The Lubetkin Legacy

Violet: Kibera

The rainy season usually comes in November, but this year it starts early. On Sunday morning she wakes to the hammering of rain on the roof and windows. Downstairs in the kitchen, Njoki is rolling up old towels to catch the puddles that leak in under the door, and singing to herself. In spite of the mess and chaos, the first big rains are always a cause for joy, a welcome relief from the dust of summer. Njoki has just switched the kettle on for tea when the phone starts to ring in the hall; she clucks with annoyance and runs to answer it, wiping her hands on her pinafore.

‘It’s for you.’

‘Hello, Violet, is that you?’ The voice at the other end sounds both familiar and strange above the racket of the rain. Maybe there’s a fault with the line.

‘Violet speaking. Who is this?’

‘It’s Queenie. Violet, I need to get back into the office. Can you come over and let me in?’

Yes, it sounds like Queenie’s voice, but she is usually a chatty and relaxed person; she has never heard her sound so anxious before.

‘What, now? Haven’t you seen the weather, Queenie? Can’t it wait until Monday?’

‘It’s rather urgent. Something I need. Please, Violet. Come straight away.’

Surely no work they are doing could be that urgent, but Queenie sounds desperate.

‘Okay. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

She grabs her raincoat and umbrella and sets off towards the bus stop.

The road is pitted and puddly, made treacherous by the heavy rain. She tries to pick her way carefully, keeping her feet dry, but soon gives up and splashes straight through the muddy water. What on earth possessed Queenie to go out on a day like this? It seems that the rain has stopped the traffic, so there are no buses or taxis coming through. Too bad. She decides to walk, and takes a left turn off the Southern Bypass, thinking to cut through the Kibera slum and cross the river bridge, which is the quickest way from here into town. This is not normally a route she would take, but she reckons it will be safe in the middle of the day — and in any case, most people will be trying to patch up their pitiful tin-roofed shacks against the rain, or crowding inside.

She is right. The narrow alleys are empty, streaming with dirty water which pours in brown rivulets down into the Nairobi River carrying bits of debris, plastic bottles, torn carrier bags, fallen jacaranda flowers, dead rats, ownerless undergarments that swirl around her shoes. Lines of soggy washing strung across the alleys flap in her face as she passes. Chickens squawk and huddle for shelter. Wet, half-naked children splash and throw mudballs, or chase the stray dogs about. ‘Hujambo!’ they wave and shout as she passes, and she waves back, holding her umbrella low.

The Nairobi River has swollen into a foaming filthy torrent. At the bridge, a gaggle of little boys are yelling and running ahead of her waving sticks. Suddenly they stop dead in their tracks, shriek, and turn back to run in the opposite direction, almost pushing her into the water. Maybe this short cut isn’t such a good idea. She clings on to the railings, and a moment later three sodden goats thunder across the bridge, and behind them another gaggle of grinning boys with sticks chase them into the alleys. She can hear their excited shrieks long after they have disappeared from view.

At Kambi Muru, she carries on up to Kibera Drive, hoping the matatus will be running once more. The rain has eased now, and there are a few other people at the stop. Before long, a battered yellow Toyota pulls up full of damp people on their way from church. There is little traffic, and despite having to navigate around a number of deep treacherous puddles and a flooding water main, she is soon back at the office. She fishes her keys out of her bag and looks around.

There is no sign of Queenie.

She stands at the intersection, peering impatiently in both directions. The streets are deserted. It is too annoying. Queenie seemed in such a hurry. Njoki will be waiting for her return to sit down to lunch.

As she waits, a battered white taxi-van pulls up close by. Thinking it must be Queenie arriving, she steps forward. Then a man’s voice shouts her name, she spins around, and the next thing she knows, rough arms grab hold of her, her hands are tied behind her, and as she starts to scream something dark and suffocating is pulled down over her head. Then she is bundled into the back of the van. The engine revs and roars as she lies face down on the floor, seething with fear and rage, listening to the voices of her three kidnappers discussing where they should take her in a Kamba dialect she can barely follow. Her heart is beating so fast she thinks it will burst out of her chest, but all her senses are on full alert, feeling the vibration of the engine through her cheekbone, registering every bump and swerve of the road through her spine, smelling the burning diesel from the engine and the sweat of the three men.

Then the van swerves, her head hits something hard and she blacks out.