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FRANCES KING Chaos, bloody chaos.
CHAOS, BLOODY CHAOS. | |
Pushpa and Vijay sat together at
the back of the cinema. Not for them was the frenzied snogging, love
biting and groping that might have
been the norm in Slough or Toronto, for this was suburban Nairobi and
they were
content to sit in the dark holding hands murmuring occasional sweet
nothings
into the other's ear. Neither had paid any attention to the film, but
there
were the occasional noises of gunshots
from the screen, which hardly intruded, but then it
dawned on Vijay that
machine guns had not been invented by that time and there were
definitely
bursts of automatic weapons to be heard. His apprehension was confirmed
when a
figure in army fatigues strode in from the door at the back and fired a
Kalashnikov at the projection booth. The film shuddered to a halt and
the house
lights flickered on. The gunman shouted in English with
what seemed to Pushpa,
a thick Birmingham accent. "All right, any Muslims in here,
get out now. The
rest of you stay put". As Vijay and Pushpa were already under their
seats,
this was OK by them. The gunman fired again at the Projection booth.
"Move
move move", he shouted, just before the lights went out. "C'mon, Let's go" whispered Vijay
urgently
pulling at Pushpa's arm. Bending low, they ran as silently as possible
to the
other back exit and into the dimly lit corridor. There was no one there
but the
occasional body lying spreadeagled on the floor, pools of blood seeping
from
them. "Oh my god, This is serious" they
thought, "Which way now? There was more
automatic fire from behind
them and then from in front. they ran past Mr Singh's Tutti Fruiti
Snack bar
where Sanjay, Pushpa's brother, who was meant to be chaperoning her,
and his
friends used to hang out playing computer games while she was in the
cinema. No
one there now but ominous pools of dark congealing blood. "Oh my God, I hope he's OK"
fretted Pushpa. "Psst, In here" hissed someone. It
was Mr Malik
from his flower shop. "They're coming back. Get in here
you two, hide
behind the counter. You're safe in here, I'm a Muslim. He tugged his
lacey
skull cap over his brow, to make the point." "What are you doing here?"shouted
a rough voice
from the pedestrian corridor outside the shop, this time in what
sounded like
an American accent. "Have mercy on me," quavered the
Florist.
"I'm a poor Muslim and I have to water my stock otherwise it will all
die
and I will be ruined." "Muslim are you? then what's the
name of the
Prophet's Mother then? "Oh, ah 'Hadijah' I think". "No it isn't. That's the name of
his first wife, I asked
for the name of his mother. Come on. Any good Muslim could tell you
what it is.
I don't think you are a Muslim at all. I think you are a Jew and
deserve to
die." With all this drama going on above
their heads, the two
teenagers cowered under the cash counter unable to influence matters
but
acutely conscious that their lives too were in the balance. Vijay had a brainwave. He whipped
out his mobile phone
and tapped in the question, "Thank God he had persuaded his
father to buy him the
top model with fast internet connections but was there a wifi
connection,under
a desk in the Florist's shop? No sound from the machine. Not surprising
as
Vijay had disabled all noise effects so he could use it illegally at
school.
But was there wifi? Yes there was, from Tutti Fruiti, just down the
Mall. Good
Old Mr Singh. And there was the answer. He tugged at Mr Malik's trouser
leg. "Amina". Mr Malik managed a quick smile. He
straightened up. "Oh yes, I remember now Effendi.
It is Amina, who is
the prophet's mother, blessed be her name." "Blessed be her name indeed. And
don't forget it. You'd
better get the hell outahere as there's going to be one hell of a
battle
soon." "Thank you sir, but this is my
shop and I'll take my
chances here." "Well don't say I didn't warn you.
Here they
come". He loosed off a burst from his Kalashnikov outside and received
a
burst of fire in return, which doubled him up and he crashed down to
lie still
amidst the shattered glass of Mr Malik's front window. The three of them cowered out of
sight behind the cash
counter as a gun battle raged in the Mall outside. The three of them
huddled
together, acutely aware that the thin ply of the wooden desk front was
no
protection against a bullet. "Well at least that guy out the
front is dead,"
said Vijay, but who are they and what do they want.?" "They'll be Shifta from Somalia,
protesting Kenyan
army involvement in the Organisation for African Unity, trying to bring
peace
to their country." said Mr Malik sadly. "But why the foreign accents?" "I'm fraid that the call of the
Jihad attracts young
Muslims from all over the world. It makes a moderate
Muslim like me very sad. All I want is a
quiet place to live, work hard and raise my family. That was Nairobi.
It isn't
any more, thanks to this lot. They talked in whispers for maybe an hour
as
every now and then here were bursts of gunfire. Pushpa wondered what
she would
do if she needed a loo? There was a crescendo of loud
bangs some way off that
Vijay assumed were grenades. Then there was another hour or so during
which
things went quiet apart from the noise of helicopters overhead. Then
there was
a black Kenyan man in blue uniform with a megaphone. "Listen up everyone, this is
Kenyan Special Forces.
We have secured the outside of the Mall but not the inside. If there
are any
civilians inside, get out as soon as you can. Once you are outside you
should
be safe. Mr Malik stirred, "there is a
shute from my
storeroom into the rubbish bins below, we should be OK that way into
the
courtyard that leads to the car park, let's go.". They looked at the chute, covered
by a thick rubber flap,
from which wafted a foul, ripe odour.
"Better let me go first" said
Vijay. "I'm
thin and if there's a drop, I'll land better. Poooh, but the smell of
last
week's rubbish is a bit high." He slithered in feet first, the smell
got
worse, but there was enough room to move in. Pushpa followed him in and
Mr
Malik brought up the rear. Then whoops they were all falling, thump
into a
large iron rubbish skip full of ripe vegetation and cardboard boxes,
but it was
quite soft and there were no injuries. "Help" called Vijay softly, a
dozen eager hands
pulled him out of the skip and onto the concrete. Then the other two.
The worst
of the vegetation was brushed off them and more burly men in blue flak
jackets
and helmets hustled them across an open space to a wall. On the other
side of
the wall sat a stern faced Asian woman in white with a stethoscope
round her
neck. What are your names?" she barked. "We'd rather remain anonymous.You
see our families
don't know we are here", the two teenagers said, the Doctor scowled. Mr Malik
once
again came to the rescue. "My name is Mahomed Malik, I own the
florist's
shop in the Mall and these are my two children, Ali and Amina (named
after the
Prophet's mother, you know)". "I couldn't care less after whom
she was named"
the Doctor barked, "Are any of you injured?” "A few bruises and scrapes," said
Pushpa,
"but nothing serious." "Right, I'll put you down for
shock and an anti
tetanus shot, go with this nurse." A kindly, black lady in a blue
uniform
led them to an ambulance, wrapped them in a blanket, sat them down and
brought
them a cup of tea each. After which she gave them an anti tetanus
injection "Hey thanks Mr Malik." said
Pushpa. "Not
only have you saved our lives, but also our reputations. I'd be glad to
be your
honorary daughter, whatever she's called". "Yeah, so far so good but
we need to get back to our homes pronto." said Vijay, "And find your
brother. I suggest we start walking and find a taxi." So when the nurse's back was
turned, they snuck off up
the road towards home. There was no need for a taxi, every Kenyan,
black,
white, or brown for miles around wanted to do their bit to erase this
blot from
their country's history and was either queueing to give blood or
offering a
lift to the stranded. They were in a very posh new Mercedes on the road
outside
Brooklands school when they passed a blue VW Beatle. "Stop", yelled Pushpa. She leapt
out and
flagged it down, as in it were the family driver Johnson and (praise
be) her
brother Sanjay. Thanking their lift profusely,
they transferred, drove Vijay
to his road and then went home. Pushpa had hoped to sneak quietly
in and upstairs to her
room but the large figure of Mrs Malhotra was blocking the hall. All her resolve melted as
she could see her
mother had been crying. They fell into each others' arms and the tears
then
really flowed. A parent's first instincts on being reunited with a
missing
child is often to smack them with relief. This was not Mrs Malhotra's
way. The
two of them just clung together crying. Vijay could do nothing more
than
carefully circumvent them and help Johnson carry the shopping through,
ostensibly the reason for their outing in the first place, and put it
on the
kitchen table. "Pooh, you stink of rotten fruit
my girl" she
said. "Yes, I fell onto a pile of it in
the market, and
when Vijay hurried to help, like the gentleman he is, he fell in it
too."
she fibbed easily. "Well both of you, go and get
showered, then put
your clothes outside for the dhobi and tell him,'pesi pesi'. And you
two as
well, pesi pesi, time for dinner. Thank God you're both all right." "Why, what's happened Mum? "You don't know? You must be the
last people on the
planet. We've had BBC, CNN and goodness who else flying overhead.
Somali
terrorists attacked our Westlands shopping centre, hundreds killed.
That's why
I was so worried, in case you were in there" "They sent in the Special Services
Anti terrorist
squad.Two floors of Nakumatt supermarket collapsed, Chaos, bloody
chaos.!"
chimed in Mr Malhotra from the doorway to the living room where the
television
flickered. "Wow," exclaimed Vijay. "We saw
the smoke
and stayed away, which is why we haven't got quite everything on the
list,
sorry Mum. "I really don't mind if you're
back empty handed, as
long as you're back. Oh Kenya, Kenya, what's happening to you? " "You're right my dear, we were
just recovering from
the bombings of that hotel in Mombasa and the American Embassy here,
and now
this! My God what a body blow! Well, as Kipling says. 'We build it up
again
with worn out tools'. No damn Somali Shifta band gets away with this. I
may not
be young enough to fight the bastards, but I have my ways, I have my
ways.
" He rumbled menacingly into his luxuriant moustache. Mrs Malhotra
shooed
her children off to get showered and rushed to get a meal onto the
table. Next morning, still bristling with
indignation, Mr
Malhotra drove the BMW down to Westlands with his two (clean) children
in the
back seat. The Westlands centre had indeed
taken a pasting and looked
like a building in Beirut, pockmarked by bullets, littered with rubbish
and
charred with burning. No problem with parking today, the lot was empty
but
nevertheless, the guards saluted smartly and cheerfully. "Jambo jambo" They chorussed. And
"Asante
sana, bwana mokubwa." as Mr Malhotra grossly over tipped them. The
Malhotras walked slowly up the concrete stairs to Mr Singh's Tutti
Fruiti bar,
scrunching through a layer of broken glass underfoot, noting that the
escalator
had not yet been coaxed into action. "G'Morning Singh Sahib", Mr
Malhotra called.
For a Punjabi, you do a good dosa. Three Massala dosa, a capuchino for
me and
whatever these two want. "Morning Malhotra Sahib, first
customers of the day,
you bring me luck." "Don't worry Old Chap, business
will pick up, we're
hardy folk in Kenya, you'll see. "I say, Odhiambo, Is that you?".
Mr Malhotra
called to a large black gentleman walking along the corridor,
inspecting the
ceiling, who answered the call by walking over and warmly shaking his
hand.. "Hello Mr Malhotra, I hope you
haven't come to tell
me you're not interested in the Workshop concession after all?. "Not at all, not at all, quite the
contrary," beamed
Mr Malhotra. I wasn't sure yesterday but those bloody Shifta made up my
mind,
then coming in here this morning I had a brainwave." Mr Odhiambo sat
down
in the proffered chair, all ears, and Mr Singh cruised up to take his
order. "Yes if I open a workshop here in
Westlands, I will
transfer the brightest mechanic from my workshop downtown to be Chief
Mechanic.
That is Mr Singh's son Talwant, and ask my two children to manage the
customer
relations and business side of things. They're finished at school and
Uni in a
month or two. What would you like to eat and drink Mr Odhiambo? when you've broken your
fast, we'll go down
to your office and sign papers." Mr Malhotra was enjoying himself and
took
a large bite out of his dosa. Pushpa took out a tissue from her handbag
solicitously
wiped off the layer of coconut chutney which had adhered to his
moustache. Along the corridor a group of
cleaners approached in a
line, sweeping the broken glass before them. Another detail was
scrubbing at
what looked like bloodstains on the wall. An Asian man of about twenty
sauntered past. "Hello, young man, you' re AM
Patel's son aren't
you?" Pushpa's head snapped up and then snapped down again. "Yes sir, My name's Sanjay, my
Dad's a surgeon at
Nairobi General and we use your workshop down town for servicing the
car. Good
Morning Mr Malhotra, What a terrible tragedy. I hope you were no way
involved." "No thank God, no involvement
yesterday but today,
that's different. Today we start again and get this place going again
to show
these dam' Shifta, they can't shake the resolve of us Kenyans, eh
Odhiambo?" "Well, count me in," said Sanjay
stoutly,
"I'm on the editorial board of the student newspaper and I'll make sure
that any activity here at Westlands gets full support and publicity." "Good man, good man, that's the
spirit,"
chuckled Mr Malhotra."Dear me, dear me, where are my manners? Will you
take something to eat and drink young Sanjay, This is my daughter
Pushpa and my
son Vijay." Sanjay made the polite 'namaste gesture'. "Good Morning
Miss Pushpa, Hiya Vijay, what's news?" "And that goes for the School as
well." said a
tall passing white man. "I do beg your pardon for butting
in, but I wanted
to greet Mr Odhiambo and ask what news of his daughter Priscilla, last
year's
Head Girl who got a scholarship to Oxford. "Don't apologise, Mr Rodgers, this
is a council of
war and the school has an important part to play. Priscilla is fine,
missing
family and friends and the taste of ugali, but
she's in the varsity
netball squad and enjoying her studies. We rang her this morning to
assure her
that the family was safe and she tells us that Westlands was in all the
UKTV
news programmes last night, but as yet she doesn't have a boyfriend" "Well, that won't take long,"
teased Pushpa,
"Priscilla's a beautiful girl. Hey Dad, what about involving Mr Malik,
the
Florist? They smashed his front window and it would look good to
involve
moderate Muslims in any show of Kenyan solidarity." "Out of the young comes forth
wisdom. Good idea
Pushpa," said Mr Rodgers "Dad, it's Mum's hirthday next
week. Give me a
hundred shillings, I'll order the flowers and invite him to join you at
the
same time, he's just one floor down. So a grand reopening one month
hence was agreed when the
whole centre would be tidied up, local and foreign press invited, The
President
would come or at least drop in as he had lost family in the
catastrophe, all
theUN agencies, Embassies and high Commissions as well. Five percent
discount
in all the shops, special food on offer at Tutti Fruiti which would
rebrand
itself as an internet cafe, and of course the opening of a car
maintenance club
at the latest Malhotra garages outlet in Westlands. As they drove home in the BMW, Mr
Malhotra said to no one
in particular, "Nice boy, that Sanjay Patel, what's he doing at Uni,
Vijay? "Electrical Engineering, they say
he's pretty good,
he always has the latest gadget, and knows how to use it. They also say
he's
got a scholarship to MIT next year, replied Vijay. "Hmm," said Mr Malhotra, "I think
we need
to know him a bit better. Invite him round for dinner some time, will
you
Vijay? " Vijay winked at his sister, who
squeezed his hand in
return. Francis King, Oxford Oct 2013 |
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