Softly Calls the Serengeti by Frank Coates Page B

an open wound in their friendship.
    Kwazi’s place was a few sheets of iron straddling a ridge pole propped against an incomplete cement-block wall. The remains of Kwazi’s cooking fire smouldered under the piece of steel-reinforcing mesh that constituted his kitchen stove, sending foul-smelling smoke drifting into the still night. Someone hadfound the resources to commence building but not enough to complete it. Either way, it was to Kwazi’s benefit—at least in the short term, until one of Kibera’s strong men moved in to claim ownership. Kwazi had lived in this semi-nomadic state for as long as Joshua had known him.
    Joshua lifted the corner of the burlap that covered the door opening.
    â€˜I have a panga ,’ said a shrill voice from the darkness within. ‘I’ll kill you if you don’t get away.’
    â€˜Kwazi, it’s me.’
    â€˜ Haki ya mungu ,’ Kwazi swore. ‘I could have taken off your head!’
    â€˜Do you really have a panga in there?’
    Kwazi crawled out through the burlap and peered up at Joshua. ‘Why do I need a panga in Kibera, ah? It’s not worth the stones.’
    He was referring to the squatters’ habit of stoning thieves to death if caught.
    Joshua took a seat beside the fireplace. Kwazi sat opposite.
    â€˜You’re using shit to cook your meals these days?’ Joshua asked, indicating the smouldering fire.
    â€˜Ah-ah-ah. It stinks. I know. But what can I do? There was paint on the timber I found.’
    Joshua waited, reluctant to be the first to speak. He’d realised after storming off the other day that he’d been thoughtless in using the word ‘ugly’ in reference to Kwazi’s face. But it was a common expression and Kwazi should have known he would never be so deliberately cruel.
    â€˜I’m sorry about—’ Kwazi began.
    â€˜No! It was me. I shouldn’t have—’
    â€˜I didn’t think about what I was saying and—’
    â€˜I didn’t mean it,’ Joshua said.
    They paused, each a little embarrassed by their emotional rush for forgiveness.
    Kwazi was next to speak. ‘Your face…What happened?’
    Joshua could never reveal to anyone, not even to Kwazi, what had happened to him at the police headquarters. The shame would be far worse than the pain he had endured. He had heard others speak in hushed and horrified voices of atrocities such as had been forced upon him in that foul little room. He couldn’t stand to be ridiculed by those who were not his friends and, worse, to be pitied by those who were. It would forever remain his secret.
    He shrugged. ‘The police collected some of us from Ngong Road. They took us down to Harry Thuku Road.’
    He knew Kwazi would not press the matter. People taken from Kibera to police headquarters always received a beating and it was considered impolite to ask for details.
    â€˜That is not why you are here at this late hour,’ Kwazi said. ‘You have had another argument with your father.’
    Joshua nodded, worrying the coals of the fire with a length of fencing wire.
    â€˜I heard you scored three goals against Makina,’ Kwazi added.
    Joshua nodded again. ‘Wakamba and Kikuyus. They are easily beaten.’
    â€˜Some of those Kamba boys are big. They have a very good defence and the best goalie in the competition.’
    Joshua was taken by surprise. Kwazi had a practised uninterest in football. ‘How do you know about all that?’ he asked.
    Kwazi chuckled. ‘I heard them talking in Makina.’
    Joshua smiled, nodding. Kwazi was a reliable collector of Kibera gossip.
    â€˜They also say that the Siafu striker has a chance for national selection,’ Kwazi went on.
    Joshua shrugged, but didn’t respond. It was a dream beyond imagining.
    â€˜Why did you have an argument with your father?’ Kwazi asked, returning to the subject.
    Joshua tried to recall.