Items by Deviant Miscreant

Avalon Perpetual

• WEED RUN

  Posted: April 7, 2009, 4:17 am by Deviant Miscreant

  “That’s it then?”
  “Yep.”
  Kevin slammed the rear door on the slate grey Prado shut. He jumped in the driver’s seat and the heavily laden car slowly rolled down the gently sloping murram track towards the old wooden gate that led back to the farmhouse. In his rear-view mirror, he could see Sam, the old farmhand, struggling to close the doors of the large barn he had just left. Kevin turned up the music and headed for an overgrown, disused track that the farmhand had told him would take him directly to the main road, avoiding any of that inane chatter that the farm owner’s wife would probably engage him in if she saw him again. As he turned into the main road, he noticed a blue Nissan saloon parked in the Napier grass along the road’s verge. It looked like the driver had ran off the road, probably after one too many, Kevin thought. He paid it no mind and drove on. He had less than an hour to get to Nairobi.
  
  The Prado was riding low, courtesy of the near ton of premium marijuana in it. Kevin hit the main road and pushed the needle up to 120kph. In the glove compartment was a list of police road block locations and the numbers to call if the officers he encountered got too inquisitive and wanted to search the car. The road was smooth and the traffic at this hour of the morning was suitably sparse. The road was still slightly wet from the previous night’s rain and the early sun glared off it like stainless steel. Kevin squinted and wished he hadn’t sat on his sunglasses in the pub last night. He also wished he hadn’t drunk so much. Sitting behind the wheel, straining at the road ahead made him realise how tired he really was. He had developed a backache as well, from loading the Prado with sacks of reefer, and now the pain was slowly creeping up his spine and he knew his head would be pounding in about half an hour. He pushed the pedal harder and the heavy Toyota fishtailed ever so slightly as it picked up speed, hurtling across the startlingly green countryside on the black snake of road. The sunlight sparkled on dewdrops hanging from young maize shoots, making them glimmer like little diamonds. It was beautiful.
  
  ******
  
  Kevin was proud of himself. After wasting his time trying small time hustle, selling stolen phones, electronics and the odd car, he had finally hit the big leagues. He had been telephoned by a man early the previous day and told to follow the list of instructions that would be sent to his phone. He was to do exactly what he was told and he would get a hundred thousand bob for his trouble. He had immediately dismissed the man, calling him both an idiot and a joker, but there was a certain persuasion in the caller’s tone that made him actually consider the job. He had shaken his head and dismissed the notion. Then the guy called again and told him he’d pay ten thousand shillings in good faith money up front and then transferred the money into Kevin’s cell phone. The slightly rusty cogs in Kevin’s head started turning, one slow click at a time.
  
  The car was on the third level of a shopping mall’s high rise parking in Westlands and the keys would be found behind inside a cistern in a particular stall of the Gents on the same floor. In the car would be more instructions. Kevin got the shopping mall in the middle of the afternoon. It was raining heavily, but the sun’s occasional peep from behind the grey curtain promised a scorching repartee some time later. True to his word, Kevin’s caller had left a detailed map of the area he was supposed to drive to. The map clearly depicted the location of a tea farm somewhere in Limuru, in Nairobi’s outskirts and a phone number to call once he got there. Kevin sat back in the driver’s seat and exhaled heavily after he’d read the material twice. He got out of the car and looked around. Through the large glass windows he could see it had stopped raining. He took off his heavy jacket and tossed it in the car. He locked the doors and took the stairs to the ground floor.
  
  Inspector Mwiki was a patient man. After a string of strange unsolvable cases, a hunch he had been following involving an auto parts theft ring was about to pay off. He and his partner, a sergeant named Paul, had been tracking a young man named Kevin who he believed was an integral part of it. He had followed him from the city centre to Westlands where the young man had walked into a shopping mall. Inspector Mwiki followed Kevin into a lift while Sgt. Paul took the stairs. They both got off the lift on the fourth floor. The Inspector lingered at a sporting goods store window, pretending to study a pair of trainers as he observed Kevin walk towards the toilets. After three minutes, Kevin walked back into view and headed for the parking lot exit. Mwiki trailed him and observed him entering a slate grey Toyota Prado parked in a far corner of the dimly lit lot. He radioed the sergeant and they met up at the fourth floor’s elevator bank.
  “He’s gotten into a grey Prado. Tinted windows. If he leaves in the car, follow him. If he leaves on foot, follow him. I want to know everywhere this boy goes in the next twenty four hours. Alright?”
  The sergeant nodded. Inspector Mwiki took the lift to the ground floor. He had some work to finish up at the station.
  
  ******
  
  Kevin was almost dozing as he drove towards the farm in Limuru. It was five in the morning and the short uncomfortable nap he had had in the back seat of the car had not absolved his brain of the debilitating effects of alcohol. It was cold, misty and dark in the highlands and he was beginning to wonder whether it was worth it. He got to the tea farm at ten minutes past six after making a few wrong turns.
  There were tea farms all over the place, man!
  His phone call had been answered by an overly friendly woman who sounded like she might have been high on something. She and a wizened old man had met him at the farm’s main gate. The woman kept up an incessant conversation about the price of living in Nairobi nowadays, the corruption in the government and the price of milk as Kevin found himself being ushered into the house for breakfast. They entered the grand old colonial farmhouse where a simple but profound breakfast was laid out on the kitchen table. The lady kept looking at him; nodding and smiling a motherly smile that made Kevin increasingly uncomfortable. She reminded him of his mother, the last person he would have wanted to see him in this scenario. He sipped morosely on a cup of tea and tried not to think about it. In the bright kitchen lights, he noticed the lady and the wizened old man had a strange blue gleam in their eyes.
  
  Down the road from the farmhouse, Inspector Mwiki and Sgt. Paul sat in their unmarked car, waiting to see if the Prado would re-emerge from the farm. They were surprised to see the car seemingly pop out of the bushes across the road from them and drive off. Mwiki gave it three minutes and sped after it.
  
  Kevin was driving too fast and he knew it. He slowed down for a curve and noticed a blue car in his side mirror. So the drunken guy had woken up and was rushing home, eh? The guy was in a hurry too, as he was closing the gap between them pretty fast. The moisture on the road was evaporating in the bright morning sun. Slender tendrils of steam rose up from the surface and were instantly obliterated by the Prado’s heavy passage. The blue Nissan came closer still.
  
  “Get alongside behind him, Paul,” said Mwiki, putting away his cell phone. “I have informed the OCS from Kikuyu Police Station and he’s setting up a roadblock about five km from here. If this idiot doesn’t stop, he’ll run straight into them.” The good Inspector was beside himself in glee. He had looked up the number plates on the Prado and found that the tags did not exist in the KRA database which meant the car was most probably stolen. Tying in Kevin with this stolen car and the car parts theft ring would absolve him in his superior’s eyes. At least for the time being.
  
  Kevin watched as the Nissan came closer and pulled out to overtake. In his side mirror he could see the front passenger window rolling down and as the car pulled up next to his, a man, leaning out of the open window started shouting at him.
  “Police! Stop the car!”
  Kevin panicked and almost left the road. The man pulled out a revolver and repeated the command. Kevin buried the accelerator and the Prado shot down the slight gradient they were on. Mwiki aimed for the rear left tyre on the fast disappearing SUV and fired. He missed. He drew back inside the car and yelled at the sergeant to catch up. Kevin fumbled for his phone. The car was fishtailing all over the road and he narrowly missed smashing into a slow moving tractor put-putting its way somewhere. He had been given three numbers to call. He dialled the first one but it did not go through. He tried the second one. It rang three times before a very sleepy voice answered, “Hello?”
  “The cops are after me!” Kevin shouted. He was driving with one hand, trying to keep the heavy car on the tarmac.
  “Who is this?” the voice had become annoyed. “What cops?”
  “I got this number from – a guy. He told me to call you if the cops become…curious. They’re on my tail!”
  “I don’t know what you are talking…”
  Kevin hung up on him. He really shouldn’t have taken this job. It was stupid, short sighted and inane –
  A loud crash came from the rear of the Prado. Glass! They were shooting at him! Kevin was suddenly glad for the presence of the large sacks of marijuana. Without them, he would probably be dead by now. It was only a matter of time before they shot out his tyres and then he’d be done for sure.
  “Get next to him!” Mwiki shouted. He was in the process of reloading his revolver, a clumsy operation with the car careening all over the place. He dropped three bullets on the floor, swore loudly and decided to go with the three he had already in the gun. Sgt. Paul shifted down and slammed the go pedal. They drew up on the Prado’s right side and Mwiki aimed carefully for the rear right tyre.
  
  BAM!
  
  Kevin felt the rear end of the SUV slew sickeningly to the right. He braked hard and spun the wheel furiously to the right, completely obliterating the right side of the police car. Both vehicles left the road and plunged headlong into a field of Napier grass. The Prado’s heavily laden rear end ploughed and stuck in the thick mud, bringing it to a shuddering halt. The Nissan slammed into a tree. Steam and coolant hissed from the crushed radiator in the ominous silence that followed.
  
  Kevin struggled to unbuckle the seatbelt but the clasp held fast. He always carried a Swiss Army knife with him and he used the blade to cut the belt. He opened the door and stumbled out onto the soft damp ground. He couldn’t see the police car, not that he was looking. He half ran, half stumbled deeper into the chest high grass, fumbling for his phone and dialling the third number he had been given. The other end rang.
  “What has happened?” A familiarly crisp and clear voice asked immediately.
  “It’s fucked! Shit, the cops! They shot me. The car’s beat to shit! You have to get me out of here!”
  “Calm down, Kevin. Where are you? Where are the cops?”
  “I don’t fucking know, man! They crashed, maybe they’re dead.” Kevin almost ran into a rotted wooden fence surrounding a grassy sloping paddock. The grass was emerald green and there was a cow grazing at the far end. He could see rooftops peeking just beyond the slope. This was someone’s farm. He paused at the fence.
  “And the weed?”
  “Fuck you and your weed man! Get me out of here!”
  Kevin hung up the phone and reached for the fence with both hands to hoist himself over. His shoulder was suddenly grabbed from behind and he was flung hard to the ground. Inspector Mwiki stood over him, pointing a muddy revolver at his chest. The Inspector’s left humerus was broken and the effort it took him to breathe told him he had messed up a few ribs too. He stood unsteadily, scrunching up his left side, his gun hand wavering slightly as he pointed it at Kevin’s sternum.
  “Foolish boy,” Mwiki said slowly, wincing. “Unaenda wapi? Who is this you are calling to save you? I should shoot you here and now.”
  Kevin said nothing. He just stared wide-eyed at the gun.
  “Who are you calling?” Mwiki screamed. The effort brought little brilliant blue stars of pain in his field of vision. Kevin said nothing.
  Mwiki thumbed the safety on the revolver. “I will ask you one more time, who did you…”
  The grey Land Rover burst through the stalks of Napier grass like a submarine breaching the surface of a calm sea. Mwiki yelled, stumbled and fell down. Kevin pissed his pants. The driver’s door opened and a man came out.
  “He was calling me, Inspector.”
  Mwiki stared at the man, his eyes round and large and threatening to bulge right out of his head. It was him. Him!
  “Y-y-you?” he asked incredulously. His breathing had become laboured. He was gasping for air.
  “We finally meet, Inspector. I understand I have caused you quite some trouble, haven’t I? ” Land Rover Man smiled. Mwiki stared and stared. His lips moved but no sound came out. He was trying to raise his gun hand but he couldn’t. He was tired and he wanted to sleep. So bloody tired.
  “No, Inspector,” said the man from the grey Land Rover gently as he squatted beside Mwiki. “Not yet.”
  Inspector Mwiki closed his eyes. His vision turned grey then black.

www.scribeofhades.blogspot.com

• WEED RUN

  Posted: April 7, 2009, 4:17 am by Deviant Miscreant

  “That’s it then?”
  “Yep.”
  Kevin slammed the rear door on the slate grey Prado shut. He jumped in the driver’s seat and the heavily laden car slowly rolled down the gently sloping murram track towards the old wooden gate that led back to the farmhouse. In his rear-view mirror, he could see Sam, the old farmhand, struggling to close the doors of the large barn he had just left. Kevin turned up the music and headed for an overgrown, disused track that the farmhand had told him would take him directly to the main road, avoiding any of that inane chatter that the farm owner’s wife would probably engage him in if she saw him again. As he turned into the main road, he noticed a blue Nissan saloon parked in the Napier grass along the road’s verge. It looked like the driver had ran off the road, probably after one too many, Kevin thought. He paid it no mind and drove on. He had less than an hour to get to Nairobi.
  
  The Prado was riding low, courtesy of the near ton of premium marijuana in it. Kevin hit the main road and pushed the needle up to 120kph. In the glove compartment was a list of police road block locations and the numbers to call if the officers he encountered got too inquisitive and wanted to search the car. The road was smooth and the traffic at this hour of the morning was suitably sparse. The road was still slightly wet from the previous night’s rain and the early sun glared off it like stainless steel. Kevin squinted and wished he hadn’t sat on his sunglasses in the pub last night. He also wished he hadn’t drunk so much. Sitting behind the wheel, straining at the road ahead made him realise how tired he really was. He had developed a backache as well, from loading the Prado with sacks of reefer, and now the pain was slowly creeping up his spine and he knew his head would be pounding in about half an hour. He pushed the pedal harder and the heavy Toyota fishtailed ever so slightly as it picked up speed, hurtling across the startlingly green countryside on the black snake of road. The sunlight sparkled on dewdrops hanging from young maize shoots, making them glimmer like little diamonds. It was beautiful.
  
  ******
  
  Kevin was proud of himself. After wasting his time trying small time hustle, selling stolen phones, electronics and the odd car, he had finally hit the big leagues. He had been telephoned by a man early the previous day and told to follow the list of instructions that would be sent to his phone. He was to do exactly what he was told and he would get a hundred thousand bob for his trouble. He had immediately dismissed the man, calling him both an idiot and a joker, but there was a certain persuasion in the caller’s tone that made him actually consider the job. He had shaken his head and dismissed the notion. Then the guy called again and told him he’d pay ten thousand shillings in good faith money up front and then transferred the money into Kevin’s cell phone. The slightly rusty cogs in Kevin’s head started turning, one slow click at a time.
  
  The car was on the third level of a shopping mall’s high rise parking in Westlands and the keys would be found behind inside a cistern in a particular stall of the Gents on the same floor. In the car would be more instructions. Kevin got the shopping mall in the middle of the afternoon. It was raining heavily, but the sun’s occasional peep from behind the grey curtain promised a scorching repartee some time later. True to his word, Kevin’s caller had left a detailed map of the area he was supposed to drive to. The map clearly depicted the location of a tea farm somewhere in Limuru, in Nairobi’s outskirts and a phone number to call once he got there. Kevin sat back in the driver’s seat and exhaled heavily after he’d read the material twice. He got out of the car and looked around. Through the large glass windows he could see it had stopped raining. He took off his heavy jacket and tossed it in the car. He locked the doors and took the stairs to the ground floor.
  
  Inspector Mwiki was a patient man. After a string of strange unsolvable cases, a hunch he had been following involving an auto parts theft ring was about to pay off. He and his partner, a sergeant named Paul, had been tracking a young man named Kevin who he believed was an integral part of it. He had followed him from the city centre to Westlands where the young man had walked into a shopping mall. Inspector Mwiki followed Kevin into a lift while Sgt. Paul took the stairs. They both got off the lift on the fourth floor. The Inspector lingered at a sporting goods store window, pretending to study a pair of trainers as he observed Kevin walk towards the toilets. After three minutes, Kevin walked back into view and headed for the parking lot exit. Mwiki trailed him and observed him entering a slate grey Toyota Prado parked in a far corner of the dimly lit lot. He radioed the sergeant and they met up at the fourth floor’s elevator bank.
  “He’s gotten into a grey Prado. Tinted windows. If he leaves in the car, follow him. If he leaves on foot, follow him. I want to know everywhere this boy goes in the next twenty four hours. Alright?”
  The sergeant nodded. Inspector Mwiki took the lift to the ground floor. He had some work to finish up at the station.
  
  ******
  
  Kevin was almost dozing as he drove towards the farm in Limuru. It was five in the morning and the short uncomfortable nap he had had in the back seat of the car had not absolved his brain of the debilitating effects of alcohol. It was cold, misty and dark in the highlands and he was beginning to wonder whether it was worth it. He got to the tea farm at ten minutes past six after making a few wrong turns.
  There were tea farms all over the place, man!
  His phone call had been answered by an overly friendly woman who sounded like she might have been high on something. She and a wizened old man had met him at the farm’s main gate. The woman kept up an incessant conversation about the price of living in Nairobi nowadays, the corruption in the government and the price of milk as Kevin found himself being ushered into the house for breakfast. They entered the grand old colonial farmhouse where a simple but profound breakfast was laid out on the kitchen table. The lady kept looking at him; nodding and smiling a motherly smile that made Kevin increasingly uncomfortable. She reminded him of his mother, the last person he would have wanted to see him in this scenario. He sipped morosely on a cup of tea and tried not to think about it. In the bright kitchen lights, he noticed the lady and the wizened old man had a strange blue gleam in their eyes.
  
  Down the road from the farmhouse, Inspector Mwiki and Sgt. Paul sat in their unmarked car, waiting to see if the Prado would re-emerge from the farm. They were surprised to see the car seemingly pop out of the bushes across the road from them and drive off. Mwiki gave it three minutes and sped after it.
  
  Kevin was driving too fast and he knew it. He slowed down for a curve and noticed a blue car in his side mirror. So the drunken guy had woken up and was rushing home, eh? The guy was in a hurry too, as he was closing the gap between them pretty fast. The moisture on the road was evaporating in the bright morning sun. Slender tendrils of steam rose up from the surface and were instantly obliterated by the Prado’s heavy passage. The blue Nissan came closer still.
  
  “Get alongside behind him, Paul,” said Mwiki, putting away his cell phone. “I have informed the OCS from Kikuyu Police Station and he’s setting up a roadblock about five km from here. If this idiot doesn’t stop, he’ll run straight into them.” The good Inspector was beside himself in glee. He had looked up the number plates on the Prado and found that the tags did not exist in the KRA database which meant the car was most probably stolen. Tying in Kevin with this stolen car and the car parts theft ring would absolve him in his superior’s eyes. At least for the time being.
  
  Kevin watched as the Nissan came closer and pulled out to overtake. In his side mirror he could see the front passenger window rolling down and as the car pulled up next to his, a man, leaning out of the open window started shouting at him.
  “Police! Stop the car!”
  Kevin panicked and almost left the road. The man pulled out a revolver and repeated the command. Kevin buried the accelerator and the Prado shot down the slight gradient they were on. Mwiki aimed for the rear left tyre on the fast disappearing SUV and fired. He missed. He drew back inside the car and yelled at the sergeant to catch up. Kevin fumbled for his phone. The car was fishtailing all over the road and he narrowly missed smashing into a slow moving tractor put-putting its way somewhere. He had been given three numbers to call. He dialled the first one but it did not go through. He tried the second one. It rang three times before a very sleepy voice answered, “Hello?”
  “The cops are after me!” Kevin shouted. He was driving with one hand, trying to keep the heavy car on the tarmac.
  “Who is this?” the voice had become annoyed. “What cops?”
  “I got this number from – a guy. He told me to call you if the cops become…curious. They’re on my tail!”
  “I don’t know what you are talking…”
  Kevin hung up on him. He really shouldn’t have taken this job. It was stupid, short sighted and inane –
  A loud crash came from the rear of the Prado. Glass! They were shooting at him! Kevin was suddenly glad for the presence of the large sacks of marijuana. Without them, he would probably be dead by now. It was only a matter of time before they shot out his tyres and then he’d be done for sure.
  “Get next to him!” Mwiki shouted. He was in the process of reloading his revolver, a clumsy operation with the car careening all over the place. He dropped three bullets on the floor, swore loudly and decided to go with the three he had already in the gun. Sgt. Paul shifted down and slammed the go pedal. They drew up on the Prado’s right side and Mwiki aimed carefully for the rear right tyre.
  
  BAM!
  
  Kevin felt the rear end of the SUV slew sickeningly to the right. He braked hard and spun the wheel furiously to the right, completely obliterating the right side of the police car. Both vehicles left the road and plunged headlong into a field of Napier grass. The Prado’s heavily laden rear end ploughed and stuck in the thick mud, bringing it to a shuddering halt. The Nissan slammed into a tree. Steam and coolant hissed from the crushed radiator in the ominous silence that followed.
  
  Kevin struggled to unbuckle the seatbelt but the clasp held fast. He always carried a Swiss Army knife with him and he used the blade to cut the belt. He opened the door and stumbled out onto the soft damp ground. He couldn’t see the police car, not that he was looking. He half ran, half stumbled deeper into the chest high grass, fumbling for his phone and dialling the third number he had been given. The other end rang.
  “What has happened?” A familiarly crisp and clear voice asked immediately.
  “It’s fucked! Shit, the cops! They shot me. The car’s beat to shit! You have to get me out of here!”
  “Calm down, Kevin. Where are you? Where are the cops?”
  “I don’t fucking know, man! They crashed, maybe they’re dead.” Kevin almost ran into a rotted wooden fence surrounding a grassy sloping paddock. The grass was emerald green and there was a cow grazing at the far end. He could see rooftops peeking just beyond the slope. This was someone’s farm. He paused at the fence.
  “And the weed?”
  “Fuck you and your weed man! Get me out of here!”
  Kevin hung up the phone and reached for the fence with both hands to hoist himself over. His shoulder was suddenly grabbed from behind and he was flung hard to the ground. Inspector Mwiki stood over him, pointing a muddy revolver at his chest. The Inspector’s left humerus was broken and the effort it took him to breathe told him he had messed up a few ribs too. He stood unsteadily, scrunching up his left side, his gun hand wavering slightly as he pointed it at Kevin’s sternum.
  “Foolish boy,” Mwiki said slowly, wincing. “Unaenda wapi? Who is this you are calling to save you? I should shoot you here and now.”
  Kevin said nothing. He just stared wide-eyed at the gun.
  “Who are you calling?” Mwiki screamed. The effort brought little brilliant blue stars of pain in his field of vision. Kevin said nothing.
  Mwiki thumbed the safety on the revolver. “I will ask you one more time, who did you…”
  The grey Land Rover burst through the stalks of Napier grass like a submarine breaching the surface of a calm sea. Mwiki yelled, stumbled and fell down. Kevin pissed his pants. The driver’s door opened and a man came out.
  “He was calling me, Inspector.”
  Mwiki stared at the man, his eyes round and large and threatening to bulge right out of his head. It was him. Him!
  “Y-y-you?” he asked incredulously. His breathing had become laboured. He was gasping for air.
  “We finally meet, Inspector. I understand I have caused you quite some trouble, haven’t I? ” Land Rover Man smiled. Mwiki stared and stared. His lips moved but no sound came out. He was trying to raise his gun hand but he couldn’t. He was tired and he wanted to sleep. So bloody tired.
  “No, Inspector,” said the man from the grey Land Rover gently as he squatted beside Mwiki. “Not yet.”
  Inspector Mwiki closed his eyes. His vision turned grey then black.

Avalon Perpetual

• POWER SHIFTS PT. IV

  Posted: March 9, 2009, 4:25 am by Deviant Miscreant

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  The next day, the nation awoke to a cold dawn, misty, a light drizzle raining misery on the populace who chose to trudge (there was little in the way of public transport) to their workplaces. Local TV live coverage was focused on ‘Again: Tragedy’ or ‘Nairobi under Attack’ or any other number of cliché headlines. CNN and the BBC brought regular updates but did not change their scheduled programming. It was a grey day in the city, in more ways than one. The smoke from the ruin still hung in the city streets, mixing with the misty rain to provide the ultimate doomsday weather.
  

  
  

  The deputy prime minister, he still thought himself as, had been up since the blast. His eyes were bloodshot as he watched his new staff strut around in his study making preparations for the swearing in later in the morning. The speech was written, the podium and grounds were set. All he had to do now was go and dupe millions of Kenyans at the surprisingly convincing whims of a mad man who walked in shadows and maybe read minds. Just thinking about it made his headache worse. He took four aspirin and a glass of water. He had to meet the deputy speaker of the house to get a run-through of what was about to happen. Under the Kenyan constitution, the vice president became president if the president died. Since the entire succession line above him had been erased, he was next in line for the office. Or so the attorney general and the army chief of staff agreed. He couldn’t help wondering if they had been paid strange midnight visits as well. He shook the thought out of his head as he headed up to his room to change for the cameras.

  In Samburu, there is a mountain called Ololokwe. At the summit, a man, lightly perspiring in the rising heat, sat inside a steel grey Land Rover Defender, clicking at a laptop computer. In the vehicle’s dashboard, a seven inch screen scanned through the local TV stations, keeping track of the preparations for the swearing in ceremony. A bunch of cables, swinging gently in the fan’s breeze, snaked their way up out of the sunroof and plugged into a thick rubber antenna suction cupped onto the roof. The antenna beeped every five seconds. In the distance, a vulture soared against a brilliant blue morning sky, taking advantage of the rising hot air currents. The man paused in what he was doing to look at the bird. The height of the mountain gave him a sweeping vista over the national reserve and he could see herds of elephant on the move in the plain below. He looked at his watch. It was a few minutes to nine in the morning. He reached for a satellite phone that lay on the passenger seat.

  “Good morning Mr. President,” he said.

  “You!” the former deputy PM froze with his head tilted, holding his cell phone under his jaw. Both his hands were on the tie he was knotting around his neck.

  “Give that man a cookie! What are you up to sir? Are you looking sharp for TV? You are the president, you know. Gotta keep the image. Now, listen, I am going to send you a list of some people for your cabinet,” said the voice at the other end of the line.

  “What? My cabinet? I can’t change the cabinet before there’s another election. Are you out of your mind?”

  “List is in your email, prez. Make and announce the changes in your speech this morning.”

  “But, the people…”

  “What people?”

  “The people who really run the show won’t take this lying down. There will be big, big trouble if I do this now.” He dropped his hands and grabbed the phone in his left.

  “You’re wrong about one thing. They will take it lying down.” The line clicked dead. The deputy prime minister looked at his reflection in the mirror for a long moment and then lowered his head and sighed.

www.scribeofhades.blogspot.com

• POWER SHIFTS PT. IV

  Posted: March 9, 2009, 4:25 am by Deviant Miscreant

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  The next day, the nation awoke to a cold dawn, misty, a light drizzle raining misery on the populace who chose to trudge (there was little in the way of public transport) to their workplaces. Local TV live coverage was focused on ‘Again: Tragedy’ or ‘Nairobi under Attack’ or any other number of cliché headlines. CNN and the BBC brought regular updates but did not change their scheduled programming. It was a grey day in the city, in more ways than one. The smoke from the ruin still hung in the city streets, mixing with the misty rain to provide the ultimate doomsday weather.
  

  
  

  The deputy prime minister, he still thought himself as, had been up since the blast. His eyes were bloodshot as he watched his new staff strut around in his study making preparations for the swearing in later in the morning. The speech was written, the podium and grounds were set. All he had to do now was go and dupe millions of Kenyans at the surprisingly convincing whims of a mad man who walked in shadows and maybe read minds. Just thinking about it made his headache worse. He took four aspirin and a glass of water. He had to meet the deputy speaker of the house to get a run-through of what was about to happen. Under the Kenyan constitution, the vice president became president if the president died. Since the entire succession line above him had been erased, he was next in line for the office. Or so the attorney general and the army chief of staff agreed. He couldn’t help wondering if they had been paid strange midnight visits as well. He shook the thought out of his head as he headed up to his room to change for the cameras.

  In Samburu, there is a mountain called Ololokwe. At the summit, a man, lightly perspiring in the rising heat, sat inside a steel grey Land Rover Defender, clicking at a laptop computer. In the vehicle’s dashboard, a seven inch screen scanned through the local TV stations, keeping track of the preparations for the swearing in ceremony. A bunch of cables, swinging gently in the fan’s breeze, snaked their way up out of the sunroof and plugged into a thick rubber antenna suction cupped onto the roof. The antenna beeped every five seconds. In the distance, a vulture soared against a brilliant blue morning sky, taking advantage of the rising hot air currents. The man paused in what he was doing to look at the bird. The height of the mountain gave him a sweeping vista over the national reserve and he could see herds of elephant on the move in the plain below. He looked at his watch. It was a few minutes to nine in the morning. He reached for a satellite phone that lay on the passenger seat.

  “Good morning Mr. President,” he said.

  “You!” the former deputy PM froze with his head tilted, holding his cell phone under his jaw. Both his hands were on the tie he was knotting around his neck.

  “Give that man a cookie! What are you up to sir? Are you looking sharp for TV? You are the president, you know. Gotta keep the image. Now, listen, I am going to send you a list of some people for your cabinet,” said the voice at the other end of the line.

  “What? My cabinet? I can’t change the cabinet before there’s another election. Are you out of your mind?”

  “List is in your email, prez. Make and announce the changes in your speech this morning.”

  “But, the people…”

  “What people?”

  “The people who really run the show won’t take this lying down. There will be big, big trouble if I do this now.” He dropped his hands and grabbed the phone in his left.

  “You’re wrong about one thing. They will take it lying down.” The line clicked dead. The deputy prime minister looked at his reflection in the mirror for a long moment and then lowered his head and sighed.

Avalon Perpetual

• POWER SHIFTS PT.III

  Posted: February 17, 2009, 6:37 am by Deviant Miscreant

  He didn’t quite know how he was going to pull this off or why he had agreed to it. But it was too late now. He went into his closet and changed into a pair of chinos and a plaid shirt. He sat on his large bed and tried to make sense of the evening’s events. There was a lot to be done but it would have to wait till the next day. He couldn’t appear to have had anything to do with the tragedy in waiting. He went into the bathroom where the dusty robe still lay and retrieved the flask. He shook it to find out if it was empty. A satisfying sloshing inside told him otherwise and he tilted his head back and emptied it. He went back to the bedroom and sat down at a corner of the huge double bed with his chin in both his hands, thinking. Outside, somewhere, a dog howled; a long, mournful lost sound like the cry of abandoned souls carrying with it a sense of malevolent foreboding. The deputy prime minister lay back on the soft duvet and fell asleep.
  
  **********
  
  The parking lot was packed with a mass of people, all trying to catch a glimpse of the politician doing the camera walk as they headed into the conference hall. Cameras clicked and TV news cameramen jostled each other for position along the strip of red carpet that had been laid the previous evening. A light rain had soaked it overnight and as each big politico passed the wet fabric squelched horribly. They all kept their big plastic smiles though. The president, the prime minister, the other deputy prime minister and the vice president arrived together. A hush fell over the crowd as the four powerful men walked almost casually together. Cameras clicked some more, covering up the squelch of the wet carpet.
  
  The conference was another PR attempt from the coalition government. It was aimed, ineffectually, at making it appear that the government gave a shit about development and the well being of the people who put it there. It was to be a three day affair with the key speakers, from the same government, rehashing the same drivel they recited every weekend at public rallies in each others’ home towns. The conference was dubbed: Our Country, Our Responsibility, and was reputed to have cost about a million dollars to hold. All the major players in politics were there, to be seen mostly. And to bullshit.
  
  Everyone sat down after the national anthem. The MC, also the speaker of parliament, introduced the other deputy prime minister to speak. The man stepped up to the podium, looked at the audience, looked down and shuffled his speech papers, then. He looked up again, and then he began to speak.
  
  The conference was being broadcast live on local television. About fifteen kilometres away, in the suburb of Githurai, a man in dark clothing and an eerie glint in his eye sat in front of a cheap Chinese TV set in a crowded block of jerry built flats watching the shiny faced deputy PM exhort the measures and direction that the government was taking to achieve the development goals. Free education, free healthcare etc. The man in the flat watched silently, his right hand clutching a small, stolen cell phone. The man who originally owned the phone and lived in the cramped, two room flat lay dead in the tiny bathroom to one side of what served as the living room. The deputy PM finished his speech and sat down. The prime minister was up next.
  
  At his mansion in Karen, the deputy prime minister was going insane. He had paced his study until his legs ached. He had also consumed most of a Martell Cognac bottle, which now stood dangerously on the edge of one corner on the large desk. He had wrestled with his conscience all morning, trying not to show his staff that something was amiss. He knew he would have to pretend to be attending his scheduled public rally in Limuru but every time his aide came to the door to prompt him, the deputy prime minister shooed him away. The conference’s proceedings played out in full colour on a rather large plasma TV screen mounted on one wall of the study. The prime minister was now quoting figures on how much progress had been made in fighting malaria. Bullshit, the deputy PM thought, I don’t even know where that cash went. He stopped his pacing and lit a cigarette. He then went round the desk and sat down. The rally was still well off, at around three p.m. He had a few hours, although his aide would have preferred for them to get there earlier so the deputy prime minister could hobnob with the local government wallahs, have lunch at some local rich person’s house as the crowds gathered at the venue, and then drive in triumphantly, waving from the sunroof, to the jubilation of the assembled crowds. That’s the way it was done. Not any more, he reminded himself. He swivelled restlessly in the large leather seat as he thought. He would have the opportunity to change the way things were done around here. No more tribal chieftain bullshit, massive embezzlement of public coffers or…
  His mobile phone rang suddenly. The vibration sent the bottle of cognac off the edge of the desk. It didn’t break. The phone’s display showed ‘U Know Who’. The deputy prime minister’s mouth went dry as he raised his phone to his ear. “Hello?”
  “Are you watching?” The voice from last night.
  “Yes.”
  “Will you promise me now, that you will end this bullshit? There will be no more empty forums like this one?”
  “Yes.”
  “Good.”
  The caller hung up. On the deputy prime minister’s gigantic TV screen, the president of Kenya stepped up to the podium. The deputy PM sat down heavily on the padded leather seat. Now it begins, he thought. Or it ends.
  In Githurai, the man in the cramped two roomed flat dialled a number on the dead man’s cell phone. There was some clicking on the line and then the call connected. In a corner of the conference room, there was a jumble of video equipment trunks, brought there the previous night by various TV stations in preparation for the live coverage. In one of them, after the first ring, a device attached to a clear cylindrical container filled with a glowing blue substance beeped twice. Immediately, the substance began to bubble. Crystals began to form in the thick fluid as the president rumbled on about roads and the new planned port in Lamu. As the fluid crystallized and turned a darker blue, the man tossed the phone onto the floor and left the flat. He trotted down the stairs, got into a slate grey Land Rover and sped off. After the fifth ring, the cylinder exploded.
  
  In his study, the deputy PM watched as the screen went white, and then blank. A message appeared: PLEASE STAND BY. He wanted to scream as he looked at the TV station’s logo on the screen. Pretty soon his phone would start ringing and there would be matters of great magnitude to be sorted. Until then, he figured he could use a drink.
  
  **********
  
  Simiyu was a man who ran a small stand near the conference centre where he sold newspapers, magazines, cigarettes and soft drinks. He had left the stall in the care of his nephew as he went to collect some money a customer owed him across town. He was on his way back to his stall, which he had ran for the past fifteen years and he could see the building when there was an immense bang and the whole structure seemed to jump up in the air. The ground shook so hard Simiyu fell down. Car alarms went off all over as a thick column of smoke rose from where the iconic conference centre once stood. Somewhere, a woman started screaming. Confusion was everywhere. People were running left and right, to his left a panicked motorist struck a running woman, flinging her into a plate glass shop window filled with digital cameras. A terrified mob of people ran towards Simiyu and he saw some of them stop and grab cameras from the shattered window, without pausing to help the badly cut up woman lying among them. Simiyu stood up on shaky legs. That must be a bomb, he thought. Those Arabs are back! Then he remembered his brother’s son at the stall and broke into a shambling run towards the conference centre.
  
  A large cloud of dust and smoke hung in the air above the rubble of the conference centre. Debris was still raining down and there were body parts scattered about, badly ripped and bloody. A man, bloody and dusty, ran past him shouting, “Oh my God!” over and over again. Simiyu saw a headless torso partly buried under a large cement block. He grew numb as he approached the large plaza in front of the centre where his stall had been. There was a huge crater where the main conference hall had been. The rest of the building was still standing but had suffered immense damage. He could see several fires. His stall along with most of the plaza had been turned into so much vapour, there was nothing here to salvage. It was all gone. Simiyu turned and ran, tears streaming down his dusty cheeks, to safety.
  
  “What have you done!” the deputy prime minister roared into the phone. He was speaking to the man from last night.
  “I didn’t say it would be pretty, did I?” Calm, collected voice, not that of a man who had just murdered hundreds, if not thousands.
  “Shit! Fuck you! Fuck you! The minute they swear me in as president I will hunt you down like a fucking dog and I will have you shot in public!”
  “Er, no you won’t,” the man said. “Go to your computer, the laptop, and search for a file called ‘Midnite’. Then you’ll know why you can’t get me and why we’ll work as a harmonious team together.”
  The deputy prime minister furiously keyed in the search word on his MacBook. He found a file called midnite.mov, a video file. He played it. There he was, naked as the day he was born, crawling around in the dust in the glare of intense light. The bathrobe landed in the shot and he saw himself grabbing and putting it on.
  “Are you still there?” he asked.
  “Yes.”
  “You recorded everything?”
  “What do you think?”
  The deputy prime minister was silent for a moment.
  “So what happens now?” he asked in a small voice.
  “Sit tight, look sad, then become president. Then we’ll see.” The man hung up.
  
  There was no mass panic. Not really anyway. After workplaces closed and people went home, they stayed indoors and watched the news as confused reporters tried to explain that the president and most of the cabinet had been incinerated in the KICC. The building was gone, all that was left was a huge crater that must been caused by a truck bomb. That was the theory going around. The international networks also picked up on it and pretty soon fingers were being pointed at Islamic terrorists. The whole of Nairobi’s city centre was cordoned off as police and rescue teams tried to find survivors. A seven pm to dawn curfew was summarily imposed by the military.
  

• POWER SHIFTS PT.III

  Posted: February 17, 2009, 6:37 am by Deviant Miscreant

  He didn’t quite know how he was going to pull this off or why he had agreed to it. But it was too late now. He went into his closet and changed into a pair of chinos and a plaid shirt. He sat on his large bed and tried to make sense of the evening’s events. There was a lot to be done but it would have to wait till the next day. He couldn’t appear to have had anything to do with the tragedy in waiting. He went into the bathroom where the dusty robe still lay and retrieved the flask. He shook it to find out if it was empty. A satisfying sloshing inside told him otherwise and he tilted his head back and emptied it. He went back to the bedroom and sat down at a corner of the huge double bed with his chin in both his hands, thinking. Outside, somewhere, a dog howled; a long, mournful lost sound like the cry of abandoned souls carrying with it a sense of malevolent foreboding. The deputy prime minister lay back on the soft duvet and fell asleep.
  
  **********
  
  The parking lot was packed with a mass of people, all trying to catch a glimpse of the politician doing the camera walk as they headed into the conference hall. Cameras clicked and TV news cameramen jostled each other for position along the strip of red carpet that had been laid the previous evening. A light rain had soaked it overnight and as each big politico passed the wet fabric squelched horribly. They all kept their big plastic smiles though. The president, the prime minister, the other deputy prime minister and the vice president arrived together. A hush fell over the crowd as the four powerful men walked almost casually together. Cameras clicked some more, covering up the squelch of the wet carpet.
  
  The conference was another PR attempt from the coalition government. It was aimed, ineffectually, at making it appear that the government gave a shit about development and the well being of the people who put it there. It was to be a three day affair with the key speakers, from the same government, rehashing the same drivel they recited every weekend at public rallies in each others’ home towns. The conference was dubbed: Our Country, Our Responsibility, and was reputed to have cost about a million dollars to hold. All the major players in politics were there, to be seen mostly. And to bullshit.
  
  Everyone sat down after the national anthem. The MC, also the speaker of parliament, introduced the other deputy prime minister to speak. The man stepped up to the podium, looked at the audience, looked down and shuffled his speech papers, then. He looked up again, and then he began to speak.
  
  The conference was being broadcast live on local television. About fifteen kilometres away, in the suburb of Githurai, a man in dark clothing and an eerie glint in his eye sat in front of a cheap Chinese TV set in a crowded block of jerry built flats watching the shiny faced deputy PM exhort the measures and direction that the government was taking to achieve the development goals. Free education, free healthcare etc. The man in the flat watched silently, his right hand clutching a small, stolen cell phone. The man who originally owned the phone and lived in the cramped, two room flat lay dead in the tiny bathroom to one side of what served as the living room. The deputy PM finished his speech and sat down. The prime minister was up next.
  
  At his mansion in Karen, the deputy prime minister was going insane. He had paced his study until his legs ached. He had also consumed most of a Martell Cognac bottle, which now stood dangerously on the edge of one corner on the large desk. He had wrestled with his conscience all morning, trying not to show his staff that something was amiss. He knew he would have to pretend to be attending his scheduled public rally in Limuru but every time his aide came to the door to prompt him, the deputy prime minister shooed him away. The conference’s proceedings played out in full colour on a rather large plasma TV screen mounted on one wall of the study. The prime minister was now quoting figures on how much progress had been made in fighting malaria. Bullshit, the deputy PM thought, I don’t even know where that cash went. He stopped his pacing and lit a cigarette. He then went round the desk and sat down. The rally was still well off, at around three p.m. He had a few hours, although his aide would have preferred for them to get there earlier so the deputy prime minister could hobnob with the local government wallahs, have lunch at some local rich person’s house as the crowds gathered at the venue, and then drive in triumphantly, waving from the sunroof, to the jubilation of the assembled crowds. That’s the way it was done. Not any more, he reminded himself. He swivelled restlessly in the large leather seat as he thought. He would have the opportunity to change the way things were done around here. No more tribal chieftain bullshit, massive embezzlement of public coffers or…
  His mobile phone rang suddenly. The vibration sent the bottle of cognac off the edge of the desk. It didn’t break. The phone’s display showed ‘U Know Who’. The deputy prime minister’s mouth went dry as he raised his phone to his ear. “Hello?”
  “Are you watching?” The voice from last night.
  “Yes.”
  “Will you promise me now, that you will end this bullshit? There will be no more empty forums like this one?”
  “Yes.”
  “Good.”
  The caller hung up. On the deputy prime minister’s gigantic TV screen, the president of Kenya stepped up to the podium. The deputy PM sat down heavily on the padded leather seat. Now it begins, he thought. Or it ends.
  In Githurai, the man in the cramped two roomed flat dialled a number on the dead man’s cell phone. There was some clicking on the line and then the call connected. In a corner of the conference room, there was a jumble of video equipment trunks, brought there the previous night by various TV stations in preparation for the live coverage. In one of them, after the first ring, a device attached to a clear cylindrical container filled with a glowing blue substance beeped twice. Immediately, the substance began to bubble. Crystals began to form in the thick fluid as the president rumbled on about roads and the new planned port in Lamu. As the fluid crystallized and turned a darker blue, the man tossed the phone onto the floor and left the flat. He trotted down the stairs, got into a slate grey Land Rover and sped off. After the fifth ring, the cylinder exploded.
  
  In his study, the deputy PM watched as the screen went white, and then blank. A message appeared: PLEASE STAND BY. He wanted to scream as he looked at the TV station’s logo on the screen. Pretty soon his phone would start ringing and there would be matters of great magnitude to be sorted. Until then, he figured he could use a drink.
  
  **********
  
  Simiyu was a man who ran a small stand near the conference centre where he sold newspapers, magazines, cigarettes and soft drinks. He had left the stall in the care of his nephew as he went to collect some money a customer owed him across town. He was on his way back to his stall, which he had ran for the past fifteen years and he could see the building when there was an immense bang and the whole structure seemed to jump up in the air. The ground shook so hard Simiyu fell down. Car alarms went off all over as a thick column of smoke rose from where the iconic conference centre once stood. Somewhere, a woman started screaming. Confusion was everywhere. People were running left and right, to his left a panicked motorist struck a running woman, flinging her into a plate glass shop window filled with digital cameras. A terrified mob of people ran towards Simiyu and he saw some of them stop and grab cameras from the shattered window, without pausing to help the badly cut up woman lying among them. Simiyu stood up on shaky legs. That must be a bomb, he thought. Those Arabs are back! Then he remembered his brother’s son at the stall and broke into a shambling run towards the conference centre.
  
  A large cloud of dust and smoke hung in the air above the rubble of the conference centre. Debris was still raining down and there were body parts scattered about, badly ripped and bloody. A man, bloody and dusty, ran past him shouting, “Oh my God!” over and over again. Simiyu saw a headless torso partly buried under a large cement block. He grew numb as he approached the large plaza in front of the centre where his stall had been. There was a huge crater where the main conference hall had been. The rest of the building was still standing but had suffered immense damage. He could see several fires. His stall along with most of the plaza had been turned into so much vapour, there was nothing here to salvage. It was all gone. Simiyu turned and ran, tears streaming down his dusty cheeks, to safety.
  
  “What have you done!” the deputy prime minister roared into the phone. He was speaking to the man from last night.
  “I didn’t say it would be pretty, did I?” Calm, collected voice, not that of a man who had just murdered hundreds, if not thousands.
  “Shit! Fuck you! Fuck you! The minute they swear me in as president I will hunt you down like a fucking dog and I will have you shot in public!”
  “Er, no you won’t,” the man said. “Go to your computer, the laptop, and search for a file called ‘Midnite’. Then you’ll know why you can’t get me and why we’ll work as a harmonious team together.”
  The deputy prime minister furiously keyed in the search word on his MacBook. He found a file called midnite.mov, a video file. He played it. There he was, naked as the day he was born, crawling around in the dust in the glare of intense light. The bathrobe landed in the shot and he saw himself grabbing and putting it on.
  “Are you still there?” he asked.
  “Yes.”
  “You recorded everything?”
  “What do you think?”
  The deputy prime minister was silent for a moment.
  “So what happens now?” he asked in a small voice.
  “Sit tight, look sad, then become president. Then we’ll see.” The man hung up.
  
  There was no mass panic. Not really anyway. After workplaces closed and people went home, they stayed indoors and watched the news as confused reporters tried to explain that the president and most of the cabinet had been incinerated in the KICC. The building was gone, all that was left was a huge crater that must been caused by a truck bomb. That was the theory going around. The international networks also picked up on it and pretty soon fingers were being pointed at Islamic terrorists. The whole of Nairobi’s city centre was cordoned off as police and rescue teams tried to find survivors. A seven pm to dawn curfew was summarily imposed by the military.
  

www.scribeofhades.blogspot.com

• POWER SHIFTS PT.III

  Posted: February 17, 2009, 6:37 am by Deviant Miscreant

  He didn’t quite know how he was going to pull this off or why he had agreed to it. But it was too late now. He went into his closet and changed into a pair of chinos and a plaid shirt. He sat on his large bed and tried to make sense of the evening’s events. There was a lot to be done but it would have to wait till the next day. He couldn’t appear to have had anything to do with the tragedy in waiting. He went into the bathroom where the dusty robe still lay and retrieved the flask. He shook it to find out if it was empty. A satisfying sloshing inside told him otherwise and he tilted his head back and emptied it. He went back to the bedroom and sat down at a corner of the huge double bed with his chin in both his hands, thinking. Outside, somewhere, a dog howled; a long, mournful lost sound like the cry of abandoned souls carrying with it a sense of malevolent foreboding. The deputy prime minister lay back on the soft duvet and fell asleep.
  
  **********
  
  The parking lot was packed with a mass of people, all trying to catch a glimpse of the politician doing the camera walk as they headed into the conference hall. Cameras clicked and TV news cameramen jostled each other for position along the strip of red carpet that had been laid the previous evening. A light rain had soaked it overnight and as each big politico passed the wet fabric squelched horribly. They all kept their big plastic smiles though. The president, the prime minister, the other deputy prime minister and the vice president arrived together. A hush fell over the crowd as the four powerful men walked almost casually together. Cameras clicked some more, covering up the squelch of the wet carpet.
  
  The conference was another PR attempt from the coalition government. It was aimed, ineffectually, at making it appear that the government gave a shit about development and the well being of the people who put it there. It was to be a three day affair with the key speakers, from the same government, rehashing the same drivel they recited every weekend at public rallies in each others’ home towns. The conference was dubbed: Our Country, Our Responsibility, and was reputed to have cost about a million dollars to hold. All the major players in politics were there, to be seen mostly. And to bullshit.
  
  Everyone sat down after the national anthem. The MC, also the speaker of parliament, introduced the other deputy prime minister to speak. The man stepped up to the podium, looked at the audience, looked down and shuffled his speech papers, then. He looked up again, and then he began to speak.
  
  The conference was being broadcast live on local television. About fifteen kilometres away, in the suburb of Githurai, a man in dark clothing and an eerie glint in his eye sat in front of a cheap Chinese TV set in a crowded block of jerry built flats watching the shiny faced deputy PM exhort the measures and direction that the government was taking to achieve the development goals. Free education, free healthcare etc. The man in the flat watched silently, his right hand clutching a small, stolen cell phone. The man who originally owned the phone and lived in the cramped, two room flat lay dead in the tiny bathroom to one side of what served as the living room. The deputy PM finished his speech and sat down. The prime minister was up next.
  
  At his mansion in Karen, the deputy prime minister was going insane. He had paced his study until his legs ached. He had also consumed most of a Martell Cognac bottle, which now stood dangerously on the edge of one corner on the large desk. He had wrestled with his conscience all morning, trying not to show his staff that something was amiss. He knew he would have to pretend to be attending his scheduled public rally in Limuru but every time his aide came to the door to prompt him, the deputy prime minister shooed him away. The conference’s proceedings played out in full colour on a rather large plasma TV screen mounted on one wall of the study. The prime minister was now quoting figures on how much progress had been made in fighting malaria. Bullshit, the deputy PM thought, I don’t even know where that cash went. He stopped his pacing and lit a cigarette. He then went round the desk and sat down. The rally was still well off, at around three p.m. He had a few hours, although his aide would have preferred for them to get there earlier so the deputy prime minister could hobnob with the local government wallahs, have lunch at some local rich person’s house as the crowds gathered at the venue, and then drive in triumphantly, waving from the sunroof, to the jubilation of the assembled crowds. That’s the way it was done. Not any more, he reminded himself. He swivelled restlessly in the large leather seat as he thought. He would have the opportunity to change the way things were done around here. No more tribal chieftain bullshit, massive embezzlement of public coffers or…
  His mobile phone rang suddenly. The vibration sent the bottle of cognac off the edge of the desk. It didn’t break. The phone’s display showed ‘U Know Who’. The deputy prime minister’s mouth went dry as he raised his phone to his ear. “Hello?”
  “Are you watching?” The voice from last night.
  “Yes.”
  “Will you promise me now, that you will end this bullshit? There will be no more empty forums like this one?”
  “Yes.”
  “Good.”
  The caller hung up. On the deputy prime minister’s gigantic TV screen, the president of Kenya stepped up to the podium. The deputy PM sat down heavily on the padded leather seat. Now it begins, he thought. Or it ends.
  In Githurai, the man in the cramped two roomed flat dialled a number on the dead man’s cell phone. There was some clicking on the line and then the call connected. In a corner of the conference room, there was a jumble of video equipment trunks, brought there the previous night by various TV stations in preparation for the live coverage. In one of them, after the first ring, a device attached to a clear cylindrical container filled with a glowing blue substance beeped twice. Immediately, the substance began to bubble. Crystals began to form in the thick fluid as the president rumbled on about roads and the new planned port in Lamu. As the fluid crystallized and turned a darker blue, the man tossed the phone onto the floor and left the flat. He trotted down the stairs, got into a slate grey Land Rover and sped off. After the fifth ring, the cylinder exploded.
  
  In his study, the deputy PM watched as the screen went white, and then blank. A message appeared: PLEASE STAND BY. He wanted to scream as he looked at the TV station’s logo on the screen. Pretty soon his phone would start ringing and there would be matters of great magnitude to be sorted. Until then, he figured he could use a drink.
  
  **********
  
  Simiyu was a man who ran a small stand near the conference centre where he sold newspapers, magazines, cigarettes and soft drinks. He had left the stall in the care of his nephew as he went to collect some money a customer owed him across town. He was on his way back to his stall, which he had ran for the past fifteen years and he could see the building when there was an immense bang and the whole structure seemed to jump up in the air. The ground shook so hard Simiyu fell down. Car alarms went off all over as a thick column of smoke rose from where the iconic conference centre once stood. Somewhere, a woman started screaming. Confusion was everywhere. People were running left and right, to his left a panicked motorist struck a running woman, flinging her into a plate glass shop window filled with digital cameras. A terrified mob of people ran towards Simiyu and he saw some of them stop and grab cameras from the shattered window, without pausing to help the badly cut up woman lying among them. Simiyu stood up on shaky legs. That must be a bomb, he thought. Those Arabs are back! Then he remembered his brother’s son at the stall and broke into a shambling run towards the conference centre.
  
  A large cloud of dust and smoke hung in the air above the rubble of the conference centre. Debris was still raining down and there were body parts scattered about, badly ripped and bloody. A man, bloody and dusty, ran past him shouting, “Oh my God!” over and over again. Simiyu saw a headless torso partly buried under a large cement block. He grew numb as he approached the large plaza in front of the centre where his stall had been. There was a huge crater where the main conference hall had been. The rest of the building was still standing but had suffered immense damage. He could see several fires. His stall along with most of the plaza had been turned into so much vapour, there was nothing here to salvage. It was all gone. Simiyu turned and ran, tears streaming down his dusty cheeks, to safety.
  
  “What have you done!” the deputy prime minister roared into the phone. He was speaking to the man from last night.
  “I didn’t say it would be pretty, did I?” Calm, collected voice, not that of a man who had just murdered hundreds, if not thousands.
  “Shit! Fuck you! Fuck you! The minute they swear me in as president I will hunt you down like a fucking dog and I will have you shot in public!”
  “Er, no you won’t,” the man said. “Go to your computer, the laptop, and search for a file called ‘Midnite’. Then you’ll know why you can’t get me and why we’ll work as a harmonious team together.”
  The deputy prime minister furiously keyed in the search word on his MacBook. He found a file called midnite.mov, a video file. He played it. There he was, naked as the day he was born, crawling around in the dust in the glare of intense light. The bathrobe landed in the shot and he saw himself grabbing and putting it on.
  “Are you still there?” he asked.
  “Yes.”
  “You recorded everything?”
  “What do you think?”
  The deputy prime minister was silent for a moment.
  “So what happens now?” he asked in a small voice.
  “Sit tight, look sad, then become president. Then we’ll see.” The man hung up.
  
  There was no mass panic. Not really anyway. After workplaces closed and people went home, they stayed indoors and watched the news as confused reporters tried to explain that the president and most of the cabinet had been incinerated in the KICC. The building was gone, all that was left was a huge crater that must been caused by a truck bomb. That was the theory going around. The international networks also picked up on it and pretty soon fingers were being pointed at Islamic terrorists. The whole of Nairobi’s city centre was cordoned off as police and rescue teams tried to find survivors. A seven pm to dawn curfew was summarily imposed by the military.
  

Avalon Perpetual

• POWER SHIFTS PT.2

  Posted: February 9, 2009, 6:05 am by Deviant Miscreant

  Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;}

  “Could you turn off the lights?” asked the deputy prime minister.

  The darkness that followed was total. He was aware of a dull red glow behind his eyelids as his eyes tried to readjust to the night. After a while he could make out the bulk of what looked like a Land Rover in front of him. A figure sat on the roof, with the legs dangling over the windscreen facing him. Dozens of names ran through his mind as he tried to think of someone in the Kenyan political clique who would be this daring. Most of the cabinet were a bunch of soft fat cats who enjoyed having their cream and drinking it too. They wouldn’t upset the balance so drastically and risk losing all they worked for. This had to be a foreign move. Possibly the CIA.

  “It’s not them.” The voice brought him out of his reverie. “This is a strictly local affair. There is no external influence. It is a concerned citizen taking matters into his own hands and offering you, sir, the opportunity to lead this country into the bright future it so deserves.”

  “So you chose me?” The deputy prime minister laughed softly.

  “Moses didn’t wanna do it either.”

  The deputy prime minister pondered this predicament. If this crazy sonofabitch was serious, which he doubted, he would be an accessory to mass murder. And then, if the plot went ahead, the country would be in upheaval, what with the recent election violence and all the tribalism around. There would be hell to pay, literally. He really needed that drink now.

  “We don’t have time. You will give me your answer now. You say yes, we go ahead. You say no, I disappear and you never hear from me again. I’ll go find someone more – amenable – to my plans. Oh, and here.” Something flew through the air and hit the ground at the deputy prime minister’s feet. It was a chrome hip flask. “Drink up. You look like you need it.”

  “There’s no ‘we’,” said the deputy prime minister as he bent down to pick the flask. “You are crazy. You’ll destroy the country.” He took a long swallow of what he surmised was cognac. He put the flask in one of his bathrobe’s pockets

  “No I won’t. And you know that. Kenyans are predictable. They’ll riot for a while, then you call the police and GSU in and restore peace. The speaker of the house will announce you as acting president the day after tomorrow and we’re set. A week after that people will forget. It really is that simple.”

  Maybe I’m dreaming, mused the deputy prime minister. Yeah, that’s it. I took a shower and I fell asleep. This is too crazy.

  “I could come down there and pinch you.” A chuckle.

  “Just who are you? And where are we? How do I know this is not some set up? You can be a pigment of my imagination.”

  “Figment, idiot.”

  “How can I take your word for it? If you were me, and some maniac kidnapped you in the middle of the night and somehow brought you out here, wherever this is, would you believe them?”

  “Probably not. But this is not about me, is it? I am the one making you the proposition. You agree to this, you become president for the foreseeable future and the economy becomes my personal property.”

  “What? How?”

  “You’ll see. It’s a symbiotic relationship. I can’t be president, you can. I need a public face at the highest level to be the PR side of my little plan. The current top dogs are a bit old and regressive. You’re young, itching to make your own mark in our political scenario. Because let’s face it, everything you have achieved so far has been handed to you hasn’t it?”

  The deputy prime minister had unconsciously been moving closer to the vehicle again. This time there was no gunshot. He stopped just in front of the bull bar.

  “Who are you? Seriously?”

  “We already played that game. Now, Mr. Deputy prime minister, yes, or no. time’s up. Imagine it; you can continue daddy’s legacy.”

  The deputy prime minister put his hands on the bull bar and looked off to one side. He thought furiously. There was a niggling notion in the back of his head that screamed PRANK at him. But then, what if the guy was serious? Then he caught himself thinking of the possibilities, oh the possibilities. He had to physically shake his head to rid his mind of the thoughts. He didn’t much care for the way the old guard ran the country. He wanted development, to bring Kenya into a new future. But was this the way. And why was he already convinced it was? Could this guy have known he was that desperate to become relevant? He pulled the flask from his pocket and took a gulp. “You wouldn’t have any cigarettes on you, would you?” he asked.

  The man stood up on the bonnet and hopped lightly onto the ground. The deputy prime minister stepped back as the guy came closer. He was holding something out in his hand. A pack of Marlboro Lights. The deputy prime minister took one and put it between his lips.

  “What about a light?” he asked.

  The guy snapped his fingers. There was a spark and a flame and he extended his hand to the deputy prime minister who lit up gratefully. Then he noticed the flame was actually on the tip of the finger, not from a lighter. He staggered back in surprise, choking on the smoke and almost tripping himself. “What the fuck!”

  “Little trick of mine.”

  The guy also lit up, using the same finger. They puffed in silence for a while. Somewhere out there in the dark, a large animal growled, a low heavy sound. The deputy prime minister glanced fearfully around and took a few steps closer to the Land Rover, as if for safety. The other man laughed and looked at his watch.

  “It’s getting to tomorrow. Yes or no?”

  The deputy prime minister finished the cigarette and tossed the butt into the darkness. He was silent for a long moment, staring off into space. The sky was overcast.

  “I’ll make some arrangements. Go ahead. Now can I get back to my house? I’m sure my people are wondering where I…”

  
  

  “…am.” He finished the sentence back in his own bathroom. He still wore the now dusty robe and he could smell the remnants of cigarette smoke. The flask was still in the pocket. He grasped at the bathroom fittings, wild eyed, making sure they were real. Then he moved to the mirror and looked at himself. All was still there, although his eyes were bloodshot. He dashed downstairs to the study and found his aide still working. The aide looked up in surprise at his dishevelled boss in the dusty bathrobe as the deputy prime minister grabbed his shoulder. “How long have I been gone?” he demanded urgently.

  “Gone, sir?” The man was surprised and a bit frightened. The deputy prime minister had a reputation for hard drinking. Maybe he was tripping right now judging from the hysterical look on his face and all the dust. He looked like he might have been rolling around on the lawn outside. “You went upstairs about ten minutes ago. I didn’t know you had left the house. Are you alright, sir?”

  The deputy prime minister’s grip on the shoulder went slack along with his face. He let his hand fall to his side as he looked at the earnest expression in his aide’s face for a moment and then turned around and walked slowly out of the room and up the stairs.

www.scribeofhades.blogspot.com

• POWER SHIFTS PT.2

  Posted: February 9, 2009, 6:05 am by Deviant Miscreant

  Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;}

  “Could you turn off the lights?” asked the deputy prime minister.

  The darkness that followed was total. He was aware of a dull red glow behind his eyelids as his eyes tried to readjust to the night. After a while he could make out the bulk of what looked like a Land Rover in front of him. A figure sat on the roof, with the legs dangling over the windscreen facing him. Dozens of names ran through his mind as he tried to think of someone in the Kenyan political clique who would be this daring. Most of the cabinet were a bunch of soft fat cats who enjoyed having their cream and drinking it too. They wouldn’t upset the balance so drastically and risk losing all they worked for. This had to be a foreign move. Possibly the CIA.

  “It’s not them.” The voice brought him out of his reverie. “This is a strictly local affair. There is no external influence. It is a concerned citizen taking matters into his own hands and offering you, sir, the opportunity to lead this country into the bright future it so deserves.”

  “So you chose me?” The deputy prime minister laughed softly.

  “Moses didn’t wanna do it either.”

  The deputy prime minister pondered this predicament. If this crazy sonofabitch was serious, which he doubted, he would be an accessory to mass murder. And then, if the plot went ahead, the country would be in upheaval, what with the recent election violence and all the tribalism around. There would be hell to pay, literally. He really needed that drink now.

  “We don’t have time. You will give me your answer now. You say yes, we go ahead. You say no, I disappear and you never hear from me again. I’ll go find someone more – amenable – to my plans. Oh, and here.” Something flew through the air and hit the ground at the deputy prime minister’s feet. It was a chrome hip flask. “Drink up. You look like you need it.”

  “There’s no ‘we’,” said the deputy prime minister as he bent down to pick the flask. “You are crazy. You’ll destroy the country.” He took a long swallow of what he surmised was cognac. He put the flask in one of his bathrobe’s pockets

  “No I won’t. And you know that. Kenyans are predictable. They’ll riot for a while, then you call the police and GSU in and restore peace. The speaker of the house will announce you as acting president the day after tomorrow and we’re set. A week after that people will forget. It really is that simple.”

  Maybe I’m dreaming, mused the deputy prime minister. Yeah, that’s it. I took a shower and I fell asleep. This is too crazy.

  “I could come down there and pinch you.” A chuckle.

  “Just who are you? And where are we? How do I know this is not some set up? You can be a pigment of my imagination.”

  “Figment, idiot.”

  “How can I take your word for it? If you were me, and some maniac kidnapped you in the middle of the night and somehow brought you out here, wherever this is, would you believe them?”

  “Probably not. But this is not about me, is it? I am the one making you the proposition. You agree to this, you become president for the foreseeable future and the economy becomes my personal property.”

  “What? How?”

  “You’ll see. It’s a symbiotic relationship. I can’t be president, you can. I need a public face at the highest level to be the PR side of my little plan. The current top dogs are a bit old and regressive. You’re young, itching to make your own mark in our political scenario. Because let’s face it, everything you have achieved so far has been handed to you hasn’t it?”

  The deputy prime minister had unconsciously been moving closer to the vehicle again. This time there was no gunshot. He stopped just in front of the bull bar.

  “Who are you? Seriously?”

  “We already played that game. Now, Mr. Deputy prime minister, yes, or no. time’s up. Imagine it; you can continue daddy’s legacy.”

  The deputy prime minister put his hands on the bull bar and looked off to one side. He thought furiously. There was a niggling notion in the back of his head that screamed PRANK at him. But then, what if the guy was serious? Then he caught himself thinking of the possibilities, oh the possibilities. He had to physically shake his head to rid his mind of the thoughts. He didn’t much care for the way the old guard ran the country. He wanted development, to bring Kenya into a new future. But was this the way. And why was he already convinced it was? Could this guy have known he was that desperate to become relevant? He pulled the flask from his pocket and took a gulp. “You wouldn’t have any cigarettes on you, would you?” he asked.

  The man stood up on the bonnet and hopped lightly onto the ground. The deputy prime minister stepped back as the guy came closer. He was holding something out in his hand. A pack of Marlboro Lights. The deputy prime minister took one and put it between his lips.

  “What about a light?” he asked.

  The guy snapped his fingers. There was a spark and a flame and he extended his hand to the deputy prime minister who lit up gratefully. Then he noticed the flame was actually on the tip of the finger, not from a lighter. He staggered back in surprise, choking on the smoke and almost tripping himself. “What the fuck!”

  “Little trick of mine.”

  The guy also lit up, using the same finger. They puffed in silence for a while. Somewhere out there in the dark, a large animal growled, a low heavy sound. The deputy prime minister glanced fearfully around and took a few steps closer to the Land Rover, as if for safety. The other man laughed and looked at his watch.

  “It’s getting to tomorrow. Yes or no?”

  The deputy prime minister finished the cigarette and tossed the butt into the darkness. He was silent for a long moment, staring off into space. The sky was overcast.

  “I’ll make some arrangements. Go ahead. Now can I get back to my house? I’m sure my people are wondering where I…”

  
  

  “…am.” He finished the sentence back in his own bathroom. He still wore the now dusty robe and he could smell the remnants of cigarette smoke. The flask was still in the pocket. He grasped at the bathroom fittings, wild eyed, making sure they were real. Then he moved to the mirror and looked at himself. All was still there, although his eyes were bloodshot. He dashed downstairs to the study and found his aide still working. The aide looked up in surprise at his dishevelled boss in the dusty bathrobe as the deputy prime minister grabbed his shoulder. “How long have I been gone?” he demanded urgently.

  “Gone, sir?” The man was surprised and a bit frightened. The deputy prime minister had a reputation for hard drinking. Maybe he was tripping right now judging from the hysterical look on his face and all the dust. He looked like he might have been rolling around on the lawn outside. “You went upstairs about ten minutes ago. I didn’t know you had left the house. Are you alright, sir?”

  The deputy prime minister’s grip on the shoulder went slack along with his face. He let his hand fall to his side as he looked at the earnest expression in his aide’s face for a moment and then turned around and walked slowly out of the room and up the stairs.

Avalon Perpetual

• POWER SHIFTS PT.I

  Posted: February 5, 2009, 5:03 am by Deviant Miscreant

  The conference was all set to go. Rows of rented chairs filled the hall, all with neat press pack folders set neatly on the seats. The electricians had just left after making sure all the cables, the lights and the sound system were good to go. The guard on duty closed the door to the hall and locked it. He whistled as he walked down the hall, twirling a large bunch of keys in his hand. As he went, he switched off the lights in the corridor one by one, leaving only the weak glow of the emergency lights, set low along the walls.
  
  
  The deputy prime minister had just finished a session on the treadmill in his gym. He draped a large grey towel over his shoulders and poured a large glass of water from the cooler that stood in a corner and drank deeply. His t-shirt was drenched in sweat and he was breathing heavily after his simulated three kilometre jog. He needed a drink, but he needed a shower first. He left the gym and headed upstairs. The large home was quiet, his wife and kids were in London on holiday or something and the household staff had been dismissed for the evening. Only the deputy prime minister and his aide, who was working on a proposal and a speech in the downstairs study, were in the house.
  
  
  The shower was hot and steamy. He felt the stress of the day ooze out of his body and as the water gushed, he placed his hands against the wall, closed his eyes and bowed his head, letting the stream pour over his head. He had not been asked to attend the conference tomorrow. Why? Maybe the rumours that he was about to be replaced were not all unfounded after all. The top government officials, including the president, prime minister and the vice president were going to attend the opening ceremony. His being left out did not look good. He opened his eyes and looked at the water swirl into the drain on the floor. That’s pretty much where my political career is heading, isn’t it? Down into nothing. He shut off the water and stood there, dripping. He was scheduled to address a political rally in Limuru tomorrow. A public charade, an exhortation of the good the Party was doing for the country. Bullshit. He stepped out of the cubicle and reached for a towel. Then the lights went out. Funny, he thought. That shouldn’t happen at all. The house had back-up power, blackouts were not supposed to happ…
  
  
  WHAM!
  
  
  Something hit him hard in the chest. He was thrown backwards into the shower cubicle and he hit his head on the tap fitting. He tried to cry out but his vision was greying at the edges and the centre was filled with bright white stars of pain. He raised his right arm, as if to catch someone’s attention then he passed out. Blood from his head formed a miniature delta on the expensive Italian tiles as it ran into the drain.
  
  
  The biting cold woke him up. He opened his eyes but saw only dark. He was outside, somewhere, and he was naked. He coughed once and tried to sit up but agony flared up on his right side. He coughed again and spat a glob of spittle and blood into the dust. He sat up again, slowly and let his eyes adjust to the dark. He was just beginning to make out the outline of what looked like a bush when the full force of the excruciatingly bright white light hit his face. He cringed and raised his arms to cover his face. Something dark and soft landed at his feet.
  “Put that on.” A flat voice, from behind the miniature sun, said.
  The deputy prime minister reached for what turned out to be a bathrobe. His bathrobe. He pulled it on painfully, as his torso was one big ache. He tied the sash and then started yelling for help.
  “Won’t do you any good. But I’ll wait.”
  “Do you know who I am?” blustered the deputy PM. “You will not get away with this! You are finished, you hear!” He broke down in a coughing fit. More blood came up.
  “No, wrong. You are finished. Aren’t you fed up of scrabbling for the scraps from the high table, Mr. Deputy prime minister? Occupying a dead end position? Let’s face it, you are a token. You have no real power as, ahem, deputy prime minister, do you?”
  The deputy prime minister took a few steps towards the merciless light, shielding his face with his right hand.
  “What? What the hell are you talking about? Who are you?”
  “I am here to make you a proposal.”
  The deputy prime minister took another step.
  “What kind of proposal?”
  “The kind that makes you president by this time tomorrow.”
  The deputy prime minister laughed. A loud guffaw that ended in a painful hacking cough. He stood with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath as he considered the idiocy of whoever his abductor was. Me? President? Good one. He stood upright again, slowly. He took another step toward the light.
  “You will stop, right there.”
  “Or what?”
  There was a loud report. The dust an inch from his left foot spurted and something whined into the night. He stopped moving.
  “If you were going to kill me, you already would have,” he said breathlessly.
  “True. So shut up and listen. There is a conference tomorrow at KICC, right?”
  “Yes. So what?”
  “Attending that conference will be the president, the prime minister, the other deputy prime minister, the vice president and all their fat Prado riding cronies, right?”
  The deputy prime minister remained silent.
  “If all these people were to die suddenly and concurrently, who takes over government?”
  The deputy prime minister gaped. He stood in the glare with his mouth open as it all came crashing together in his head.
  “Shit! You would not!”
  “That depends on your response to my proposal.”
  

www.scribeofhades.blogspot.com

• POWER SHIFTS PT.I

  Posted: February 5, 2009, 5:03 am by Deviant Miscreant

  The conference was all set to go. Rows of rented chairs filled the hall, all with neat press pack folders set neatly on the seats. The electricians had just left after making sure all the cables, the lights and the sound system were good to go. The guard on duty closed the door to the hall and locked it. He whistled as he walked down the hall, twirling a large bunch of keys in his hand. As he went, he switched off the lights in the corridor one by one, leaving only the weak glow of the emergency lights, set low along the walls.
  
  
  The deputy prime minister had just finished a session on the treadmill in his gym. He draped a large grey towel over his shoulders and poured a large glass of water from the cooler that stood in a corner and drank deeply. His t-shirt was drenched in sweat and he was breathing heavily after his simulated three kilometre jog. He needed a drink, but he needed a shower first. He left the gym and headed upstairs. The large home was quiet, his wife and kids were in London on holiday or something and the household staff had been dismissed for the evening. Only the deputy prime minister and his aide, who was working on a proposal and a speech in the downstairs study, were in the house.
  
  
  The shower was hot and steamy. He felt the stress of the day ooze out of his body and as the water gushed, he placed his hands against the wall, closed his eyes and bowed his head, letting the stream pour over his head. He had not been asked to attend the conference tomorrow. Why? Maybe the rumours that he was about to be replaced were not all unfounded after all. The top government officials, including the president, prime minister and the vice president were going to attend the opening ceremony. His being left out did not look good. He opened his eyes and looked at the water swirl into the drain on the floor. That’s pretty much where my political career is heading, isn’t it? Down into nothing. He shut off the water and stood there, dripping. He was scheduled to address a political rally in Limuru tomorrow. A public charade, an exhortation of the good the Party was doing for the country. Bullshit. He stepped out of the cubicle and reached for a towel. Then the lights went out. Funny, he thought. That shouldn’t happen at all. The house had back-up power, blackouts were not supposed to happ…
  
  
  WHAM!
  
  
  Something hit him hard in the chest. He was thrown backwards into the shower cubicle and he hit his head on the tap fitting. He tried to cry out but his vision was greying at the edges and the centre was filled with bright white stars of pain. He raised his right arm, as if to catch someone’s attention then he passed out. Blood from his head formed a miniature delta on the expensive Italian tiles as it ran into the drain.
  
  
  The biting cold woke him up. He opened his eyes but saw only dark. He was outside, somewhere, and he was naked. He coughed once and tried to sit up but agony flared up on his right side. He coughed again and spat a glob of spittle and blood into the dust. He sat up again, slowly and let his eyes adjust to the dark. He was just beginning to make out the outline of what looked like a bush when the full force of the excruciatingly bright white light hit his face. He cringed and raised his arms to cover his face. Something dark and soft landed at his feet.
  “Put that on.” A flat voice, from behind the miniature sun, said.
  The deputy prime minister reached for what turned out to be a bathrobe. His bathrobe. He pulled it on painfully, as his torso was one big ache. He tied the sash and then started yelling for help.
  “Won’t do you any good. But I’ll wait.”
  “Do you know who I am?” blustered the deputy PM. “You will not get away with this! You are finished, you hear!” He broke down in a coughing fit. More blood came up.
  “No, wrong. You are finished. Aren’t you fed up of scrabbling for the scraps from the high table, Mr. Deputy prime minister? Occupying a dead end position? Let’s face it, you are a token. You have no real power as, ahem, deputy prime minister, do you?”
  The deputy prime minister took a few steps towards the merciless light, shielding his face with his right hand.
  “What? What the hell are you talking about? Who are you?”
  “I am here to make you a proposal.”
  The deputy prime minister took another step.
  “What kind of proposal?”
  “The kind that makes you president by this time tomorrow.”
  The deputy prime minister laughed. A loud guffaw that ended in a painful hacking cough. He stood with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath as he considered the idiocy of whoever his abductor was. Me? President? Good one. He stood upright again, slowly. He took another step toward the light.
  “You will stop, right there.”
  “Or what?”
  There was a loud report. The dust an inch from his left foot spurted and something whined into the night. He stopped moving.
  “If you were going to kill me, you already would have,” he said breathlessly.
  “True. So shut up and listen. There is a conference tomorrow at KICC, right?”
  “Yes. So what?”
  “Attending that conference will be the president, the prime minister, the other deputy prime minister, the vice president and all their fat Prado riding cronies, right?”
  The deputy prime minister remained silent.
  “If all these people were to die suddenly and concurrently, who takes over government?”
  The deputy prime minister gaped. He stood in the glare with his mouth open as it all came crashing together in his head.
  “Shit! You would not!”
  “That depends on your response to my proposal.”
  

Avalon Perpetual

• DRIVE BY

  Posted: January 27, 2009, 3:59 am by Deviant Miscreant

  Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;}

  The meeting was fruitful. An hour of successful haggling with the sharks had left Harry Oloo feeling chuffed. It was the last in a long series, seeking to raise capital for his real estate venture. He had just gotten his first cheque from his new partners. He could now envision the new house he was going to buy and a replacement for his faithful beat-up Honda Civic. One of the men he was meeting was Hiram Kimani, a local shyster who ran a string of spare part shops and cheap bars in downtown Nairobi. It was with this man that Harry was now walking across the foyer towards the large revolving glass doors.

  
  

  
  

  Hiram had known Harry’s father when they were both younger men. Together, they had run successful businesses in the late ‘70s and the ‘80s until Harry’s father had died of a brain aneurysm and Hiram had pretty much taken over the whole business. Harry’s family never saw a penny of the elder Oloo’s stake in the business after that.

  “You know, your father, he was a clever, clever man,” said Hiram. His arm was around Harry’s shoulder. They looked like father and son. Harry wanted to punch him right there and then but he needed the capital Hiram and his cronies were now willing to inject into his project. “And I see you have taken after him.”

  “When do we proceed with the lawyer?” Harry asked. He wanted to get the paperwork all set up before these people changed their minds. His girlfriend of three years was pregnant and he was very low in cash.

  “Patience, young man,” drawled Hiram. “In three days, you will receive a package in your mail and in it will be all the paperwork you need. You don’t have to do anything. Just sit back and enjoy the money.”

  Harry stopped. Why would these guys set up his business for him? From what he could tell they didn’t know shit about IT. They were old school guys from Kiambu who were still getting to grips with the functions of their cell phones. “I don’t understand, Mr. Kimani. It’s my business, how are you even getting the documents without my approval? I thought you were the silent partners.”

  Hiram laughed loudly. Two ladies walking towards the lifts turned to look. “Silent? Young man, there is no such thing. If you want that kind of arrangement, go see your bank manager.” He fixed Harry with a glare. Harry’s face fell.

  “You did go see him, didn’t you?” Hiram laughed again. “And let me guess, he said no?” Harry nodded. “I am your friend young man. With me, you can build anything you want. You want to sell houses, fine. You want to sell cars, fine. But if I am your financier, you will do it my way. Savvy?”

  
  

  
  

  Harry was fuming. This…asshole was even now still messing with his life. Hiram was the reason Harry and his siblings had to go to public school and wear second hand clothes. Hiram was the reason his mother had to work eighteen hour days, sometimes more as a nurse, taking up double shifts to provide for her children. This man who was now telling him he wanted a part of his business. His business!

  
  

  
  

  “Alright, Mr. Kimani. We’ll do it your way then.” Hiram nodded. They had reached the doors. One of Hiram’s minions came running up to deliver a message. “You go on, I’ll be right out,” Hiram said.

  Harry pushed the heavy gilded revolving behemoth. He hated revolving doors, why couldn’t a door just swing open? As Harry stood outside on the street waiting for Hiram, he noticed a street bike idling some way down the street from where he stood. The rider on the sleek machine was dressed in black racing leathers and seemed to be waiting for something. The morning was chilly and steam curled up lazily from the bike’s large exhaust pipe. The rider seemed to be looking straight at him.

  
  

  
  

  Behind Harry, the large door spun slowly. As Harry turned to see if it was Hiram, he heard the bike’s engine rev, a sound like a very, very large angry wasp. Hiram stepped out into the day, a middle aged man in an expensive suit, gracefully concealing his large gut, fed off Harry’s father’s hard work and time slowed down. Harry saw the bike swing out into traffic, the engine screaming. The rider had what looked like a sub machine gun in his left hand and a rapid series of loud spits filled the air. The air around Harry was suddenly full of whizzing turbulence and the glass panels on the large door behind him were splintering. Harry clearly heard five bullets smack into Hiram’s torso with a sound like a lump of wet clay would make if thrown against a wall, each hit staggering the man back a step. The bike, a Kawasaki ZX-1000R, Harry saw, zipped up the street, narrowly missing a reversing truck and disappeared. Someone was screaming.

  
  

  
  

  Hiram was dead. He lay on the street with his eyes open, his blood running into the gutter. Guards from the building were asking Harry what happened, a small crowd was gathering, staring in wonder at the dead man. Car alarms were wailing and there were two policemen running towards the scene, their AK-47s at the ready.
  

  
  

  ******

  
  

  The next day, in a small room with at Central Police Station, the tapes from the building’s security cameras were being reviewed. The detective in charge, Inspector Mwiki, stared intently at the screen as Hiram, grainy and black and white, stepped out of the building. Then he shuddered and staggered as the bullets hit him. The footage from the camera that could have best captured the fleeing motorcyclist was loaded into the VCR next. There was a view of the street, people walking about, cars driving by, then a pixellated blur whizzed by, almost hitting a large florist’s truck that was backing out of its parking spot.

  “Slow that down!” the Inspector yelled. The technician ran the footage again at half speed. The pixellated blur went by again. Everything else was in focus, except the bike.

  Inspector Mwiki crossed himself. He had not been to church in thirty years, but this seemed like a good time to go back.

  “It’s him.”

www.scribeofhades.blogspot.com

• DRIVE BY

  Posted: January 27, 2009, 3:59 am by Deviant Miscreant

  Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;}

  The meeting was fruitful. An hour of successful haggling with the sharks had left Harry Oloo feeling chuffed. It was the last in a long series, seeking to raise capital for his real estate venture. He had just gotten his first cheque from his new partners. He could now envision the new house he was going to buy and a replacement for his faithful beat-up Honda Civic. One of the men he was meeting was Hiram Kimani, a local shyster who ran a string of spare part shops and cheap bars in downtown Nairobi. It was with this man that Harry was now walking across the foyer towards the large revolving glass doors.

  
  

  
  

  Hiram had known Harry’s father when they were both younger men. Together, they had run successful businesses in the late ‘70s and the ‘80s until Harry’s father had died of a brain aneurysm and Hiram had pretty much taken over the whole business. Harry’s family never saw a penny of the elder Oloo’s stake in the business after that.

  “You know, your father, he was a clever, clever man,” said Hiram. His arm was around Harry’s shoulder. They looked like father and son. Harry wanted to punch him right there and then but he needed the capital Hiram and his cronies were now willing to inject into his project. “And I see you have taken after him.”

  “When do we proceed with the lawyer?” Harry asked. He wanted to get the paperwork all set up before these people changed their minds. His girlfriend of three years was pregnant and he was very low in cash.

  “Patience, young man,” drawled Hiram. “In three days, you will receive a package in your mail and in it will be all the paperwork you need. You don’t have to do anything. Just sit back and enjoy the money.”

  Harry stopped. Why would these guys set up his business for him? From what he could tell they didn’t know shit about IT. They were old school guys from Kiambu who were still getting to grips with the functions of their cell phones. “I don’t understand, Mr. Kimani. It’s my business, how are you even getting the documents without my approval? I thought you were the silent partners.”

  Hiram laughed loudly. Two ladies walking towards the lifts turned to look. “Silent? Young man, there is no such thing. If you want that kind of arrangement, go see your bank manager.” He fixed Harry with a glare. Harry’s face fell.

  “You did go see him, didn’t you?” Hiram laughed again. “And let me guess, he said no?” Harry nodded. “I am your friend young man. With me, you can build anything you want. You want to sell houses, fine. You want to sell cars, fine. But if I am your financier, you will do it my way. Savvy?”

  
  

  
  

  Harry was fuming. This…asshole was even now still messing with his life. Hiram was the reason Harry and his siblings had to go to public school and wear second hand clothes. Hiram was the reason his mother had to work eighteen hour days, sometimes more as a nurse, taking up double shifts to provide for her children. This man who was now telling him he wanted a part of his business. His business!

  
  

  
  

  “Alright, Mr. Kimani. We’ll do it your way then.” Hiram nodded. They had reached the doors. One of Hiram’s minions came running up to deliver a message. “You go on, I’ll be right out,” Hiram said.

  Harry pushed the heavy gilded revolving behemoth. He hated revolving doors, why couldn’t a door just swing open? As Harry stood outside on the street waiting for Hiram, he noticed a street bike idling some way down the street from where he stood. The rider on the sleek machine was dressed in black racing leathers and seemed to be waiting for something. The morning was chilly and steam curled up lazily from the bike’s large exhaust pipe. The rider seemed to be looking straight at him.

  
  

  
  

  Behind Harry, the large door spun slowly. As Harry turned to see if it was Hiram, he heard the bike’s engine rev, a sound like a very, very large angry wasp. Hiram stepped out into the day, a middle aged man in an expensive suit, gracefully concealing his large gut, fed off Harry’s father’s hard work and time slowed down. Harry saw the bike swing out into traffic, the engine screaming. The rider had what looked like a sub machine gun in his left hand and a rapid series of loud spits filled the air. The air around Harry was suddenly full of whizzing turbulence and the glass panels on the large door behind him were splintering. Harry clearly heard five bullets smack into Hiram’s torso with a sound like a lump of wet clay would make if thrown against a wall, each hit staggering the man back a step. The bike, a Kawasaki ZX-1000R, Harry saw, zipped up the street, narrowly missing a reversing truck and disappeared. Someone was screaming.

  
  

  
  

  Hiram was dead. He lay on the street with his eyes open, his blood running into the gutter. Guards from the building were asking Harry what happened, a small crowd was gathering, staring in wonder at the dead man. Car alarms were wailing and there were two policemen running towards the scene, their AK-47s at the ready.
  

  
  

  ******

  
  

  The next day, in a small room with at Central Police Station, the tapes from the building’s security cameras were being reviewed. The detective in charge, Inspector Mwiki, stared intently at the screen as Hiram, grainy and black and white, stepped out of the building. Then he shuddered and staggered as the bullets hit him. The footage from the camera that could have best captured the fleeing motorcyclist was loaded into the VCR next. There was a view of the street, people walking about, cars driving by, then a pixellated blur whizzed by, almost hitting a large florist’s truck that was backing out of its parking spot.

  “Slow that down!” the Inspector yelled. The technician ran the footage again at half speed. The pixellated blur went by again. Everything else was in focus, except the bike.

  Inspector Mwiki crossed himself. He had not been to church in thirty years, but this seemed like a good time to go back.

  “It’s him.”

Avalon Perpetual

• TRAFFIC INCIDENT

  Posted: January 26, 2009, 6:15 am by Deviant Miscreant

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  The tea girl stumbled on the raised, badly installed door frame of Inspector Mwiki’s office and a little tea spilled from the cups onto the tray. Mwiki frowned but said nothing. She set the tray on the edge of his crowded little desk and left quickly, mumbling an apology on her way out. Chief Inspector Kimwa, sitting across the desk from Mwiki, took a cup from the tray and sipped the hot liquid appreciatively. “You need to get that fixed,” he said, pointing at the door with his long chin. “So what happened then?”

  Inspector Mwiki also sipped his tea. The milk-tea ratio was off, again. And the sugar was too much. He set the cup down on a low table next to his chair. “The matatu driver, his friends call him Jamo, told me that after he got back on the road, he noticed the Land Rover was moving slowly on the outside lane, like its driver was waiting for him to pass. Once he overtook the Land Rover, the guy sped up and came very up close behind him and started hooting and showing him, er, rude hand signals.”

  Chief Inspector Kimwa laughed softly.

  “Jamo ignored this and drove on. That’s when the Land Rover rammed him from behind. He lost control and veered off the road. The Rover screeched to a stop in front of him and the driver jumped out.”

  “What happened then?” asked the Chief Inspector.

  “It’s a bit unclear,” said Mwiki, grimacing from his latest sip of the tea. “Some of the passengers say the guy had a pistol, but Jamo tells us that when the guy was approaching the matatu, he had no weapon in his hands.”

  “Who got shot again?” the Chief Inspector wanted to know.

  “The conductor.”

  “Ah, continue then.”

  “According to Jamo, the Land Rover driver came up to his window and started shouting all sorts of abuse at him. Jamo says he was really frightened at the time because he figured he was dealing with a mad man. He tried to roll up his window but his engine had stalled as he ran off the road. The Land Rover guy pulled him out through the open window and beat him.”

  “He beat him?”

  “Badly. Broke his jaw, collar bone and his right forearm.”

  “What were the passengers doing then?”

  “Apparently nothing. Kenyan complacence, you know.” The Chief Inspector nodded. “Until the conductor slid open the door and rushed round the front of the matatu to help his driver.”

  “That’s when the Land Rover guy pulled a weapon?”

  “According to the front seat passengers and Jamo, the driver, yes.”

  “Apparently the conductor had a blunt weapon of some sort, a jack or something, so Mr. Rover pulled a pistol and shot him in the left thigh.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah, and then he jumped back in his Land Rover and sped off.”

  “Nobody got the Land Rover’s number plate, description, anything?”

  “Now, my friend, here’s where it gets a bit weird. One of the passengers in the front seat actually took a picture using her phone, you know, those ones with the cameras? She took a photo of the Land Rover, the guy and the number plate as the car sped off. We do know it was a grey vehicle.”

  “So why don’t we have the suspect? If you have the registration, a picture of the guy himself and the car, why are we even discussing this?”

  “The images the lady took were, er, unusable.”

  “How so?”

  “You know the way they blur out parts of a picture on TV, like if it’s an interview and they don’t want to show the interviewee?”

  “Pixellation, yes. What does that have to do with this?”

  “That was exactly what happened with the images she took. Everything else was visible except the Land Rover, its driver and its…”

  “…number plate,” the Chief Inspector finished.

  “Well, yes. I got some graphic designer to look at the photos and see if they were doctored in any way. He assured me they hadn’t. We even used the lady’s phone to take some test snaps and they all came out fine. It’s all very strange.”

  “Yes, well,” the Chief Inspector rose to leave. “Keep me informed if you have any leads. We can’t have people shooting each other over traffic incidents. Thanks for the tea, I think.” He smiled as he opened the door and stepped out of Mwiki’s office, almost tripping on the frame as well. “Get that fixed!” the Chief Inspector yelled from the corridor.

  Inspector Mwiki leaned back in his hard wooden chair and looked at the pile of papers on his desk. He took another sip of the (horrible) tea He searched for the case file in the desk top morass in front of him; wanting to go through it one more time, see if there was anything he had missed. He opened the folder and his jaw dropped, spilling some tea onto the front of his shirt, like a baby’s dribble. His investigative report, all his carefully typed pages, the eyewitness statements, crime scene photos and printouts from the lady’s camera phone were all blank pieces of paper. There was no record of the case. None.
  

  
  

  Inspector Mwiki left early that day. He had developed a serious headache.

www.scribeofhades.blogspot.com

• TRAFFIC INCIDENT

  Posted: January 26, 2009, 6:15 am by Deviant Miscreant

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  The tea girl stumbled on the raised, badly installed door frame of Inspector Mwiki’s office and a little tea spilled from the cups onto the tray. Mwiki frowned but said nothing. She set the tray on the edge of his crowded little desk and left quickly, mumbling an apology on her way out. Chief Inspector Kimwa, sitting across the desk from Mwiki, took a cup from the tray and sipped the hot liquid appreciatively. “You need to get that fixed,” he said, pointing at the door with his long chin. “So what happened then?”

  Inspector Mwiki also sipped his tea. The milk-tea ratio was off, again. And the sugar was too much. He set the cup down on a low table next to his chair. “The matatu driver, his friends call him Jamo, told me that after he got back on the road, he noticed the Land Rover was moving slowly on the outside lane, like its driver was waiting for him to pass. Once he overtook the Land Rover, the guy sped up and came very up close behind him and started hooting and showing him, er, rude hand signals.”

  Chief Inspector Kimwa laughed softly.

  “Jamo ignored this and drove on. That’s when the Land Rover rammed him from behind. He lost control and veered off the road. The Rover screeched to a stop in front of him and the driver jumped out.”

  “What happened then?” asked the Chief Inspector.

  “It’s a bit unclear,” said Mwiki, grimacing from his latest sip of the tea. “Some of the passengers say the guy had a pistol, but Jamo tells us that when the guy was approaching the matatu, he had no weapon in his hands.”

  “Who got shot again?” the Chief Inspector wanted to know.

  “The conductor.”

  “Ah, continue then.”

  “According to Jamo, the Land Rover driver came up to his window and started shouting all sorts of abuse at him. Jamo says he was really frightened at the time because he figured he was dealing with a mad man. He tried to roll up his window but his engine had stalled as he ran off the road. The Land Rover guy pulled him out through the open window and beat him.”

  “He beat him?”

  “Badly. Broke his jaw, collar bone and his right forearm.”

  “What were the passengers doing then?”

  “Apparently nothing. Kenyan complacence, you know.” The Chief Inspector nodded. “Until the conductor slid open the door and rushed round the front of the matatu to help his driver.”

  “That’s when the Land Rover guy pulled a weapon?”

  “According to the front seat passengers and Jamo, the driver, yes.”

  “Apparently the conductor had a blunt weapon of some sort, a jack or something, so Mr. Rover pulled a pistol and shot him in the left thigh.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah, and then he jumped back in his Land Rover and sped off.”

  “Nobody got the Land Rover’s number plate, description, anything?”

  “Now, my friend, here’s where it gets a bit weird. One of the passengers in the front seat actually took a picture using her phone, you know, those ones with the cameras? She took a photo of the Land Rover, the guy and the number plate as the car sped off. We do know it was a grey vehicle.”

  “So why don’t we have the suspect? If you have the registration, a picture of the guy himself and the car, why are we even discussing this?”

  “The images the lady took were, er, unusable.”

  “How so?”

  “You know the way they blur out parts of a picture on TV, like if it’s an interview and they don’t want to show the interviewee?”

  “Pixellation, yes. What does that have to do with this?”

  “That was exactly what happened with the images she took. Everything else was visible except the Land Rover, its driver and its…”

  “…number plate,” the Chief Inspector finished.

  “Well, yes. I got some graphic designer to look at the photos and see if they were doctored in any way. He assured me they hadn’t. We even used the lady’s phone to take some test snaps and they all came out fine. It’s all very strange.”

  “Yes, well,” the Chief Inspector rose to leave. “Keep me informed if you have any leads. We can’t have people shooting each other over traffic incidents. Thanks for the tea, I think.” He smiled as he opened the door and stepped out of Mwiki’s office, almost tripping on the frame as well. “Get that fixed!” the Chief Inspector yelled from the corridor.

  Inspector Mwiki leaned back in his hard wooden chair and looked at the pile of papers on his desk. He took another sip of the (horrible) tea He searched for the case file in the desk top morass in front of him; wanting to go through it one more time, see if there was anything he had missed. He opened the folder and his jaw dropped, spilling some tea onto the front of his shirt, like a baby’s dribble. His investigative report, all his carefully typed pages, the eyewitness statements, crime scene photos and printouts from the lady’s camera phone were all blank pieces of paper. There was no record of the case. None.
  

  
  

  Inspector Mwiki left early that day. He had developed a serious headache.

Avalon Perpetual

• FIRE IN THE HOLE

  Posted: January 20, 2009, 7:56 am by Deviant Miscreant

  Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;}

  Njambi was very, very happy. So happy that she forgot to turn her computer off before she left the office that day. The small NGO she so diligently worked for had finally acquired a grant to develop a water supply project in Kinangop. Njambi’s elder step brother, Karanja, ran the organisation, World of Empower, which he had purposely started as ‘a way to make quick money from white people’. The grant was excessive for the scope of the project and Njambi knew that Karanja was going to clear what he called ‘mbia njega’. She was happy because he had promised to buy her a car. Njambi struggled to lock the main door’s finicky bolt that would sometimes lock people inside the office, necessitating a locksmith, stashed her keys in her patent leather handbag and dashed down the stairs into the street.

  
  

  It was still early, around 4pm. She figured she had time to visit a cyber café and check out what model she wanted. He had given her a budget, half a million bob. She wanted one of those small, snazzy hatchback Toyotas like the one her friend Sheila had. She even saw one like it as she walked towards the café. She smiled inwardly, imagining herself zipping about in it. The fact that she had no driving licence or experience did not cross her mind once. She walked into the cyber café just as a power blackout hit Westlands. There was a cacophony of beeping UPS units and cursing clients in the now dark café so Njambi just turned on her heel and headed back out into the street. The beeping reminded her of something but she wasn’t sure what. The car prospect took over everything else.
  

  
  

  She walked on air to the bus stop. No more mats! I go where I want, when I want, she thought giddily. A ramshackle Nissan van stopped and the conductor’s offer of ten bob to the city centre enticed her to get in. there was heavy traffic on the dual carriageway into the city. Njambi was in heaven, thinking about sitting in her new Vitz, blasting Avril Lavigne CDs in traffic, drawing curious glances all round.

  
  

  A loud siren brought her harshly out of the reverie. A bright red fire engine raced up the opposite side of the highway, headed back toward Westlands. The rear of the truck was spilling water and Njambi wondered whether the fire-fighters would have enough to finish the job at hand. Then she went back to her automotive fantasies. The heavy rush hour traffic crawled forward another inch.
  

  
  

  *******

  
  

  Karanja dashed up the last flight of stairs to his office. The man was chuffed, having made about two hundred thousand dollars from a mendacious project proposal. He could foresee the land he’d buy, the house he’d build and all the gullible young women that would fall to his mighty swordsmanship. It was a good day. The lock on the door jammed again. Cursing, he jiggled the key until the door opened. I have to fix that fucking door, he thought. Once inside, he locked the door and went to his office to draw up his master plan. There was a slight smell of ozone in the air, like something electrical had burnt out. Karanja paid it no mind though, he was rich. Whatever had shorted out could be easily replaced. He went into his private office, opened the windows and switched on his computer. He put on his headphones and played him some music.

  
  

  Beneath Njambi’s desk, the cheap carpet that had been smouldering under her hot malfunctioning UPS, which had switched on when the power was restored, burst into bright orange flame. In the three years that the World of Empower offices had been open, nobody had ever cleared the stacks of old file filled boxes left there by the previous tenant. They lay all over the place. The flames quickly spread to these boxes. Before long the entire outer office was ablaze.

  
  

  Njambi never got her car.

www.scribeofhades.blogspot.com

• FIRE IN THE HOLE

  Posted: January 20, 2009, 7:56 am by Deviant Miscreant

  Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;}

  Njambi was very, very happy. So happy that she forgot to turn her computer off before she left the office that day. The small NGO she so diligently worked for had finally acquired a grant to develop a water supply project in Kinangop. Njambi’s elder step brother, Karanja, ran the organisation, World of Empower, which he had purposely started as ‘a way to make quick money from white people’. The grant was excessive for the scope of the project and Njambi knew that Karanja was going to clear what he called ‘mbia njega’. She was happy because he had promised to buy her a car. Njambi struggled to lock the main door’s finicky bolt that would sometimes lock people inside the office, necessitating a locksmith, stashed her keys in her patent leather handbag and dashed down the stairs into the street.

  
  

  It was still early, around 4pm. She figured she had time to visit a cyber café and check out what model she wanted. He had given her a budget, half a million bob. She wanted one of those small, snazzy hatchback Toyotas like the one her friend Sheila had. She even saw one like it as she walked towards the café. She smiled inwardly, imagining herself zipping about in it. The fact that she had no driving licence or experience did not cross her mind once. She walked into the cyber café just as a power blackout hit Westlands. There was a cacophony of beeping UPS units and cursing clients in the now dark café so Njambi just turned on her heel and headed back out into the street. The beeping reminded her of something but she wasn’t sure what. The car prospect took over everything else.
  

  
  

  She walked on air to the bus stop. No more mats! I go where I want, when I want, she thought giddily. A ramshackle Nissan van stopped and the conductor’s offer of ten bob to the city centre enticed her to get in. there was heavy traffic on the dual carriageway into the city. Njambi was in heaven, thinking about sitting in her new Vitz, blasting Avril Lavigne CDs in traffic, drawing curious glances all round.

  
  

  A loud siren brought her harshly out of the reverie. A bright red fire engine raced up the opposite side of the highway, headed back toward Westlands. The rear of the truck was spilling water and Njambi wondered whether the fire-fighters would have enough to finish the job at hand. Then she went back to her automotive fantasies. The heavy rush hour traffic crawled forward another inch.
  

  
  

  *******

  
  

  Karanja dashed up the last flight of stairs to his office. The man was chuffed, having made about two hundred thousand dollars from a mendacious project proposal. He could foresee the land he’d buy, the house he’d build and all the gullible young women that would fall to his mighty swordsmanship. It was a good day. The lock on the door jammed again. Cursing, he jiggled the key until the door opened. I have to fix that fucking door, he thought. Once inside, he locked the door and went to his office to draw up his master plan. There was a slight smell of ozone in the air, like something electrical had burnt out. Karanja paid it no mind though, he was rich. Whatever had shorted out could be easily replaced. He went into his private office, opened the windows and switched on his computer. He put on his headphones and played him some music.

  
  

  Beneath Njambi’s desk, the cheap carpet that had been smouldering under her hot malfunctioning UPS, which had switched on when the power was restored, burst into bright orange flame. In the three years that the World of Empower offices had been open, nobody had ever cleared the stacks of old file filled boxes left there by the previous tenant. They lay all over the place. The flames quickly spread to these boxes. Before long the entire outer office was ablaze.

  
  

  Njambi never got her car.

Avalon Perpetual

• THE DAY

  Posted: January 19, 2009, 3:59 am by Deviant Miscreant

  It’s not going well. Is it?
  
  You had your plan for the day. Being the proactive mammal that you pride yourself as, you had set out the retinue for this day last night, as you finished up the project that’s scheduled for presentation three weeks for now (and very proud of that fact you are too). You had your timelines set, deadlines confirmed and you were ready for today.
  
  Then you wake up. The light is different, tinged with a forbearing of malign doubt. You shake it off, figuring it is nothing. After all, you just woke up; maybe your eyes are still adjusting to the new day. You swing your legs off the bed, needing the reassuring terra firma under your feet to carry you solidly through today. But that feels a bit off as well. Your feet don’t rest on the ground the same way. ‘Maybe something’s off’, flits through your still awakening mind. There’s a ka-department in the back there that comes up with this niggling doubts. But as mentioned before, you are driven, so you ignore that niggling voice in the back of your head and plod to the toilet to pee.
  
  There is no pee.
  
  After standing there, trying to force a few drips from your arid bladder, thinking that the day always starts with a piss and failing, the earlier misgivings start seeping, like the tide, back into your head. You give up and stumble over to the sink to rinse the sleep from your eyes. You turn the tap, you scald your hand. You curse in some undiscovered language, your brain still too foggy to process your choice four letter words. In the process of trying to soothe your injured hand, you discover there is no cold water. You shower like a robin in a bird bath, darting and wincing under the steaming jets of blisteringly hot water. You are fully awake now and your litany of curses is displaying monumental improvement. But being the driven person that you are, this is a small hurdle. A price to pay for another 24 hour opportunity to leave your mark on the world.
  
  Yippee.
  
  The milk in your fridge is spoilt. Funny, Mama James at the kiosk where you bought the lactose last night swore upon the Trinity that it was fresh from the cow (she also swears about the freshness of something else but that’s another day’s story). So you settle for black instant coffee that tastes like dusty camel piss. No how, it’s another day for you to go out there and do your thing, you inspired bastard you. It’s now time to dress and go get ‘em (that ka-department in the back of your head goes like, ‘who’s them exactly?’). You don your work garb and check yourself in the mirror you installed in your living room to make sure you look the part. You look fine. But there’s a shadow behind you. You whirl around. There’s nothing there. You look at your reflection in the mirror again, carefully. It’s just you. Plain old simple you. Your hopes, dreams, fears and insecurities reflected in the shiny silver coating painted on the back of the glass. It is your soul that you saw earlier, a shadow flitting past. Your soul has left you, ran away to Neverland. You realise you have no meaning, no purpose in this grind. You are a headed for the slaughterhouse. No matter how well you fatten yourself, brush your flanks and parade around with the Blue Ribbon pinned to your chest with your flanks brushed to make them glossy and appealing, The Farmer will always win. He will take you to the meat processing plant where, still smiling, you will line up with others like you and be led, willingly into slaughter.
  
  You stagger backwards, your jaw agape, mouthing, ‘No, no, no!’ but you KNOW. You trip over the pouf that your last girlfriend got for you and smash your temple on the sharp corner of your glass coffee table.
  
  You die.
  
  The Farmer smiles, shakes his head sadly and takes another sip of tea. It is a beautiful day.

• INTERVIEW

  Posted: January 16, 2009, 4:43 am by Deviant Miscreant

  “I need another gaff.”
  The match flares and the man inhales deeply. The small room is already hazy with blue Sportsman smoke. A broken wooden ashtray in the middle of the table is overflowing with smouldering cigarette butts.
  “Where was I?”
  “You were telling me about the car.”
  “Ah, yes. The car. It was nice, the car was.”
  “And?”
  “That’s all I remember right now. You want the details, you pay me more.”
  “You don’t understand, do you? This is not a game. Do I look like I’m playing with you?”
  “I’m sure you’re a serious man. But information is not free in this fucked up coalition world, is it? I have something you want; that makes me the supplier. You are the customer, you want my product, you pay. It’s that simple.”
  The hefty man in the cheap, ill fitting shiny suit pushes back from the table and stands up. The crotch of his trousers is all scrunched up. He walks to a corner of the room and stands there, staring at the wall like an admonished child.
  “How much?” he asks.
  “I don’t know. Depends on how important this is to you. Make me an offer.”
  The hefty man in the corner whirls around suddenly. The man seated at the table is surprised that such a large man can move so swiftly. The fat man has a gun in his hand.
  “Stop fucking about!” yells the fat man. “Or I will shoot you. Tell me about the car!”
  “Well, well, well. Impatient you are, sir. Go ahead, shoot me. Put me out of my misery if you want. Doesn’t matter to me, one way or another. It’s your loss, not mine. So go ahead, pull that trigger, if you can fit your fat finger in the trigger guard.”
  
  The man seated at the table takes the last drag of the cigarette and scrunches the butt in the ashtray. He leans back in his hard plastic chair and interlaces his fingers behind his head. He looks at the fat man pointing the shiny chromed automatic at his chest. They stare at each other for a long moment. Slowly, the hefty one lowers the gun and then secrets it somewhere under the back of his suit jacket. The man seated at the table smiles.
  The fat man approached the table and sits down. He sighs, a heavy sound that reminds the other man of a deflating truck tyre. He opens his hands expansively. “Fine, I’ll pay more. Let’s hear it,” he says.
  “Alright, but first, I’ll need another gaff.”

www.scribeofhades.blogspot.com

• INTERVIEW

  Posted: January 16, 2009, 4:43 am by Deviant Miscreant

  “I need another gaff.”
  The match flares and the man inhales deeply. The small room is already hazy with blue Sportsman smoke. A broken wooden ashtray in the middle of the table is overflowing with smouldering cigarette butts.
  “Where was I?”
  “You were telling me about the car.”
  “Ah, yes. The car. It was nice, the car was.”
  “And?”
  “That’s all I remember right now. You want the details, you pay me more.”
  “You don’t understand, do you? This is not a game. Do I look like I’m playing with you?”
  “I’m sure you’re a serious man. But information is not free in this fucked up coalition world, is it? I have something you want; that makes me the supplier. You are the customer, you want my product, you pay. It’s that simple.”
  The hefty man in the cheap, ill fitting shiny suit pushes back from the table and stands up. The crotch of his trousers is all scrunched up. He walks to a corner of the room and stands there, staring at the wall like an admonished child.
  “How much?” he asks.
  “I don’t know. Depends on how important this is to you. Make me an offer.”
  The hefty man in the corner whirls around suddenly. The man seated at the table is surprised that such a large man can move so swiftly. The fat man has a gun in his hand.
  “Stop fucking about!” yells the fat man. “Or I will shoot you. Tell me about the car!”
  “Well, well, well. Impatient you are, sir. Go ahead, shoot me. Put me out of my misery if you want. Doesn’t matter to me, one way or another. It’s your loss, not mine. So go ahead, pull that trigger, if you can fit your fat finger in the trigger guard.”
  
  The man seated at the table takes the last drag of the cigarette and scrunches the butt in the ashtray. He leans back in his hard plastic chair and interlaces his fingers behind his head. He looks at the fat man pointing the shiny chromed automatic at his chest. They stare at each other for a long moment. Slowly, the hefty one lowers the gun and then secrets it somewhere under the back of his suit jacket. The man seated at the table smiles.
  The fat man approached the table and sits down. He sighs, a heavy sound that reminds the other man of a deflating truck tyre. He opens his hands expansively. “Fine, I’ll pay more. Let’s hear it,” he says.
  “Alright, but first, I’ll need another gaff.”

Blah blah blah

Fish cakes

Alas a fish cake.

Yet more fish cakes

Guess what ... yeah ... fish cakes.

The end of the fish cakes