The White Masai Read Free Page B

coming out that a wave of nausea hits me. The hefty guy shouts something into this dark hole, and a few seconds later a completely wild-looking individual emerges, apparently a Masai but without any of the usual tribal ornaments. I shake my head in horror and ask Edy, ‘Is he the only Masai here?’ Apparently so. The prisoner is thrown back in with the others huddled on the floor. We turn and leave. Edy says: ‘Come on, we’ll take a matatu – they’re faster than the big buses – and look in Mombasa.’
    We take the Likoni ferry again and then the bus to the edge of the city, where there’s another jail. It’s much bigger than the last one. Here tooI get harsh looks because I’m white. The man behind the barrier pays no attention to us, just leafs uninterestedly through his newspaper, leaving us at a loss what to do. I nudge Edy: ‘Go on, ask!’ But nothing happens until Edy tells me I should slip the man a few Kenyan shillings. He doesn’t say how many. I’ve never had to bribe anybody in my life before. I set down a hundred Kenyan shillings, which is about ten Swiss francs. He trousers the cash almost without noticing it and at long last looks up at us. No, no Masai called Lketinga has been brought in recently. There are two Masai here but both are much smaller than the man we’re describing. I still want to see them; after all, he might be wrong and he’s already got his money. He gives me a black look but gets up and opens a door.
    I am shocked by what I see: a crowd of people crammed together in a room without windows, some sitting on cardboard boxes, others on newspapers or on the concrete floor. Blinded by the sudden light, they hold their hands up to their eyes. Only a narrow space to walk has been left between these cowering human beings and in a minute I see why; a prison worker appears and throws a bucket of ‘food’ in, directly onto the concrete. Unbelievable: even pigs are treated better! At the word ‘Masai’ two of them come forward, but neither is Lketinga. I’m losing hope. What on earth do I expect when I find him?
    We drive in to the city centre, take another matatu and rattle along for an hour towards the northern coast. Edy tries to calm me down, saying he must be here. But we don’t even get as far as the door. An armed policeman asks what we want. Edy tells him, and he shakes his head, says they haven’t had anyone new brought in for two days. We leave. By now, I’m despairing.
    Edy says it’s already late and if I want to be back by two, we have to hurry. But I don’t want to go back to the hotel. I only have today left to find Lketinga. Edy suggests we try the first jail again because inmates sometimes get moved from place to place. So in the sweltering heat we drive back towards Mombasa.
    Crossing the river, our ferryboat passes another and I notice there are almost no people on board, just vehicles. One in particular stands out: a bright green van with barred windows. Edy says it’s the prison transport van. I feel sick at the thought of the poor creatures inside but think no more of it. I’m tired, thirsty and sweaty all over. By two-thirty, we’re back in Ukunda.
    There’s a new guard outside the jail now, and he’s a lot friendlier. Edy explains once again who we’re looking for and there’s a lively discussion of which I understand nothing. ‘Edy, what’s going on?’ He tells me that barely an hour ago Lketinga was taken off to the north coast, where we’ve just come from. He had been in Kwale, then was here for a short while and now is on his way to the jail where he will be kept until standing trial.
    I’m starting to go mad. All morning we’ve been charging around and not half an hour ago he went right past us in the green prison wagon. Edy looks at me helplessly. We ought to get back to the hotel, he says, and tomorrow he’ll try again, now that he knows where Lketinga is. I can give him the money, and he’ll bail him out.
    I only need a second to