ones. As I said, you’ve got to attack this on every level.
How much does the average man in the street –?’
‘Or woman …’
The man smiled.
‘Or woman … have to pay
every day? We’re not just talking about direct bribes, but indirectly – in the
things they have to buy.’
Petula nodded.
‘People forget about that. Every time
a matatu driver has to pay a bribe at a police roadblock, that puts the fare
up.’
‘Every time a butcher has to bribe the
health inspector, up goes the price of meat.’
‘So what are we going to do about
it?’
They raised their glasses.
‘Publicity!’
‘And if I may say so,’ continued
Petula, ‘I thought that point you raised at the end of the meeting was spot on.
The internet has got to be the way to go. The government can try to gag the press as
much as they like – I even heard a rumour that the
Evening News
is going to be
shut down – but let’s see them try to control the internet.’
‘That’s right,’ said the
man. ‘Let’s see them try.’ He drained his glass. ‘Another ginger
beer?’
‘Thanks, but I’d better get
home.’
‘What about another meeting tomorrow
then – same time, same place?’
‘Sorry. I promised to go with my dad
on his club safari this weekend, and I have to be up early on Saturday. I’mmeeting Salman – my fiancé – at the airport in the morning and
we’re driving up.’
The man smiled again.
‘Sounds great. You know, that’s
one thing I really missed while I was away. Camping out under the stars, seeing all the
wildlife.’
‘Yes, of course. I forget you were
born here. When they said our new director was coming from Geneva, I just assumed you
were Swiss. How long have you been away?’
‘That’s kind of difficult to
say. I started school here in Nairobi, at St Edward’s, but I went away overseas to
boarding school when I was thirteen – I came home for holidays, of course, but that was
never for more than a few weeks at a time. Then college in the UK and then I joined the
UN. I was working for them for eleven years – mostly in Geneva. I’ve always tried
to come back to the old family home as often as I could – my mother still lives
there.’
‘Will you be moving back there
then?’
The tall man smiled.
‘She hasn’t asked me, so I
haven’t had to say no. I think we both know that we’re too old for that to
work. But I’ve been looking forward to living in Nairobi again. It’s one of
the reasons I applied for the job.’
‘So it’s good to be
home?’
‘Good,’ said the man with a
grin, ‘and getting better.’
Over the many years that he had been
running the annual Asadi Club safari, Mr Malik had come to accept that no matter how
many times you tell everyone that the coach will be leaving from the club car park at
eight o’clocksharp, at least one of them will be late. Who would
it be, he thought with an inward smile, this time? Would it be Shivraj Prasad, unable to
find his sun hat or binoculars
anywhere
? Or, mused Mr Malik, would the youngest
teenage child of the Dev family (what was her name?) once again refuse to get out of bed
at so unearthly an hour? Perhaps, like last year, the coach would be kept waiting by Ali
Hilaly’s mother’s missing medicine. In the end, it turned out to be Mrs
Lakshmi (who forgot her pills and had to send her husband home to get them), but by
eight thirty-five all of the twenty-two names had been ticked off the list. Mr Malik
suffered a small moment of panic when another car pulled into the car park, but it was
only two men from a painting firm come to give an estimate for redecorating the
clubhouse – Mr Malik was pleased to see the manager had wasted no time. With some relief
he climbed aboard the coach.
‘Everybody ready?’
‘No, no, just a minute.’
Mr Lakshmi whispered something to Mr Malik
and scurried into the club. Three minutes
How much does the average man in the street –?’
‘Or woman …’
The man smiled.
‘Or woman … have to pay
every day? We’re not just talking about direct bribes, but indirectly – in the
things they have to buy.’
Petula nodded.
‘People forget about that. Every time
a matatu driver has to pay a bribe at a police roadblock, that puts the fare
up.’
‘Every time a butcher has to bribe the
health inspector, up goes the price of meat.’
‘So what are we going to do about
it?’
They raised their glasses.
‘Publicity!’
‘And if I may say so,’ continued
Petula, ‘I thought that point you raised at the end of the meeting was spot on.
The internet has got to be the way to go. The government can try to gag the press as
much as they like – I even heard a rumour that the
Evening News
is going to be
shut down – but let’s see them try to control the internet.’
‘That’s right,’ said the
man. ‘Let’s see them try.’ He drained his glass. ‘Another ginger
beer?’
‘Thanks, but I’d better get
home.’
‘What about another meeting tomorrow
then – same time, same place?’
‘Sorry. I promised to go with my dad
on his club safari this weekend, and I have to be up early on Saturday. I’mmeeting Salman – my fiancé – at the airport in the morning and
we’re driving up.’
The man smiled again.
‘Sounds great. You know, that’s
one thing I really missed while I was away. Camping out under the stars, seeing all the
wildlife.’
‘Yes, of course. I forget you were
born here. When they said our new director was coming from Geneva, I just assumed you
were Swiss. How long have you been away?’
‘That’s kind of difficult to
say. I started school here in Nairobi, at St Edward’s, but I went away overseas to
boarding school when I was thirteen – I came home for holidays, of course, but that was
never for more than a few weeks at a time. Then college in the UK and then I joined the
UN. I was working for them for eleven years – mostly in Geneva. I’ve always tried
to come back to the old family home as often as I could – my mother still lives
there.’
‘Will you be moving back there
then?’
The tall man smiled.
‘She hasn’t asked me, so I
haven’t had to say no. I think we both know that we’re too old for that to
work. But I’ve been looking forward to living in Nairobi again. It’s one of
the reasons I applied for the job.’
‘So it’s good to be
home?’
‘Good,’ said the man with a
grin, ‘and getting better.’
Over the many years that he had been
running the annual Asadi Club safari, Mr Malik had come to accept that no matter how
many times you tell everyone that the coach will be leaving from the club car park at
eight o’clocksharp, at least one of them will be late. Who would
it be, he thought with an inward smile, this time? Would it be Shivraj Prasad, unable to
find his sun hat or binoculars
anywhere
? Or, mused Mr Malik, would the youngest
teenage child of the Dev family (what was her name?) once again refuse to get out of bed
at so unearthly an hour? Perhaps, like last year, the coach would be kept waiting by Ali
Hilaly’s mother’s missing medicine. In the end, it turned out to be Mrs
Lakshmi (who forgot her pills and had to send her husband home to get them), but by
eight thirty-five all of the twenty-two names had been ticked off the list. Mr Malik
suffered a small moment of panic when another car pulled into the car park, but it was
only two men from a painting firm come to give an estimate for redecorating the
clubhouse – Mr Malik was pleased to see the manager had wasted no time. With some relief
he climbed aboard the coach.
‘Everybody ready?’
‘No, no, just a minute.’
Mr Lakshmi whispered something to Mr Malik
and scurried into the club. Three minutes
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