myself and told her that we’d like to ask her a few questions. ‘You want to know about Joshua?’
She did not betray any emotion beyond curiosity. I on the other hand was perspiring like an acne-ridden teenager out on a mercy date. Finally, having untied my tongue, I confirmed her suspicions but added there was another matter we also needed to talk about.
‘Can it wait?’ she asked.
And somehow, in the face of her request, the urgency of the whole case receded into the background. ‘Yes, of course, I can wait,’ I stammered.
Her drink came and, still looking at us, she leaned over the bar and whispered something to the bartender. Then she leaned in further over the counter and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Call me Muddy, it’s short for Madeline,’ she called over her shoulder to me as she turned away and walked back to her table.
‘On her fans, gentlemen. They buy her more than she can drink,’ the bartender explained a few minutes later as he placed six Tuskers in front of us.
‘Now, that is what I like to hear,’ O said.
A few minutes later the guitarist came and joined us. He was very young, in his early twenties, and still had the swagger and bravado of youth. He sat next to me and took one of the beers without saying anything. ‘Muddy said I could,’ he explained when I looked at him.
I had to laugh. We were like three little pigs at the trough – and her feeding us.
‘You can jam, man. How long have you been playing for her?’ I asked the guitarist after he had taken a long pull on the Tusker he had liberated.
‘One year. She is good to me. You know? I came here from Rwanda, but I was very young. She is good to me …’ he said reflectively.
‘You married?’ O asked, pointing at his ring.
‘No, this just for show … Makes it look serious when I take it off and put on the slide; replacing the wife with theguitar. That kinda symbolism works great for the crowd,’ he said with a sly smile.
‘Ever seen her with this man?’ I asked, showing him the photo of Samuel Alexander that had been in the locket.
He laughed. ‘She does not go with white men.’
‘Perhaps you don’t know her that well,’ O said.
In the photograph in the locket her hair had been long and curly – her dreadlocks must have taken some time to grow.
‘Have you ever met B.B. King?’ the guitarist suddenly asked enthusiastically, changing the subject.
He looked disappointed when I told him I hadn’t. ‘But I saw Michael Jackson in concert once,’ I added.
He shrugged. Michael no longer had the currency he used to.
We sat around without talking much. The bartender kept our trough full of beer, and O and the guitarist became visibly drunk. At some point I asked the guitarist why everyone called her Muddy, but he said he did not know. ‘Could be something to do with Muddy Waters,’ he said a minute or so later and started to hum ‘Catfish Blues’. I joined him and before long we were all wailing away, out of tune, especially O, who didn’t even know the song but sang anyway.
If you had told me a mere two weeks earlier that I would soon find myself in a bar in Africa singing ‘Catfish Blues’ with a schizoid detective called O and a blues guitarist from Rwanda, waiting on one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, I would have told you straight out that you were crazy, but here I was.
Eventually, the bartender signalled to Muddy that he was closing up and she left her table and walked over to where wewere still drinking. ‘If you want to talk you have to drive me home,’ she said.
O handed me the keys to the Land Rover. As he did so, the guitarist stood up to come with us, but Muddy told him to stay with O and make sure he got home all right. She didn’t have a purse or anything. I suppose she was all she needed. And before long, my date and I were on our way to her place.
Muddy lived out in Limuru, thirty minutes or so outside of Nairobi, and as I drove her slender hand would,
She did not betray any emotion beyond curiosity. I on the other hand was perspiring like an acne-ridden teenager out on a mercy date. Finally, having untied my tongue, I confirmed her suspicions but added there was another matter we also needed to talk about.
‘Can it wait?’ she asked.
And somehow, in the face of her request, the urgency of the whole case receded into the background. ‘Yes, of course, I can wait,’ I stammered.
Her drink came and, still looking at us, she leaned over the bar and whispered something to the bartender. Then she leaned in further over the counter and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Call me Muddy, it’s short for Madeline,’ she called over her shoulder to me as she turned away and walked back to her table.
‘On her fans, gentlemen. They buy her more than she can drink,’ the bartender explained a few minutes later as he placed six Tuskers in front of us.
‘Now, that is what I like to hear,’ O said.
A few minutes later the guitarist came and joined us. He was very young, in his early twenties, and still had the swagger and bravado of youth. He sat next to me and took one of the beers without saying anything. ‘Muddy said I could,’ he explained when I looked at him.
I had to laugh. We were like three little pigs at the trough – and her feeding us.
‘You can jam, man. How long have you been playing for her?’ I asked the guitarist after he had taken a long pull on the Tusker he had liberated.
‘One year. She is good to me. You know? I came here from Rwanda, but I was very young. She is good to me …’ he said reflectively.
‘You married?’ O asked, pointing at his ring.
‘No, this just for show … Makes it look serious when I take it off and put on the slide; replacing the wife with theguitar. That kinda symbolism works great for the crowd,’ he said with a sly smile.
‘Ever seen her with this man?’ I asked, showing him the photo of Samuel Alexander that had been in the locket.
He laughed. ‘She does not go with white men.’
‘Perhaps you don’t know her that well,’ O said.
In the photograph in the locket her hair had been long and curly – her dreadlocks must have taken some time to grow.
‘Have you ever met B.B. King?’ the guitarist suddenly asked enthusiastically, changing the subject.
He looked disappointed when I told him I hadn’t. ‘But I saw Michael Jackson in concert once,’ I added.
He shrugged. Michael no longer had the currency he used to.
We sat around without talking much. The bartender kept our trough full of beer, and O and the guitarist became visibly drunk. At some point I asked the guitarist why everyone called her Muddy, but he said he did not know. ‘Could be something to do with Muddy Waters,’ he said a minute or so later and started to hum ‘Catfish Blues’. I joined him and before long we were all wailing away, out of tune, especially O, who didn’t even know the song but sang anyway.
If you had told me a mere two weeks earlier that I would soon find myself in a bar in Africa singing ‘Catfish Blues’ with a schizoid detective called O and a blues guitarist from Rwanda, waiting on one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen, I would have told you straight out that you were crazy, but here I was.
Eventually, the bartender signalled to Muddy that he was closing up and she left her table and walked over to where wewere still drinking. ‘If you want to talk you have to drive me home,’ she said.
O handed me the keys to the Land Rover. As he did so, the guitarist stood up to come with us, but Muddy told him to stay with O and make sure he got home all right. She didn’t have a purse or anything. I suppose she was all she needed. And before long, my date and I were on our way to her place.
Muddy lived out in Limuru, thirty minutes or so outside of Nairobi, and as I drove her slender hand would,
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