Softly Calls the Serengeti Read Free Page A

swing back and forth on its worn leather hinges long after he’d gone.
    Simon’s shoulders remained tense with anger as he stared at the space Joshua had vacated. After a long moment he let his breath slowly escape and his shoulders slump. He began to massage his broken knuckles—three on his right hand and two on his left. They always seemed to ache more when he was upset. Koske probably couldn’t remember the day it happened. He certainly wouldn’t remember Simon. Still, the bitter taste of utter helplessness remained vividly in Simon’s memory.
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    Since arriving in Kibera, Simon and his family had always been beholden to someone, be it for the roof over their heads, water, access to sewage facilities, school fees, or the many other dailyneeds of a family. There was little left over from his small income so they had not been able to save more than a few shillings at a time.
    Things improved when he found regular work at a new hotel site along Uhuru Highway. He was given a hard-hat and a half-hour break at midday.
    Simon began to consider buying a plot to build a house of their own. For some time, he’d had his eye on a vacant site above the drain that ran through Kisumu Ndogo. It was a very small site, only enough for three rooms, but he knew it was all he could afford.
    He made enquiries in the area and one day met the owner, a Nubian woman who claimed that her family had held the land all her life. Since there were no title deeds for Kibera land, Simon could only do so much to establish if the woman was speaking the truth and was indeed the owner. He consulted as widely as he was able, talking to friends, to people who knew people in the area, and to those who would be his neighbours. Of the ones who knew the situation, all agreed the woman could be trusted.
    Buying the plot consumed all their money but, as he earned further funds on the Uhuru Highway site, Simon bought second-hand building materials. After work, he would hammer and saw until darkness made it impossible to continue.
    One day a man arrived while Simon was up a ladder, putting a sheet of iron on the new roof structure.
    â€˜What are you doing here, my friend?’ the man asked cheerily.
    Simon looked at him. He wasn’t the usual onlooker passing the time with idle questions. He wore a suit and an open-necked shirt.
    â€˜I am building my place. As you can see.’
    â€˜I can see that you are building,’ the man said, taking a large white handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his protuberant eyes. ‘But who gave you permission to build on this plot?’
    â€˜I have bought the plot. It is mine.’
    â€˜No, no. That is not possible.’
    Simon, becoming agitated by the man’s superior attitude, again looked down from his ladder. ‘And who are you to tell me what is possible and what is not?’
    â€˜Because I am the owner of this plot.’
    Simon came down the ladder on unsteady legs. The man was tall and had broad shoulders, but it was not merely his size that gave him his swagger.
    â€˜I am Gideon Koske,’ he said, as if the name alone would explain the situation.
    It didn’t, and Simon stared at the man with a growing sense of panic. He knew enough about life in the slums to understand that a man in a suit had power beyond anything that people like Simon could match, regardless of the legalities.
    â€˜But considering you have invested so much in building materials, I am prepared to sell the plot to you on very favourable terms,’ Koske said.
    Simon began to laugh. He laughed until the sound grew hollow, and then stopped as suddenly as he’d started. The man’s claim was just too frightful to contemplate.
    â€˜Leave,’ he said through clenched teeth.
    Koske considered him coldly. ‘It is better that you take my offer, my friend.’
    â€˜I am no friend of yours! I said, leave! Get away from my house! Do you hear me?’
    Koske shrugged and