stew for myself, which is a collection of any old vegetables, a tin of beans and lots of mchuzi gravy mix I found in Laila's kitchen, and it always tastes perfect; Little Stevie picks on some rancid-looking roast chicken and a few peanuts, which are staple elements of his very limited diet.

  This is all washed down by long slugs of hot water and a near-hot beer for me that I've had 'chilling' in the river. We sit down in silence now round the camp fire and soak up the unique, primitive comfort that the sound of a crackling fire must have hardwired deep into the human soul somewhere in our long-lost ancestral past.

  Scorpion skeletons can be seen glowing here and there in the firelight. I point them out to Little Stevie and he gets up to take a closer look. Somewhere nearby a raucous colony of qualia finches is roosting for the night. Further off, baboons can be heard squabbling on the far bank, and further still hyenas are chattering to each other about who put the shopping somewhere they shouldn't have.

  Little Stevie has got his torch beam trained on a scorpion and is prodding its arching, stinging tail in fascination. I let him poke and probe for as long as he wants, enjoying slugs of warm beer, the perfection of the wilderness and a random stream of memories from the past. Overhead the stars are stunning, and I know these will be as rich a source of wonder to Little Stevie as they are to me.

  Soon enough he rejoins me on a log by the fire and there are plenty of 'wows!' and 'look-at-that-Dads!' while we feast our eyes on the luxuriant, unpolluted riches of an equatorial sky, shimmering in silent immensity above us, like a pristine coral reef before Kuoni and cruise ships got there.

  I taught Little Stevie how to recognise all the northern hemisphere constellations from a very early age and as with most other things, these days his knowledge far outstrips my own, meaning he's able to pick out the unfamiliar southern shapes without the star map and red torch I have out. His autistic mind is enthralled too with the rotational transformation of familiar friends at this equatorial latitude, such as Orion resting on his shoulder. Mars, Jupiter and Saturn look implausibly large in this uncontaminated sky, like the thick kids who stayed down a year a two swaggering around in the little kids' playground.

  'Dad?' Little Stevie asks, still looking up at the stars.

  Of course, I'm expecting a routine star question. But this time it's anything but:

  'I think I want
to marry Almas.'

  I pause for a while to reflect on this pronouncement, adding a few logs to the fire and rumbling through the side pocket of my small rucksack for a cheroot, which I pull out in due course and light from an ember.

  'You're both far too young to think about marriage,' I reply, with a satisfying sigh of cigar smoke. 'But you can work on it, son. I take it you really like Almas?'

  'That's right, Dad. I really do like her and I think I want to be with her like you were with that Italian woman you met when we were camping in Italy and the other lady, Samantha, who stayed with us in the yurt two summers ago and you did things together when you thought I was asleep. But I won't forget about you when we're married, Dad. We'll still live together in the woods and go for runs together and do all our football business just like normal. It won't be very different really.'

  I'm chuckling softly to myself now. The Ewaso Ngiro River has certainly not lost its capacity to produce the unexpected.

  'Hang on, hang on a minute, son! First, you've got to get Almas to feel the same way about you as you do about her. That can take time. A very long time. And you can't rush girls into feeling like that. If you rush them, you put them off altogether. And even if Almas does end up liking you the way you like her, you're still both very, very young, far too young to be married. What do you think her mum and dad will say about all this?'

  Little Stevie is silent for a long time. Then,

  'How do I get Almas to feel the same way about me, Dad?'

  The shrill ring of the satellite phone in this wilderness startles both of us and seems as unlikely and as misplaced as a police siren would be or the distant hum of the M25.

  'You walked it, mate,' Kiwi John tells me. 'Villarreal 3, Atletico Bilbao 0, full time. I tell you, you've got me into this football shit. Can you cut me and the girls into your football club too?'

  'Sure thing, I laugh. 'It'll pay for a few beers together tomorrow night.'

  'You're on, mate! And how's Magadi? Any sign of Dismas yet?'

  I laugh aloud and watch Little Stevie doing my victory jig round the fire.

  'Not tonight, I reply. 'I think Dismas has outgrown this place!'

  We chat a little longer but the signal's not good, then suddenly dies. The silence regained is almost overwhelming and much preferred. I turn to Little Stevie and to his problem with Almas.

  'You know how the day we arrived in Kenya you were laughing and playing frisbee with Almas and Lulu?'

  He nods.

  'That's how you must be with Almas. Easy and natural. And then you'll have to see how she reacts.'

  'But how will I know if she reacts the right way, Dad?'

  'That bit won't be easy for you with your condition. You know that, don't you, Stevie?'

  He doesn't answer, but I carry on, searching for some way he can understand.

  'If Almas likes you the same way you like her, Stevie, you should feel like you're one of the real flair players on the football field, you know, like Messi or Ronaldo. If that's the case, Almas will act with you like the other players do with Ronaldo and Messi; you know, she'll always be trying to get the ball to your feet, always searching you out with a long-range pass, even if you're hugging the touchline on the other side of the field. Do you think you get that, Stevie?

  'Sort of Dad. But it sounds complicated.'

  'No,' I sigh. 'Not really. It's anything but.'

  We stay out for hours this way, mostly silent except for the odd comment about the stars or distant lion groans and other noises of the restless bush. My mind is full of memories now and a vague apprehension that's settled home to roost since Little Stevie dropped his bombshell.

  Finally just before we move to the tent I say:

  'I'm really glad to hear what you said about Almas, Stevie, because some day, you know, maybe sooner than you think, son, you're going to have to manage on your own - without me, I mean.'

  'No, Dad,' Stevie protests confidently. 'It's like I told you. Even when me and Almas are married we'll still live with you. We can put another tent or yurt next to yours. That way me and Almas can be married but still live with you.'

  There's a large lump in my throat now and I can't spell out what's eating me from within in the plain language Little Stevie will need to understand it. Another day, then. It will have to wait. Instead I pat Little Stevie's shoulder and take a last, lingering look at the heavens above.

  One of those shimmering bastards must have secreted a couple of tears into my eyes while I wasn't looking, because my eyes are wet now and leaking fluid all down my cheeks, but I know I never cry. Well, almost never.

  Brushing the tears aside with a heavy hand, I scan the sky from east to west, searching for the culprit: Tomorrow night, you buggers, I'll rip one of you right out of that crowded sky and punch your lights out in front of all your mates! That'll teach you! Goodnight now - and thank you for the show.

  'Let's sleep now,' I yawn to Little Stevie, and we move inside the tent.