Black Star Nairobi Read Free

though, because the life I had chosen was here, in this country.
    News about the upcoming Kenyan presidential elections followed—the usual name-calling—so-and-so was corrupt, a tribalist, and worst of all, it seemed, a politician. There was one piece of news that piqued our interest: large caches of machetes—made in China, like everything else everywhere—had been found at the port in Mombasa. It was not clear for whom they were intended, or for what purposes—the customs police were investigating.
    “I have something to say,” MC Hammer said, standing up and fanning his bright gold pants as soon as the news went to commercials. “Kenyans taking over the world. Machetes from China. To those who might have bad intentions—just remember. You can’t touch this,” he said and started dancing. The whole bar shook with laughter.
    “Nothing to worry about,” a man holding on to a Tusker bottle drunkenly chimed in. “We like to kill a little during election time—but we don’t have the stomach for Rwanda. This will pass. A little bloodletting to bless the democracy … A Chinese machete? My noggin is like a fortress—impenetrable.” Encouraged by the laughter, he stood up, chugged the rest of the beer, and broke the Tusker bottle on his head.
    “I wonder where our guy fits into all this mess,” O said to himself.
    “Which mess, O?” I asked.
    “All this shit—he is somehow connected with everything—elections, U.S., Kenya,” he explained his gut feeling.
    O called Hammer to us and he glided over.
    “What time is it?” he asked us.
    “Hammer Time,” I answered. He laughed and sat down.
    “Have you heard any ghost stories about Ngong Forest lately?” O asked him.
    Hammer paused.
    “My throat is very dusty, full of cobwebs—the only cure is nectar from the gods,” he said finally.
    O ordered a Tusker for him. Hammer waited without saying another word until it came and he took a sip.
    “This particular ghost was manufactured with a shot to the head and the heart—very clean,” O explained.
    “We don’t do clean—a foreigner killed him … haven’t heardanything, but it sounds like the kind of business Hammer does not want here—when it comes to crime, I am a nationalist. Let Kenyans do other Kenyans.” He took his beer and glided off. If he found out something, he would let us know—maybe.
    “Our guy fits nowhere until we know more. We find out who he is, and we break this case open. For now, we don’t know shit,” I said to O.
    “I need some fresh air,” he said, and stepped outside to smoke a joint. This was a strictly no smoking bar, cigarettes, weed, or anything else.
    I was tired. I needed to go home. I wasn’t worried about leaving O here, high and drunk; someone, friend or foe, would make sure he got into his Land Rover okay. I took a cab home to Limuru and asked the driver to drop me off a few wooden gates from home. It was a useless precaution because in this small town, all someone had to do was ask where the American lived. Still, I thought it was better than leading someone who wished me ill straight home.
    I woke up the following morning to find Muddy at her desk, writing, a joint and coffee in hand. I stared at her for a few moments, mesmerized by her dead-serious beautiful face appearing through the ebb and flow of smoke as she puffed and typed. At times like these, I fantasized about getting old with her—the world remaining this still beauty of streaming sunlight, the only change being Muddy and I getting older and older.
    She was wearing a red, green, and black wrap, long beaded earrings, and, unlike during performances, she had her dreads up, so that they seemed to shower around her face. All things being equal, she should have died in Rwanda. Often she wished shehad—surviving the death of everyone she loved in a body that no longer felt like hers, joining the resistance and killing over and over again; it was hard to make a life out of those memories.
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