Mombasa Road Retravelled Read online

  Chapter 7

  Neither transport nor lodging for Beatrice and Njeri prove easy to solve and there's plenty for me to deal with over the next forty-eight hours, but on Wednesday night we're back with Fingers, Kevin and the rest of the gang back in Annie Oakley's. It's Wednesday night Champions League football and the first Football Kenya fixture for Fingers and the boys. They're showing the Chelsea v Panathanaikos game on Annie Oakley's big screen, and we're knocking back beers from eight onwards (all courtesy of yours truly) so we can bag the best tables.

  Tonight our Football Kenya money has travelled east as planned with Real Madrid into furthest Ukraine and we will all be relying on M-Net, the South African satellite channel, to flash up the goals from the other Champions' League games as they go in.

  I've taken a risk bringing Little Stevie along to Annie Oakley's, but then I am in the business of risk. He sits glumly on the periphery sipping a soda, while Kiwi John and I chat to Fingers and the gang. Fingers and his mates seem to know all the girls, so there's a never-ending catwalk of 'Sasa?' and limp palms for us to slap.

  'I like your boy!' several of the ladies tell me at different times. 'Can I have him tonight?'

  Little Stevie doesn't answer, of course, but now and then he has to lean over in his chair to look past his admirers and see the big screen.

  Soon the arrival of the good-time girls has fragmented our table into several sub-groups. As the volume builds, Little Stevie starts to find his focus on the big game build-up a little too disturbed for his liking, so he begins to twitch with some early warning signs. Fortunately it's only a trained ear like mine that can make out the incipient crescendo of giant mole rat noises he's letting out; at the moment, they're still the short speculative trills the accursed rodent rasps as it hovers around the entrance to its burrow. But if I don't act soon, they'll get a lot louder and weirder.

  'Come on Stevie Boy, let's have a game of pool over there in the corner. If anything, you can see the screen better standing up.'

  There was a pool table in a place we stayed in two summers ago in Italy, and Little Stevie spent virtually all day every day on it for ten whole weeks. In fact, he became so attached to the pool table that I was able to leave him for long periods on his own in the bar while I chatted up a cute Italian girl who served in a restaurant across the road. He got good. Very good. Which means I'm in for a couple of quick thrashings here.

  I soon discover that Little Stevie's pool playing skills haven't deserted him and as he sinks the black with all my reds still on the table a young woman strides between us.

  'Hey, mister!' she says, with a cue in her hand. 'I'm going to eat your boy alive!'

  Little Stevie looks up at that and I feel myself duty-bound to play down his chances of falling victim to an act of random cannibalism and explain the metaphor properly, but then I take a good look at the girl who's just joined us and can see straight away that Little Stevie's noticing what I'm noticing.

  She really is quite cute. Tall, thin, straightened hair tied back in a ponytail and long lashes dancing around come-on eyes. She leans over the table to rack the balls and I'm gulping loud enough for both of us, watching a huge pert pair of breasts almost pop out of a skin-tight top.

  'Well, let's see how you two get on,' I smile, hoping I've guessed Little Stevie right.

  'Come back when I've finished with your son and I'll have you too, Daddy,' she winks.

  'We'll see,' I nod, and am suddenly hoping like hell Little Stevie doesn't flip into anything too strange. For some inexplicable reason, I'd really like to see him hold his own with this very presentable young girl, and I'm not talking pool, for that's already a foregone conclusion, with Little Stevie being a 1.01 to win, which is Betfair jargon for a dead cert.

  Back with Fingers and the boys I'm just in time to become centre-stage in an extended round of bottle clicking and chinking as Chelsea kick off against Panathanaikos and Fingers and his mates get euphoric about their baptism into Football Kenya.

  Fairly soon, however, there's a good sense of just how focused their minds are beneath all the beery bravado, for there's a deluge of questions about the Shakhtar Donetsk v Real Madrid game, and though it's my money they've got riding on the Spaniards, I'll feel like I'll have robbed them of their Kibera homes if Real cock it up.

  The commentary on the TV has been turned up by popular demand, but I'm still keeping an ear tuned in on the pool table behind us, and so far so good. I believe Little Stevie is already up by several games and I can hear plenty of flattery and congratulations from his sexy opponent. Then out of the corner of my eye I see Little Stevie look up for the first time from the pool table and smile at her. Yes! I hiss elatedly to myself and then I hear Little Stevie laugh too. And all this despite live football on the big screen right in front of him.

  In my business, however, you never ride the crest of the wave for too long and events in the Ukraine soon bring me crashing down. An M-net scoreflash shows an early Shakhtar goal.

  'Shit!' Fingers shouts out loud and there's a chorus of 'Motherfucker!'

  The moaning and groaning persists all around the table with Kevin holding his head in his hands and mumbling 'No, no, no!', while big, strapping Evans Majengwa, who introduced himself to us in Kibera as a former Kenyan middleweight boxer, is staring blankly at the Chelsea game on the big screen and reeling off a list of Real players out loud to himself in the same way a Catholic in extremis might pick off rosary beads with forlorn appeals of intercession to named patron saints: 'Ronaldo? Benzema ? Sergio Ramos ?'

  I call Little Stevie over and get him to check his watch, which he does - still plenty of time left to play in the first half. His pool-playing sweetheart follows him over and then moves around our table, slapping palms with all Fingers' mates, whose names she mostly knows, and then finishes up standing provocatively in front of me, blocking my view of the Chelsea game:

  'Hi, I'm Janet.'

  I can't restrain a smirk despite the circumstances. Why do these gorgeously sexy women always have names more associated with elderly spinsters in the UK?

  'Hello, Janet. I'm Brian. Did my son thrash you?'

  'He did, but it's your turn now, Daddy Brian.'

  'No chance at the moment, I'm afraid, Janet. I'm working.'

  Which makes Janet turn dubiously towards the screen:

  'Working?'

  'That's right,' I smile. 'But I can't explain it right now. So why don't you sit down and join us for a few drinks?'

  Janet does just that, nestling right in between me and Little Stevie, and every time she wriggles and her buttocks shift position, the ripple effect reveals mouthwatering chunks of long, slender leg or fulsome cleavage, which both Little Stevie and I really ought to be distracted by, but for our differing reasons are not, and we remain glued to the Chelsea game as the Chelsea centre forward heads the Blues in front, and I'm wondering why we didn't take the short odds on the Chelsea obvious.

  If Fingers and the boys are pondering the same, they at least have the decency to keep it to themselves. But if anything, the Chelsea goal soon spurs them on to new heights of fervour and there are choruses of 'Come on Real Madrid!' shouted all around the table with renewed belief. I'm also finding myself desperately wanting an equalizer like I've never wanted a goal in my life. Suddenly this thing has become a whole lot bigger than me and Little Stevie: there's a growing number of people who really deserve better from life depending on the resolve of the boys from Madrid.

  Janet now has a hand on each of our thighs and I'm forced to give her the odd cast-off glance. She smiles as we catch eyes and winks, then whispers:

  'I come back with you and your son tonight. OK?'

  I gaze at Little Stevie now and see that he is clasping Janet's other hand, though still resolutely watching the Chelsea game. It's quaint, and I can't help but smile. My self-restraint is being severely tested:

  'Janet, I'll do something far better for you,' I smile at her. 'We'll sign you up into our business, then
you'll get free money for nothing and you won't have to go home with anyone ever again.'

  Suddenly, Janet pulls her hand away from mine like I've spat at her:

  'But I want to go with you. It's not just money, I want to have you and your son too!'

  'Maybe another night, Janet,' I sigh, patting her knee. 'We'll see. But believe me about the football. It's free money. I'll tell you about it at half time.'

  Janet is just about to answer me but can't. Before her words come out the whole table explodes into uproar.

  I've not been paying attention to the football for the last few seconds and look up just in time to see the scoreflash before it passes from the screen: Shakhtar Donetsk 1, Real Madrid 1, with Real Madrid in bold to show that we've just scored.

  The entire table is on its feet and I feel the victory lust well from deep inside hauling me up and onto my mine like the rest of our team, and in no time I'm doing our victory jig all around the bar, which is doubly crazy for we haven't even won yet, but I don't care and fists are pumping in the air and I'm singing the choral woo, waa, ooo, waa, ooo, ya, bit I do from Viva La Vida with arms waving and Little Stevie right behind me, copying every move.

  The whole bar is staring at us now and curious girls have swamped our table wondering what the hell is happening. Half time comes and I order beers for just about anyone who wants one, whether they're from our table or not.

  Kiwi John texts in from Lodwar on his way to the Sudanese border, and his message shows that he's surely got the football betting bug, for he's found a computer with internet access up there and is following events in the Ukraine from the hot wilds of northwestern Kenya.

  And so I explain to Little Janet all about Football Kenya, but she has only needed to look around her and has already got the gist. She's particularly keen on giving her mobile phone details, but I interrupt Little Stevie as he robotically repeats each digit when he copies the number down in the book, making it clear to Janet that the number she will be receiving texts from is not ours, just in case Luxmi finds herself on the receiving end of some suggestive messages. Janet wants our personal contact number as well though, and eventually, when I'm sick of her pleading, I'm happy enough to hand that over too.

  The Positive Thinking gurus from California would say a Real win was as good as inevitable now with so much mind power not just around our table but throughout the bar as a whole concentrated on a Spanish win in Ukraine. The contents of several dozen beer bottles, however, gradually ebb away nervous sip by nervous sip, and the whole bar becomes more subdued as the second half gradually starts to slide through our fingers with no further news from the Ukraine.

  Big Evans Majengwa has begun his recitation of Real players all over again but it turns out he knows only the three names I've already heard, so these get repeated ad nauseam and it looks like I'll have to teach him a few more names if he's ever to appeal to a fuller panoply of saints.

  By the seventy-fifth minute Chelsea have made it 3-0 at the Bridge and have already wrapped up their game against Panathanaikos, but still there's nothing from Donetsk. Other scoreflashes from other games come and go and each brings a fuller sigh of disappointment.

  We're well into the nervous late-eighty minute zone and I'm busy trying to explain to the table that the money is not all lost on 1-1 as our correct score insurance has got this result nearly fully covered when my mobile buzzes with an incoming text.

  I open up one from Kiwi John and the eruption that comes from somewhere deep and primeval inside is like nothing they've ever seen.

  Before I can explain, however, the big screen does it for me:

  Shakhtar Donetsk 1, Real Madrid 2.

  Pandemonium explodes all around and now the whole bar is copying my stupid victory celebrations. Janet joins in on the act to land two of the wettest kisses ever smacked, first on Little Stevie's lips and then on mine.

  We're both in our own worlds, however, and there's too much else going on in my mind. I'm wondering if they're following this down in Magadi and wherever else the kids from Daudi's school have been spreading the Football Kenya infection. Winning for myself long ago became too mundane, but winning for all these people has given victory a whole new meaning.

  Riding the crest of the wave on that late, late winner in Donetsk, we stay till long after the game at Annie Oakley's, with me laughing and roaring to anyone who will listen, while Little Stevie administers thrashing after thrashing on the pool table, first to half the ladies of Annie Oakley's and then to a rowdy crew of good-natured Sikh guys.

  Is there time in all this elation to unchain the sneaky thought which has been lurking like a party pooper at the back of my mind all night? You bet! As the noise level abates I catch myself looking around the dark corners of Annie Oakley's for any sign of Yasmiin, and I must do it once too often, for Fingers is patting me on the shoulder and shaking his head:

  'Your coastal bibi is not here tonight, Mr Brian. But don't worry, she can come back one day.'

  The unsolicited verbalization of Yasmiin's name has a sobering effect, and I'm suddenly conscious of the fact that I've had a skinful and have to drive Little Stevie back to Laila's house in the dark on the bike, so I scoop him from the pool table and we say our goodbyes. Janet follows us right out to the bike and will only just about be convinced that we really can't fit three on the bike and that I can't take her to someone else's house anyway.

  'She could sleep on the floor in the kitchen with Njeri and her baby, Beatrice,' Little Stevie adds, but he's sadly missed the point, and I've already had enough explaining to do to Laila about my two newly adopted daughters.

  'What an invite!' I chuckle, shaking my head. 'Another night, maybe, Janet,' I add and hammer down the kick-starter.