Makabila Ndani

This faction piece is set in 1970.

The much-admired but non-touring Northern Dance Orchestra (the BBC’s NDO) had been disbanded in 1960 and a touring replica formed to replace it in 1966.

 

As the Empire grew in Asia and Africa in the first half of the twentieth century, British and American leaders soon realised that, after independence, tribalism could work in their favour in using the well- proven principle of “divide and rule”. The East African country of Kenya, for example, is made up of Bantu and Nilotic tribes.

The Kikuyus lose no love to the Luos, arguably Kenya’s second largest tribe There are several subdivisions within each tribal group anyway and while Britain no longer ruled in Kenya after Independence, it could still wield massive influence in this part of the world by dishing out millions of pounds strategically.

A few millions went missing though.

 

 

In “Makabila Ndani” (“The Tribes Within”), Samuel Korir is a native Kalenjin who has been “excluded” from Kenya because he is something of a political trouble-maker. He is also homosexual, not a popular sport anywhere in Kenya.

He lives in Manchester on seriously good “shut up” expenses. But is he himself as genuine and honest as he makes out?

 

***************************

 

By almost everyone’s standards, Paul “Cootie” Williams was a scruffy git. He would be about six foot in his dirty socks, very slim, with close-cropped, shiny (greasy?) blond hair and a very thin pencil moustache. Everyone knew he was only 36 but the ravages of smoke-filled night clubs and the simple lack of daylight made him look more like a fifty year old. At rehearsals he always wore the same checked shirt and tatty jeans. During breaks he would read his ubiquitous “Star” and smoke what everyone knew was a “spliff” (cannabis). You would be forgiven if you said that Paul Williams seemed to lack charisma. He was definitely an unkempt, uncomplicated, simple soul.

But he was a good trumpeter, which is why he played “lead” in the Manchester-based revival of the Northern Dance Orchestra (NDO2). Like all the musicians in the band, Paul Williams was a good sight reader (ie at his first attempt he could read and play a new, difficult piece of music faultlessly and at the right speed). He was particularly good at the “screamers” (being capable of hitting very high notes) and the use of his huge collection of mutes which gained him the nickname “Cootie”, after the Afro-American trumpeter in the Duke Ellington orchestra of the 1930’s. But this Cootie lacked the discipline and respect of a true professional. He enjoyed the relaxed atmosphere of local jazz clubs where he could “sit in” with the band and where his improvising skills were put to test. For these live performances where he had a chance to “pull” a girl and maybe sell some ganj, he would make an effort with his appearance. After a shower, then, in his one and only decent bit of gear, he became something of a good-looking 36 year old.

Paul “Cootie” Williams was, in the eyes of some, cavalier and others, a complete but harmless wide boy.

 

“Paul” (the Musical Director always gave him his “Sunday” name before a yellow card), “why are you giving me an E when a top G is written?”

It was Friday morning rehearsal in May 1969, before a big recording session the following Monday.

“If you had a late night last night, that’s your problem, Sunshine.”

MDs treat their miscreant musicians like naughty children; the musicians hate it and the MDs know it. But Paul Williams could not give a proverbial monkey’s. He was good and he knew it.

As the MD, Michael Lazenby, was preparing for his next verbal onslaught, Cootie squeaked a quiet top G out of his “horn”. Everybody knew that, musically, he was really saying “There you go so, up yours!”

Lazenby cleared his throat through closed lips, which was his way of saying

“Cocky shite!”

“While we’re having this avoidable break, can I remind you all that we meet at Lucifer’s on Monday morning for a 10 a.m.start. Also, we have a new second flute joining us, Julia Thornton. She is a West Indian girl who auditioned very well last month. I’m sure you’ll all make her welcome.” He pointedly nodded with eyebrows raised at the woodwind section.

“She’ll be joining us at next Friday’s rehearsal.

Right, from figure F, please.”

 

At that time, in the 60’s, weekends were Paul’s favourite, because the NDO2 was going through a long period of recording which took place on weekdays. He could get out and about in Manchester, sitting-in with local bands and selling a few spliffs. He’d get up at about lunchtime on a Saturday, have a bowl of cereal with a cup of black coffee then, bore of bores, tidy the bed-sit. Next on the agenda would be two or three “dead certs” at the bookie’s then home to get ready for the big night out.

Paul was single. He had had one or two live-in girl friends but, sooner or later, they tired of what was, basically, his selfish lifestyle. The flat was not every girl’s idea of paradise either. It was on the ground floor of a run-down block on Market Street, off Deansgate in central Manchester. It comprised a main room with a double put-u-up, a kitchenette and quite a decent-sized bathroom with separate shower and bath. The decor and furniture were minimal rather than minimalist.

 

The orchestra had, the previous year, toured East Africa, with five nights in Kampala, Jinja and Entebbe, two nights in Dar es Salaam and two weeks in Nairobi, Nakuru and Mombasa. The whole thing had been sponsored by the British Council with input from the British Government, all as a publicity stunt to sell British.

Paul had loved it. He loved the laid-back “mañana” feel of the people and the places. He went to the local bars in Kampala, Jinja, Mombasa and Nairobi. In Nairobi, for example, the band stayed in the Panafric Hotel at the top of Kenyatta Avenue, less than a mile from the city centre.

After a gig, most of the band would return to the Panafric where they would prop up the residents’ bar along with other tourists, a few high-ranking African politicians and the almost inevitable white safari leaders whose parties of British and Americans would also stay there.

But the plush surrounds of the Panafric bar were not for Paul Williams who had soon found the nearby Starlight Club a couple of hundred yards from the Panafric. The Starlight was frequented mostly by Africans, the resident band played mostly Congolese and most of the customers, who might be politicians, businessmen or Government employees, mostly wanted a relaxed drink with friends and perhaps a discreet liaison with one of the many girls who frequented the Starlight. It was life on the chopping board, completely open and undisguised. If you were lucky, you might land on a night when mboga (roast goat) was being prepared on a spit in the garden behind the Club.

The Starlight seemed to be owned by a Geordie from Gateshead, Robbie Armstrong who was, in fact, the Managing Director of a small Nairobi company, the members of which preferred to remain anonymous. They were politicians and businessmen like the mayor of Nairobi, Charles Njonjo.

 

In the 1970’s, Kenya’s political power base was riddled with corruption which was beginning to spread down into the roots of the infrastructure. In 1964 Jomo Kenyatta, the former leader of the Mau Mau freedom fighters had been “elected” President of the newly independent Kenya. Like the majority of the Mau Mau, Kenyatta was a Kikuyu which, along with its closely related sub-groups was probably the largest tribe in Kenya. I assume it was the British Government who had prepared Kenyatta during his years in prison and who had chucked a lot of money at getting the right people in place to create this future “independent” Commonwealth country. His Vice President for a couple of years, was Oginga Odings, from the second biggest tribe, the Luo, then Daniel arap Moi, a Kalenjin and former Christian schoolteacher from the Turkana district in the Rift Valley to the west of the Kikuyus. “Divide and rule” seemed to be the name of the British game. You could hardly find more ethnically different leaders than a Luo and a Kikuyu. The Kenyatta and Odinga families and friends might have creamed off some of the foreign aid but one leading poltician, Charles Ndugi* took every cookie going and killed off thousands of his opponents in the process.

(* a fictional character)

The NDO2 had given ten days of concerts at the splendid National Theatre in central Nairobi after which Paul and the rest of the band were transported by coach the short distance to the Panafric. By 11.30 Paul would be settled in the Starlight enjoying a pint with Robbie and one or two of his new African friends or “sitting in” with the band on the two or three numbers he had “learnt”. The fact that he was mzungu (a white man) and a friend of Robbie and the African lads in the band, went down very well with the almost totally African audience. On occasions he would hand out a spliff or two and buy a round. Within a few nights people at the Club were greeting him, sharing drinks and calling him “Mr Paul”.

He was completely relaxed, completely at home.

 

The recording session at Lucifer’s back in May ’69 went well. The following Friday as arranged, Julia Thornton turned up for her first rehearsal with the band.  She came into the rehearsal room, alone and totally unannounced, dressed in what seemed like a tie-dyed West African sarong of reds, yellows and whites and a completely black top. Her hair was long but gathered bouffé-like. This and her high-boned facial features gave her an almost Ethiopian elegance. She put her ebony walking stick to rest on the floor by her seat and assembled her flute. The oboist was giving everyone an A for tuning.  Julia seemed to wait until everyone had tuned then, her flute assembled, she too hit an A then released a cadenza of descending swallows that came to rest on the bemused musicians.

Paul ‘Cootie’ Williams was besotted.

 

During the break, Julia was talking enthusiastically with other members of the woodwind section when Paul sidled up. He was surrounded by trombonists and coffee cups. The seat next to Julia had been vacated by a thirsty clarinettist.

When the moment came, he slithered in.

“You make that baby sing” he said as he sat next to her.

The more cynical of us would put that one down as a chat-up.

“Thank you. I like your playing too. That Pandora’s box of mutes …………no wonder they call you ‘Cootie’”. She looked at him for the first time, with smiling eyes.

Her skin was dark and smooth, like the skin of a peach. Her eyes were hazel, her lips to be kissed. She was serene.

A skilfully exposed glimpse of leg completed the sculpture.

“Could I be cheeky and invite you for lunch? There’s a very nice…………”

“Yes, fine” she said, matter of fact, but with a gentle, honest smile. “I’ll wait for you here.”

Paul, rarely lost for words, looked her bouche bée, simply smiled and returned to his place.

Cootie had difficulty with the remainder of the band-call. Did he have enough cash? Where could they go? Was she single?

“Shite, I’ve splashed that top G again!”

 

Paul had a clapped-out Fiesta in the car park which he definitely did not want to use because of the negative effect factor. They set off walking down Deansgate towards a little Spanish restaurant he knew but, within seconds, he realised his choice was bad, for Julia, with her stick and her small instrument case was being jostled by waves of oncoming pedestrians.

“Can I take that for you?” he asked. Realising the risks and, without waiting for a reply, he took hold of her flute-case in his left hand and firmly grasped her left hand in his right. Julia was grateful. She forced a smile with her mouth but showed distress in her face.

Paul opened the door of the restaurant for her.

“I’m sorry about that. I should have thought.”

Julia walked in. She was tired and leant on the bar.

The waiter approached.

“ Paulo, Paulo!  ¿Qué tal, amigo mío?”

“Bastante bien, gracias. Una mesita para dos, José, por favor.”

Was that impressive or was that impressive ?

They followed José, Paul still holding her hand.

“Rinconera y lejos de ruido ¿no ?” said Julia.

Paul was taken aback, to say the least. “I’ve done just about my lot, but it sounds like she’s got a lot more where that came from” he thought “I’ll not bother trying too hard.”

They sat at a corner table quite hidden and away from what was actually a low-level background music anyway.

“Very impressive………… the Spanish” said Paul.

“Well, we have quite a large Spanish-speaking community near my home in Barbados. It’s often a mish-mash, a sort of mixture of Mexican dialect and English. But I studied Castellano at school and some educated locals are pretty good.”

They ordered two gazpachos followed by mariscos for Julia and chuleta de ternera con habas y cebollinos for him. He had little idea what he was ordering but it sounded good and, with his neglected constitution, he could eat anything anyway.

 

The house wine slipped down quietly.

“I don’t know what you said first in Spanish but there was something about noise, or was it a wheel?” he said in a last-ditch effort to restore his cred..

“Noise. ‘Wheel’ is ‘rueda’. I’m not very good with peripheral noise. To do with my condition, I think.”

“Can I ask what your condition is?”

“Multiple sclerosis”. It was the new way of making a statement. It was intoned like a question. But it was a statement.

She nodded at him several times which Paul read as an invite to talk.

“That is something to do with the breakdown of the nervous system, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but I’d like you to keep it quiet. I don’t suffer from relapse-remit, peaks and troughs if you like; I have what is called “Progressive MS”. It gets worse gradually and, in my case, thankfully very slowly. Before you ask, Paul, it does not affect my playing, as yet at least.”

Paul was very chuffed that she had taken him into her confidence.

He poured her another wine.

The main course arrived,

“Qué aproveche” said José. He disappeared promptly, seeming to realise they wanted to be alone.

A minute elapsed while they each came to terms with their confronting dishes.

“Whe…?”

“How…?”  they interrupted each other.

Paul gave way to sail. “Sorry Julia, go on.”

“Where are you from? How did you become involved in NDO2?”

“I’m born and bred in Didsbury, near here. I went to CheethamsSchool round the corner when I was a kid, gigged around then got a job with Sid Lawrence. I joined the NDO2 eighteen months ago. I quite like it; the money’s good and we had a superb trip last year to East Africa. What about you?”

“As I told you, I’m from Barbados or an island fairly near Barbados. I’m actually from Qualibou on Saint Lucia. There is part of the University geology department there, because of all the volcanos but, apart from that, bugger all really. I had most of my secondary education in a convent school in Barbados then I attended a small offshoot of the UMKC Conservatory of Music and Dance for a couple of years. Before the money dried up I came over to London and got free accommodation and a job playing the piano in the lounge of a semi-decent hotel in Bayswater.”

“Excuse me Julia. José, otro vino de casa, por favor.”

José renewed the wine and cleared the plates.

“Go on, Julia. Sorry! By the way, do you mind if I smoke?”

“If you must, I suppose. Anyway, that’s it. I came up to Manchester on another hotel job, landed the NDO2 thing and here I am.”

“Married? Kids?” Paul ventured.

“No. There was a guy, Richard, but that fell foul of my travel-lust. He wasn’t too bothered anyway when he heard about the MS. A bit like my parents actually. Too bad. So I’m free to be chatted up. Is that weed you’re smoking?”

“Eh, yeh. Do you want to try one?”

“Yes please. It does help with the MS particularly when I’m tired.”

He rolled her a spliff, lit it for her, then handed it to her. She took a long drag, savouring the effect with eyes closed and the hint of a smile on her lips.

“What about your parents? Do you get home at all?”

“No. It’s a hell of an expense and anyway my Mum and Dad have split up. Dad has disappeared to Barbados somewhere and Mum’s got a new partner. They’re not really interested ………………” She had another drag.

Paul looked at her, without shifting his gaze.

“José, la cuenta, por favor. I think you could be interested in hearing my Gerry Mulligan collection, Ms Thornton.”

She didn’t reply.

He ordered a cab.

 

“Christ! What a bloody mess! I know it’s handy but …………………”

“Gerry Mulligan?” he asked from beneath raised brows. “With a beer, wine, whisky or a simple smack where it hurts?”

She sat on the settee and looked around, almost proprietarily, as if she were planning the changes. Paul did not readily give up any of his privacy for fear of being judged by others. But this was different somehow.

He sparked up the very slim stereo unit whereupon the reedy breathing of Mulligan’s aggressive baritone and the separately tongued notes of Brookmeyer’s valve trombone lapped quietly round the room. The brushed snare and all-important bass hovered somewhere in the ceiling. Paul had opened a bottle of red plonk . He took his glass, handed one to Julia then comfied himself next to her on the only settee in the midst of the Gerry Mulligan Quartet.

“Hmm” She was smiling with her eyes closed, her head tilted backwards.

“What about you? Family? Kids? Parents?”

Typical bleeding female …………….leaving nothing out.

“No. I’m all on my lonesome, on my own desert island with my own choice of discs. A simple soul, you might say. There’s just one thing missing.”

For the first time in his life, Paul kissed a flautist.

 

 

 

They woke up at 10.15  that Saturday morning. Julia was keen to get out of the bed settee. It stank of stale alcohol, ganj and other things. She got up, went to the window and flung open the curtains; it was a rush to the surface. As she turned to inspect the curtains the sculptured ebony of her perfect breasts and erect nipples were silhouetted in the framed, sunlit backdrop of the overgrown garden outside Her firm, black, perfect form was almost shining; it belied her thirty-five years.

Paul’s slow recovery was interrupted.

“If I’m going to stay here, I’m going to spend today sorting out this place, And you.”

She quickly wrapped herself in a towel, but her breasts still showed.

“I’ll try to get clean in that bath of yours then I’ll go to my flat and get my things. After that it’s ‘All hands on deck!’”

“Bloody hell!” Paul thought. “O.K. a meal, a few drinks, a couple of jumps. Does she bloody own me now?

She is fit, though, and I’ve got to be honest, I could cope with a stunner like her calling the shots in the house……..think of the impress factor with the rest of the band”.

“OK” he said.

As he dragged himself out of bed and Julia bathed, Paul thought back to Yasmin, a Bangladeshi immigrant whom he had entertained to a meal of fish and chips then “afters” at his flat about a year ago. She too had come on a bit strong the following morning. Perhaps with these girls, acceptance of the “afters” meant “Yes please, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, but I’ll look after the domestics.”

“What the hell?” he thought. “I am a year older and as far as I know Yasmin didn’t play the flute or, if she did, it wouldn’t be as good as Julia. My Julia.”

He quite liked the sound of that.

 

Paul draped himself in a towel and went for his shower. Julia was still in the bath, soaping her breasts that shimmied in her hands then returned instantly to their firmness. Paul leant over and cupped her breasts. She looked up and smiled that smile. Still seated, she pulled at his towel. His erect penis sprang to her face. She uncapped it and licked its shininess. Standing up she bent over then turned her back to him. He entered her easily. Seconds later he withdrew then clutched his fierce erection which, uncapped again, silently but violently splashed and played his thick cream on the marble of her arched back…

 

Julia and Paul taxied to her hotel where, she explained, she would be finishing her piano playing that evening. She collected most of her things in two cases and they taxied back towards Paul’s.

At some lights on Deansgate, the cab stopped.

“I’ll get off here. You don’t mind do you?” It was time that Julia had to learn he was his own man.

“I don’t mind. Where are you going?”

“I’ve just realised I’ve no ………….we’ve no washing-up liquid.”

“Stop bull-shitting, Paul. You go wherever you want. I’ll drop the cases and walk back to Deansgate to get more than washing-up liquid. If you’re back by four you can help me put a meal together. I’ve got to be out at the Hotel by seven. It’s my last night and I want to do it right. I’ll be with you again by midnight.”

He could see the tip of her tongue at the side of her mouth and her smiling eyes widened.

“I’ll see you soon” he said and jumped out the cab.

 

Paul was a simple soul; he enjoyed his food, his drink, his ganj, his sex and, of course, his music. What more could a man want? Oh yes; he almost forgot ………..his Saturday flutter on the gee-gees.

That’s where he was going now.

 

Nobody really talked at the bookie’s. You recognised one or two people, rummaged through the Sporting Life, watched the tele and the white-boards for the SP’s and filled out your slip. Communication was not the name of the game.

He fancied a £10 accumulator but couldn’t decide on his first horse. The TV commentator was looking at and commenting on Nyumba Yetu and Paul heard him say that the owners lived in Mombasa.

“Kenya. Swahili. That’ll do for me” thought Paul. The fact that it was an outsider with no form in Britain contributed to its odds of 40-1. But, what the hell? It was ages since he had done an accumulator bet and he was in a bit of a hurry to get back to the flat.

As he was checking, in the Sporting Life, the spelling of his horse in the 3.30 at Newmarket, he caught sight of a little article at the bottom of the page:

Nyumba Yetu flies Delamer colours. It was something about this horse, which was trained at the Delamer stables at Ngong, near Nairobi, and how the horse had been given its name from the inscription above the gate into the stables. This gate had been made to look like the sort of starting gates they had at most race tracks. It was a kind of inverted conditioning. On a working day, the tired horses would return from exercising outside the stables and the only thing between them, a drink and a nice rub down would be this gate back into their home, the stables. And, since that gate looked like a starting gate, the horses were more than happy to enter the starting gates at the race tracks. The poor buggers thought they were in for treats not eight furlongs of slog for the entertainment of simple sods like Paul “Cootie” Williams.

He completed his betting slip, handed it in then set off for the 4 o’clock rendezvous with Julia in the flat.

 

Back at the flat, Julia was knee-deep in dirty bedding, curtains, clothing and other materials.

“This lot’s going to the dry cleaners on Monday. Tomorrow we can clean the bathroom and kitchen. I’ve got to finish now. I’ll get ready for tonight’s gig. Could you prepare some of that salad I got………..I’ll make a dressing later……..if you could put some of the cold meat on the plates, we’ll eat at about six. I’m going to have to sit down for half an hour. This is when the MS clicks in.”

“We’ve got a rehearsal on Monday morning and a live gig Monday evening” said Paul by way of mild protest. “There’ll be a lot of Kenyan connections coming to see us before the next tour.”

“When is that, by the way?”

“Next month some time. I’m really looking forward to it.”

“OK. But let’s get this mess sorted out first” said Julia, on her way to the bath.

“We’re pro musicians, dear, not pro housekeepers.”

“Mmm” she uttered and closed the bathroom door rather loudly.

 

Paul went with Julia to the gig at the Hotel. Julia was playing “live” background dinner music…………Moonlight in Vermont-Stars fell on Alabama-Don’t Blame Me….stuff. She played well (for a flautist) but Paul soon got bored and so he did his usual Saturday night tour of the clubs. At 11.30 he got back to the Hotel and they taxied back to the flat at about midnight.

 

Sunday was another hands-on cleaning scenario. After a couple of hours Paul had to escape, had to get out for some air while Julia had her usual half hour’s rest.

He went to his local newsagent who, accustomed to seeing his dishevelled form yawn its way into his shop, proffered a News of the World, his usual Sunday diet. He walked back to the flat as slowly as possible, the newspaper under his arm, delay on his mind.

Even before he re-entered the flat he could smell the bacon butties and his heart lifted. As far as Paul was concerned, Julia came on too heavy about the cleaning and that sort of thing, and he often thought of finishing their affair.

But the smell of those butties brought him back to reality.

He sat down to a quiet breakfast, Julia flicking through the Sunday magazine and Paul doing similar with the newspaper.

He was thinking “I suppose I’ll check that accumulator; but I’ll not mention the ten quid to………bloody hell, look at the arse on that! …………to, eh, Julia.”

She was thinking “What’s on tele tonight? I fancy watching absolutely anything then an early bed.”

“Julia………………..I put a little bet on the horses yesterday. You know, just a bit of fun………..five pounds, or something. But it looks like all five might have won or got a place, you know, second or third.”

“Parkinson’s on tele tonight.”

“Thirty-five, thirty-six thousand quid?”

“I do like Parkin………………..what?”

“We might have won thirty thousand at the bookie’s. I’ll have to…………”

“Are you having me on? Thirty thousand? We could buy a new bed settee and maybe move to a better flat.”

“Julia, I like this flat. I’ve ……….we’ve got it at a reasonable rent, it’s near our place of work and all the clubs and things. I mean you’ve made it nice and clean. We could maybe get the place decorated and I’ll do the garden.”

Julia thought “I suppose if my MS gets worse, I’m better off in the town centre” then said “What are you going to do with the money?”

“Whatever WE do we’ll do it together, Julia. I keep telling you I’m a simple bloke. All I want to do in life is be able to scream these top G’s and make love to you.”

“You might be a simple bloke but you can bullshit, Paul Williams. What do you think would be a good idea for US to do with the money?”

“Get well-plastered”. He stood up, went over to her and, putting his cheek next to hers, added “then make mad, passionate love to you.”

“Jesus, you’re so original, Paul.”  The eyes, the smile.

He didn’t fall for it, though. He walked over to the sink and pretended to rinse a couple of cups.

“I’d love to invest in a little property in Kenya. You’d love it there. It’s on the Equator but Nairobi’s at six thousand feet. It’s just so pleasant there and the people so friendly, even to foreigners. The music’s great and ………..”

“Paul, we’re going there next month. We can look at things then. I mean, we’re only there for two weeks aren’t we? What would we do with this property for the rest of the year?”

Paul couldn’t believe his luck. At least she hadn’t chucked the whole idea out! He came back to the table excitedly.

“From tomorrow it’s this month, if you know what I mean. We could stay on in Nairobi for the band holiday. I met a guy who’s got a club in Nairobi. He owns two flats in town and rents them out to firms that do mini self-catering safaris. He says they’re crying out for decent little flats and houses. We could get a place, rent it out almost all year ………….the weather’s perfect most of the year …………bank the money in Nairobi, tax free of course, and spend our annual holiday there. We’d have plenty money there …we wouldn’t spend it all on our holiday and, at the end of the year, we’d put the change in a savings account and start again.”

“Paul, slow down, slow down. You don’t even know if you’ve won the money yet. Let’s wait and see tomorrow. Sounds good, though.”

“I know we’ve got enough to go out, have a meal and get blitzed.”

“Paul, can we get some decent wine, a nice take-out and just stay in? I’m sorry but I do have to take it easy now and again. I’ve got to admit though, Kenya sounds nice.”

The up-turned look, those smiling eyes.

 

Paul ordered a banquet for two from Chez Albert and two bottles of Pinot Grigiot to be delivered at 7.30 to the flat while they showered and dressed down.

By ten o’clock they had devoured their fruits de mer, their paupiettes de veau their crèmes pâtissières and most of the Pinot Grigiot.

At ten thirty, they were prancing around naked in the garden, drunkenly enjoying each other until the cold beckoned them indoors for a deep, refreshing sleep.

 

 

At five to nine on Monday morning Paul, breakfastless, was waiting outside William Hill’s with his precious betting slip. Once inside, they confirmed his success and put a projected winning of £42,000 on the accumulator. He handed in his slip, got a receipt and gave his bank details before hot-footing it to the band call at Lucifer’s.

After the band-call, Paul and Julia rested at the now clean flat, had a snack then, suitably bedecked in the obligatory evening dress, made their way to the Opera House for the Kenyan Tour publicity show. It was well attended, not only by Kenyans and people with connections in Kenya but by ordinary members of the public who probably thought of the band as the original NDO. It was a good copy though and many of the NDO2 had been members of the original NDO anyway. This particular concert was just over an hour long and there were two “houses” with an interval of one hour between the two. This allowed the first house to go to the bar or simply get out of the building and the second house audience to have a drink before their performance began at nine o’clock. More importantly, it allowed the band to get at least two drinks.

To avoid the inevitable queue, Paul bought one pint of bitter and a large whisky for himself and two glasses of red wine for Julia. The bar was getting busy so he had to concentrate on balancing the drinks as he made his way back to the table but he saw from the corner of his eye that someone was sitting with Julia. He got to the table, put the tray down, then looked at the intruder. He was a young black guy, perhaps in his early thirties, balding slightly and dressed in an immaculate white suit with a sky blue shirt, a thin black knitted tie and a red carnation in his lapel.

“Can I help you?” Paul asked.

“I’m so sorry” said the guy, standing up and offering his hand to Paul. “I’m Samuel, Samuel Terik. I’ve met Julia, your colleague…….”

“My wife”

“I’m so sorry” he repeated. “Julia said you were friends.”

“We are. Are you not friends with your wife?”

“Samuel, this is Paul, my friend ……and husband” said Julia. “Paul, say ‘hello’ to Samuel”

“Hi Samuel”

They both sat down.

“I’m not married, Paul. I have a live-in partner though” he added.

“So, what are you doing here, Simon?” Paul asked, trying to sound non-aggressive, for Julia’s sake.

“Samuel” said Samuel. “My friends call me ‘Sam’”

“OK Sam. What do you want? We have a break between sets and Julia and I have come here for a private get-together, know what I mean?”

“Sorry, Paul, I’ll get out of your way. I’m so sorry for…………”

“I go for a fucking drink and………..”

“Paul, please settle down” said Julia. “Sam just came over to say how much he enjoyed our music………..and particularly your playing.”

“Oh, well that’s OK” said Paul, smiling because he had been complimented but also because he realised that Julia wanted him to take it easy with this guy. Most people thought of Paul as privately possessive, possibly jealously so, but in fact he just hated complications. He would rather simply tell people to “piss off” than prop up the façade of small-talk.

“Are you from Manchester or ………? he asked Sam.

“I’m actually from Kenya, which is why I’m here.”

“Right! Listen, Sam, we’re going to have to get back stage for the second house so ……………”

“Paul, Julia, can I take your number and give you a ring? Perhaps you’d like to come to my place and have a drink. I’ve got a few ideas I’d like to put to you.”

 

The following morning, Sam did ring and Paul made sure he took the call.

Sam sounded different on the phone, as if he might be effeminate, even some kind of “bender”?

Anyhow, they agreed to meet that evening at Sam’s flat in the centre of Didsbury.

Julia and Paul had a small meal just after six then took a cab.

Sam’s flat was in one of those large Victorian buildings that had earlier belonged to one successful family in the early twentieth century. The whole building was fronted with grey, over-smart bricks and probably contained four or five sizeable flats.

The taxi dropped them on the large forecourt.

They rang the bell labelled “Samuel Terik” and waited for the anonymous click-buzz that allowed them to open the front door.

The hallway was large and wide with two expensive couches and several ostensible but tasteful green plants.

Sam careered down the stairs, again dressed in his white suit but without the tie and carnation.

“Paul, Julia! How nice to see you! Do come up.”

He stopped on the second step, smiled broadly at them, turned and clearly expected them to follow him up the single flight of stairs.

The flat (Number 1, The Willows) was very tasty. The front door was of heavy, panelled oak and the hallway was lit by bulbs or tubes hidden behind pelmets above the cloakroom and the entrance to the loo. Quiet piano music whispered from hidden speakers. At the far end of the hall, in a corner by another sturdy door was a fish tank, brightly lit in sea blue, green and yellow. The fish that chased each other around the bubbles were of many different colours and sizes. There were no goldfish here. Sam rattled his fingers on the side of the tank as if to let the darting fish know he was there and, opening the door, beckoned Julia and Paul into the sitting room.

Three uplit standard lamps of different sizes and the gentle lights above a landscape and two portraits came on simultaneously. A long, buttoned leather, aubergine couch was in the middle of the room with an onyx marble coffee table in front. There was an oval dining table to one side and a large drinks cabinet to the other.

“Paul, Julia, take a seat. What can I get you to drink?”

Julia had a Martini, Paul was given a very large whisky and Sam had what looked like a gin or vodka with orange, the standard cover-up drink for alcoholic Muslims.

“Euph!” Sam sat in a high-backed matching leather armchair.

“What a wonderful sound your band produced last night! You’ve been to Kenya before, of course” he asked or said totally out of the blue.

“I have, but not Julia. What do you do here, Sam?”

“I work for Kenyan Airways as a sort of PR guy. I don’t do a hell of a lot and I’m on quite a good screw.”

“I can see that” said Paul, glancing around.

“I’m currently working with Man. United on a tour of East Africa for their Under Sixteen side.”

“Wow! That sounds interesting” said Julia, lying perhaps a little. “Sam, where’s the loo, please?”

“Just out there, Julia, past the fish tank, on your right. Can you manage?”

“No problem”. She limped slightly as she made her way out of the room.

When she had gone, Sam started:

“Paul, I have to speak quickly” he said, indicating the door with his glance.

“Julia will be some time. Don’t worry about it. What’s on your mind?”

Sam topped up Paul’s glass.

“I don’t think you realise I’m gay” said Sam. “I had hoped you were too, to be honest, but I think I’m out of luck.”

“Yeh, you are” said Paul, somewhat short of words.

“Paul, would you like to make some serious money? Nothing to do with any gay scene.”

“Of course I would.”

“Can we meet tomorrow, in town or here? It involves your trip to Kenya; when can we meet?” He glanced quickly at the door.

“Tomorrow, eleven a.m. at the Brahms and Listz?”

“O.K. We’ll need Julia on board but don’t ……………”

Julia came back in from the toilet.

************

The following morning, Paul welcomed Sam in the Brahms and Listz.

Straight away, Sam took charge.

“Shall we sit over here?” he asked, indicating an isolated table, away from where Paul was sitting. He clearly did not want to waste time.

“Paul. I am Kenyan. I know the country well. I am here in England because of something my family has done to me. Basically, they don’t like the fact that I am gay. I am happy here in England ………….being gay is perfectly acceptable……… but Ndugi and his lot have virtually excluded me from my own country, my own people. I know that homosexuality is not really acceptable in my tribe, the Kalenjin, but what that bastard Ndugi has done to my people, his people, is unforgivable.”

“What’s that?”

“He has creamed off millions, some say billions of foreign aid intended for my people and other tribes in Kenya. He has palaces, foreign investments and national institutions named after him while making himself and his cronies mega-rich. I want my Kalenjin brothers to get their rightful share of that money. Of course I’ll take some money off Ndugi and his cronies for me and hopefully for you and Julia.”

“What are you suggesting, Sam?”

“After your tour of Kenya with the band, I’d like you, Julia and an African friend of mine to organise some high-powered barazas in and around northern Kenya. Of course I’ll help you with that. I want to get some of that money back from these thieving bastards and give it to the people who deserve it and who were meant to get it in the first place. But I can only be useful if I am out of it …….. not seen to be involved.”

“So, what do Julia and I do and what’s the pay-line? Remember, you have a gripe with this fellow Ndugi, we don’t. But we’ll help you out if we can. That’s if the price is right. Why me and Julia, anyway?”

“You’re a white musician; Julia is a well-spoken Afro and very pretty; you’re both into the international language of music.”

“Sam, I’ve got three things to say to you: if your project involves selling Julia somewhere along the line, forget it; if it involves my arse, you can forget that too; if it involves ripping off poor people somewhere in the African bush that’s not on either.”

Sam called the waiter.

“Paul, we’ve got something to celebrate. What shall we drink?”

Paul indicated he didn’t know or perhaps was still doubtful.

“A bottle of Bollinger, ’53 or ‘54” he instructed the waiter. “From the cellar, not the fridge. And with no more than three ice cubes in the bucket. Thank you.”  The waiter left, hoping he could get some help from someone.

“He’s rather nice, don’t you think, Paul?”

“No, I bloody don’t. So, let’s get back to the pay-off. How is the whole thing going to work? I’m not so sure about you not being seen to be involved.”

“I can’t be seen to be involved, Paul. If people see me, they’ll smell a rat. I’m a known Kalenjin, especially in the north of the country and especially by the big boys up there. In Africa, we say that a hiding antelope does not hate the one who sees it but the one who calls people to kill it. I am that last person. My Kalenjin brothers will trust you, white, married to a pretty Afro and with a successful Kikuyu businessman in tow. Julia will be perfectly safe, I can assure you of that.”

“How do we make the money?”

“I have a list of fifty to sixty seriously rich, influential Kalenjin who are in the pay of Charles Ndugi. I reckon he has paid each of them at least half a million quid which they have all banked off-shore, in Switzerland or in places like Panama. But the locals are getting restless. Things are backfiring.

Inquisitive, intelligent, young Kalenjin who have been educated through token grants awarded by Ndugi and his henchmen know or suspect what’s going on. Their rumblings of dissatisfaction are beginning to be heard in Britain and America. Ndugi and his gang are getting worried. They need a gesture of goodwill to the people. That’s where you and your team come in.”

“How?”

“Ndugi is being investigated by a joint British and American intelligence unit. They want to know where all their foreign aid has gone in Kenya. If they find the truth  ……………that Ndugi and his pals have pocketed the money, the least that can happen is that the aid dries up and the Americans and British will start backing Odinga and or other tribes. Before that happens I want to create a scenario where Ndugi and his lot think they can clear their names, so that the aid will keep coming and they can keep getting richer.

I know that the British and Americans are going the Odinga (Luo) way but you and your team will make it look like the Americans and British are giving these thieving bastards a last chance. You will represent an imaginary British Government group who have supposedly set up the Mount Kenya Industrial Development Trust to help develop the economic infrastructure of Northern Kenya, which the aid was originally meant to do before Ndugi and his gang stole it all. I have one or two very good people working on publicity, letterheads and the like. This Trust will be their last chance to redeem their names and keep the aid coming. They will be invited to invest heavily in the trust, with no questions asked. We will tell them that each of the involved Kalenjin will be investing 500 shillings and we would like Ndugi to cover that, yeh ?”

 

“I don’t know, Sam. I understand some of what you’re saying but I’ll have to have a word with Julia. We’ll have to think about it.”

“Paul, believe me, I’ve given this project a lot of thought. I have a lot of people involved on a private basis, people going out from here to talk with Ndugi’s lot.

The documents have to be right or at least look right and the tracks covered. Anyway, I can give you and Julia £100,000. What do you think?”

“Do the British and American authorities know what you are doing?”

“About two years ago I met an English guy, Richard Barker-May who is pretty well up in the Foreign Office. Suffice it to say he got their qualified approval of my plan.”

“Qualified? What do you mean?”

“Well, they were happy that a good chunk of the aid was going to be recovered but would rather Ndugi’s lot were given the chance to do it willingly under their own steam. They’re prepared to turn a blind eye to your operation because I explained to them that Ndugi’s lot would not return the millions to the people unless they thought they could cover themselves. Your operation would see to that, or seem to, if you know what I mean. The British Government also wants Richard Barker-May to supervise correct distribution of the recovered aid.”

“Yes. But what happens when they find us in Kenya? We’re going to buy some property there. We want the possibility of staying in Kenya.”

“You will, Paul, you will. Don’t worry.”

 

Paul and Sam agreed to be in touch in a couple of days then each went their separate ways, Sam to watch a training session with the Man United juniors, Paul to a quiet bar where he wanted to think things over and “get his head round” Sam’s proposals.

 

That evening, on the Wednesday, Paul got back to the flat at about 4.30. Julia was in the kitchen preparing an evening meal of paella with prawns, mussels and chicken left-overs from the previous evening. She was enjoying a glass of white wine and in her kimono dressing gown. Paul, who was not playing that night was definitely light-headed from the Bollinger with Sam and the three or four pints he had used to wash down the ham sandwich during the afternoon in the pub. He sidled up and, putting an arm around the shelf of her hips, kissed her gently on her cheek. She turned and smiled that smile.

Paul gently pushed the kimono off her right shoulder and revealed her perfect breast and erect nipple. They kissed.

 

An hour or so later, Julia and Paul were at table, about to eat and ready to discuss the meeting with Sam.

“He has this incredible plan which I think I understand. He feels this guy, somebody Ndugi, has stolen a lot of brass that was given to the Kenyan Government by our lot. Anyway, whatever; he’ll give us 100,000 quid to help him get it back.”

“Hang on. I hope you’ve not involved me in this. You ……..we’ve just won a lot of money on the pools and…”

“Julia. This guy, Sam, wants us to help him get back money that was robbed from these people. We would be totally anonymous …………….it’s all with the British Government’s backing. Anyway Sam wants another meeting, the three of us, in a few days. I’ve committed us to nothing, dear. Let’s wait until he gets in touch then go along to his meeting and you can see how you feel about things. It won’t alter the fact that you and I are staying on in Nairobi after the tour to, hopefully, get a little property. O.K?”

 

 

A couple of days later Paul and Julia met Sam in his flat.

He didn’t seem his usual ebullient, confident self, as if something was bothering him.

“How wonderful to see you both!” he enthused.

Perhaps he sensed that Julia was doubtful about their involvement. They sat round the marble coffee table. Sam smiled at the two of them, sensing something was afoot. Julia piped in.

“Sam, I’m a bit worried about this plan of yours, or at least our part in it.”

“Why’s that, Julia?”

“There’s a hell of a lot of money involved and I just have a feeling it could all go terribly wrong.”

“Julia, I went over everything with Paul the other day. He did imply he needed to ‘get his head around’ it all, which is basically why we’re having this meeting now. I’m perfectly happy to go over it all again……in fact I’d rather go over it all again, so we all know the score”.

Sam poured the drinks and slowly went through the plan again. Half an hour later, that job done, Sam announced:

“So that’s it. I was happy to answer Paul’s questions the other day. Maybe you’ve got more to ask, Paul, and I’m sure you’ll have some too, Julia.”

“You’re bloody right” was what Julia thought.

“I’ve got three or four things I’m not clear about.” is what she said. “One is the back-up literature that is going to be shown to the natives at our public meetings and which will have to be good enough to fool Ndugi and his lot because they’ll have spies there, won’t they?”

“Absolutely right, Julia. Look.” Sam produced an extremely colourful brochure with lots of photographs, and with clear reference to the Trust and to Barker-May.

“One of Ndugi’s lot will be invited to act as an honorary trustee of the Mount Kenya I.D.T.”

“And what if …………..?” Julia started.

Sam, with eyes closed and smiling lips, held up his hand.

“We’ve thought of that, Julia. If the money dries up or there’s some sort of temporary hold-up, London will do the necessary. Actually, I’m quite happy to do that myself.”

“That was my next question”, Julia lied.

“And when the trustee and his pals see the millions stacking up in the I.D.T’s Swiss  ‘A’ bank account, they’ll start paying their millions into the ‘B’ account.”

“So when do we meet Barker-May and you’re Kikuyu pal?”

“Barker-May has to keep a very low profile. I’m sorry but that’s part of the deal. Would you like to meet Thomas Gituku? I can get hold of him now, if you like.”

Sam clearly liked to strike while the iron was hot.

Paul surfaced. “Yes, we would.”

 

Sam, Julia and Paul had drinks and chatted meaninglessly while they awaited Thomas Gituku. By four o’clock, they were getting quite jolly when the door bell rang.

“Ah, that will be Tuku” said Sam, getting up and heading for the door.

They took a few minutes of laughter and what sounded like jocular rough and tumble in the hallway before Sam opened the sitting room door and, with mock theatricality announced:

“Lady and Gentleman, Thomas Gituku!”

It would be wrong to say that Gituku came across as a rampaging homosexual. He wore a flamboyant, red, polka-dot bow tie that had the sartorial authority of a self-tie. But Paul knew plenty “musos” who wore bow ties and who were definitely red-blooded. There was the occasional soft giggle and stolen glance at Sam but nothing you could lay your finger on. There was that bit of horse-play in the hallway, though……..! But Paul, and indeed Julia, rather enjoyed his company, his laughter and his relish of the fast-flowing wine.

After Sam had gone over the baraza details and Paul and Julia seemed happy with it all, they parted company with a promise to keep in telephone contact and, failing all else, to meet Tuku in the bar of the Pan Afric Hotel at lunchtime on July 5^th (1970) a couple of days after the end of the NDO2 tour of East Africa.

 

The next few weeks were taken up with rehearsals at Lucifer’s, recording sessions and the occasional concert around Manchester. As the tour grew nearer, Julia spent hours shopping and preparing the flat for what could be a four week absence.

 

 

The 32-piece orchestra flew from ManchesterAirport on May 19^th 1970. Members of the band shared mixed feelings. Those who were married or had established relationships were not particularly happy at the prospect of leaving their partners for what was in fact just another job. Those who were unattached saw the tour as an escape from Mancunian boredom; the tour was a benefit. Paul and Julia saw most of it as a totally new experience. Paul was looking forward to showing Julia around the patch he had visited last year. They were both going to look at a house they might invest in and hopefully they were going to make a lot of money with the Korir project.

The flight was broken by a re-fuelling break at the tin huts of Bengazi and they landed at Embakasi (Nairobi) nine hours after leaving Manchester. At that time, Embakasi was relatively small and, within an hour of landing, the whole band was making the eight mile coach trip into Nairobi.

By anyone’s standards, it was a beautiful day. The afternoon sun was still bright but, at six thousand feet, the temperature was pleasantly comfortable. Lazenby and his cohorts had arranged that the band would have four nights relaxation in Nairobi to accustom themselves to the altitude before the tour began.

Many of the band had been here before on the previous tour but everyone was still impressed by the smart houses, the drive-in cinema and the lush parks as they entered the city. Even though, in the distance, they could see the rising splendour of the Nairobi Hilton, some of the band who had not been here before still wondered at the absence of grass skirts and swinging breasts.

But, in the centre of the city, the modern hotels, shops, restaurants and night clubs bathed in the evening sun, took their breath. Up Uhuru Highway, then Kenyatta Avenue and they were approaching the elevated magnificence of the Panafric Hotel.

The band assembled in Reception while their baggage and instruments were unloaded. The Reception area was abuzz with activity.

Safari guides emerged from their black and white (zebra) striped Landrovers, airline pilots and crews milled around the hallways and bars, tourists were coming and going.

“Let’s send our things to the room, get cleaned up, have dinner and I’ll show you the sites” suggested Paul, the seasoned traveller.

 

Dinner was very pleasant, seated at a table for two and looking down Kenyatta Avenue, through the lush parkland to the well-lit city beyond. Some band members were in their cliques around the dining room as were several air crews and three or four groups of tourists either on their last night or pre-safari shindig.  There were few black faces in here except for the barman and waiters but there was no hint of apartheid anywhere in Nairobi. The Africans, Asians and Europeans might tend to live and socialise separately but there were none of these offensive notices forbidding blacks to do one thing or another.

At about ten o’clock, Paul and Julia took a cab to the New Stanley bar, popular watering-hole of the white settlers, before walking round to the Equator Club, a few blocks away. Mr Hirji, owner of the Equator, was sitting at the reception desk and vaguely recognised Paul who, after all, had “sat in” with the band here during the NDO2’s last tour. During that tour, Paul had learnt that the previous owner, Ron Partridge had realised the need for a watering hole half way between Nairobi and Mombasa. The whites, who often went from “up-country” to Mombasa and the surrounding coastline on holiday or business had to stop half way down the 6ooo feet to inflate their tyres, have a meal and possibly stay overnight. What goes down will come up again so these travellers would have to deflate their tyres on the way back. The settlement at Voi had been a good move by Partridge and it looked like Mr Hirji had bought something of a”duck egg.”

As usual, before midnight, very little was happening here so Paul decided to take Julia to his favourite spot, the Starlight Club, just a couple of hundred yards from the Panafric, where they were staying. Robbie Armstrong from Gateshead was the Managing Director of the all-African company that had bought this former RAOB building set in its own small grounds just off Kenyatta Avenue and now the focal point of African highlife in Nairobi.

You came off the car park, opened the door and were hit immediately by the throbbing hi-life music. It was just after midnight. The dance floor comprised the entire floor space except for the one row of tables around the edge. Paul and Julia knew they had a few days off to acclimatise. What better way than to soak up this fantastic atmosphere in the dance hall, the adjoining bar or at the barbecue outside where the roasting goat tickled the nose? Two of the Starlight band waved a welcome to Paul as he led Julia to the bar. He was a little concerned that Julia would be seen as one of the available local girls, not realising that her West Indian features would definitely set her apart.

Paul recognised Robbie Armstrong who was sitting at a table with a small, elderly white man who was introduced to the approaching couple.

“Paul, Joe Diver. Joe, this is Paul Williams who plays trumpet in the NDO2 Band, who’re doing a tour here. Joe rides for Lord Delamer out at Ngong. And who is this beautiful lady, Paul?”

“This is Julia who plays flute in the Band. Julia, Robbie Armstrong from Gateshead.”

“Gateshead?” Julia queried as she took a seat.

“The capital of Britain” announced Robbie as he indicated to a “waiter” that he should get some drinks. You would never know that the fellow was a waiter, dressed in an unpressed, nearly white, open-neck shirt with sleeves rolled up. To say the people were almost all coloured Africans, noisy, extremely relaxed and casual would not be doing them a disfavour.

Joe stood up, handed Robbie a sizeable pile of bank notes then left never to be seen again. Aware of Paul’s look of wonder, Robbie stood up and pocketed the cash.

“Joe likes a little bet now and again. Especially when he knows he’s going to win.”

“Knows he’s going to win?”

“Yes. You like the gee-gees don’t you? I tell you what, Paul, get up and give us a set with the band and I’ll count you in on tomorrow’s bet. What do you say?”

Robbie knew that Paul didn’t need to be asked twice to sit in; he knew too that he had his trumpet or, at least his mouthpiece with him.

 

Paul was welcomed on the stage like a long lost friend by the five band members. The music was in no way “difficult”. Each tune had a maximum of four chord changes; but the whole thing was different to white music in that the stress or “down beat” was on the second and fourth beat of each bar. This shifted the whole feel for a white musician but the band and Paul got on very well and, unlike most European bands, the drummer was the front man. Ruben Keya’s drum kit said it all. Ruben was young, small and fairly slight. He smiled constantly as he worked and pranced around his huge array of percussion. Like the little man who enjoys showing off his control of a large mastiff or totally unnecessary four-by-four, Ruben would sometimes disappear behind his tubular bells, glockenspiel and bongos which surrounded his kit of elliptical bass drums, a tenor drum and two black snares. His clothes were equally bizarre:- black, pinstriped trousers, black shirt with a white polo neck, a necklace of animals’ teeth and other parts and a white trilby with black hat band.

The whole dance floor moved in gentle rhythm, a hundred or so people smiling, chatting and dancing not in couples but together.

 

Half an hour or so later, Paul rejoined Robbie and Julia who had saved his seat at “Robbie’s”

“Nice one, Paul. Do you play a lot of the High Life in Manchester?”

Paul kissed Julia, sat down and had a slug of beer.

“Hardly ever. What were you saying about that jockey, Joe?”

“Yeh, Joe Diver” said Robbie. “He rides for Lord Delamer. He knows I like a day at the races and …………..”

“Yeh, you told me all that, Robbie. Now, what about this little club that I’m now…..” he indicated the band stand “…….a member of?”

“Well, as everyone knows, all the jockeys get their instructions from the trainer in the paddock, immediately before the race. When Joe knows he’s on a dead cert and his instructions are to go for it, he’ll ride round the paddock with his whip in his right hand. Then I rush to the Tote and, if the odds are 10-1 or more I put the lot on his horse and hope for the best. We get two or three good wins a year. He gets three-quarters, I get a quarter and we share the stake. We’d like to have £500 for tomorrow. Do you want a stake?”

“Yeh, how much?”

Julia emphatically raised her eyebrows, like she was going for a low ‘C’ on the flute.

“A hundred?”

“OK.” said Paul, wishing Julia was not around.

“Good”. Robbie looked almost relieved. “That means you’ll get a fifth of any winnings  plus your stake.  OK?”

A fifth of anything didn’t seem a lot to Paul but £100 was a sizeable bit of the pocket money that Julia had allocated.

 

Paul and Julia missed breakfast at the Hotel on Saturday morning. They only just managed to make lunch then decided to spend the afternoon walking in the local parks and the town centre. In a perverse sort of way, Paul felt guilty that he was pleased Julia’s condition meant she tired rather quickly and had to sit down a couple of times.

As they crossed Uhuru Highway they met an African man crossing in the opposite direction. He was smartly dressed in a bright floral shirt, beige slacks and cream-coloured deck-shoes. The three of them paused on the small island half way across the highway.

“Hi ya, man!” said the African to Paul. He would be in his late thirties, although it was difficult to tell. He smiled genuinely. “I enjoyed your playing last night.” He outstretched a hand. “Isaac. Isaac Cheptoo” he announced, shaking Paul with the right hand and, simultaneously, Julia with the left.

“I was just going up to the Starlight for a beer. Would you like to join me?”

“Actually, Paul and I were just going into town for a coffee then a visit to the market or something” said Julia in an attempt to put him off.

“Oh, I’ll join you then, if I may” he declared with typical African bonhomie. “I have a shop on Banda Street just near the market.”

He set off with Paul and Julia back towards town.

Animated conversation about nights at the Starlight and Robbie Armstrong saw them into a tea-shop on Kenyatta Avenue, just opposite the Post Office.

“My shop’s over there” said Isaac as they settled with their drinks on the terrasse.

“Very nice location, too.”

“What do you sell?” asked Julia. “It looks rather posh.”

“Electrical goods. You know, fancy light fittings, dimmer switches, that sort of thing. It’s a good road for Europeans and up-market Africans. Are you going to the Starlight tonight?”

“Probably” said Paul. “But we can’t be too late. We start the first part of a tour on Monday and with a bit of luck, we might be looking at a couple of properties this afternoon and tomorrow.”

“Properties? Are you planning to stay around here?”

“We’re THINKING of buying a property we might possibly let out for  holidays half the year” Julia explained “and which we could use ourselves at other times.” Paul was delighted that Julia had showed her keenness by intervening.

“We’re meeting an estate agent this afternoon” he said. “We’ll let you know tonight how we get on.”

 

Paul and Julia crossed Kenyatta Avenue then ambled down Banda Street pausing a minute or so to look in the window of “Rite-Lite”, Isaac Cheptoo’s place.

“He seems a nice enough bloke” observed Paul. “If we need any electrical work doing in the new place, he should be able to suggest someone.”

They broke away from gazing aimlessly at the appliances and continued their stroll towards the New Stanley where they would meet Alastair Gordon, the estate agent, for a spot of tea and a chat.

“Paul, I’m not awfully sure about getting a property here, you know.”

“Bloody Hell” he thought. “Isn’t that fucking typical? Half an hour ago she announces to Cheptoo ‘We are thinking of buying a property …………’ now she’s not so fucking sure.”

“Come on now Julia” he said. “We’ve been through all this and you seemed quite keen.”

“Yes, I know, but ………”; she paused.

“We’ll meet this guy Gordon and see what gives. Please.”

Julia said nothing.

“Look, the New Stanley’s over there. Let’s cross the road before we get to that roundabout.”

 

The New Stanley was on the corner of Kenyatta Avenue and Kimathi Street. It was obviously a Europeans’ meeting place with its City Bar and the huge terrace on the corner pavement. They found a vacant table and, with ten minutes until their three o’clock appointment, ordered a couple of drinks then played the watching game.

Alistair Gordon would be wearing “a tartan tie with a lemon coloured handkerchief ” in his top pocket.

“There won’t be many……..” Paul began, as a very large, balding fifty year old with tartan tie and lemon hanky brazenly strode round the corner and stood with military poise observing the seated custom.

Paul waved with abject embarrassment.

Alistair acknowledged the greeting then marched over to the table.

“Mr Williams? How nice to meet you!” he bellowed. “And …..?” he enquired, smiling at Julia.

“Hmm; indeed” was his curious reply. He was continually looking around as if nervous of the crowd.

“Would you care to accompany me to the car? It’s just outside the Equator?”

He helped Julia from her seat then marched off, fully expecting the others to follow.

Alistair Gordon was large all round. He was rotund (certainly a bon viveur) and tall, giving him an awesome presence. He escorted them into his Citroën DS and, only while the suspension came into play, did he explain:

“I’m taking you to a property near EmbakasiAirport. It seems to tick most of your boxes, Mr. Williams.”

Without further ado, he set off down Uhuru Highway, heading east out of Nairobi.

“Have you lived here long?” Paul ventured.

“I was born here. I attended that bloody school there, the HighwaySecondary School” he said pointing dismissively to a non-descript building in a field on the left, “when this area of Nairobi was almost entirely white militia. My Dad was a sergeant-major in the King’s Own in Hurlingham. Good days, those!”

“Were you in the Army too?” asked Julia.

“No, most of the Army started to withdraw in the early Sixties. I joined the Police ……..the Riot mob.”

They turned left towards the Airport.

“You’re not still in the Police? I mean ……………” Paul felt inadequate.

“Christ no! I got out with a nice pension after doing well in the student troubles of 1965. I had Kenyan citizenship so I stayed.

This is it, the property I want to show you” he announced as they turned left on to a murram track.

They drove 300 yards or so on the pot-holed drive whose severity was dampened by the Citroën’s pumped-up suspension.

The house was free-standing and isolated. It seemed to be built entirely of brightly-painted timber which provided an excellent backdrop for the hundred or so thorn trees lining the drive to the house. Gordon stopped the car 20 metres from the front door and, with a casual half turn glance over his shoulder towards Julia and Paul, he announced:

“Virtually next door to the airport and its security. You can never be too careful.” He was looking all around the house almost as if checking before they left the safety of the car. “A detached property like this in Nairobi, empty for a good part of the year, is a godsend for those thieving bastards”

They got out the car and went to the front porch which welcomed the visitor through a thick drape of red and white roses.

“The owner’s husband died a couple of months ago and she’s gone back to the UK. It’s not really the sort of place that would attract a permanent ex-pat …..outside Nairobi and all that. British Airways were interested in it as a stop-off for its aircrews” he opened the front door “but the running costs were too steep.”

Paul and Julia followed him into what was immediately the main room of the house. There was no entrance hall, no cloakroom, no downstairs loo, just this vast sitting/dining room surrounded on three sides by a minstrel gallery with five or six rooms and two bathrooms leading off. A fusty smell, accumulated over the past weeks, shrouded the interior but nothing could dampen the stunned reaction of Julia and Paul.

The double doors under the gallery at the far side led to the vastly equipped kitchen, laundry and other services.

“You could get this for twenty-eight thousand” Gordon announced, “provided it’s paid quickly into an off-shore account.”

“Bloody hell!” thought Paul, whose only originality was in the domain of music.

Julia, who was much more perspective and realistic than Paul was making her way up the stairs to the minstrel gallery and the bedrooms. She tapped the walls and shook the banister as if she knew a thing or two and shouted down to Alistair.

“We’ll need a surveyor’s report of course.”

“No problem at all, my dear. Leave all that to me.”

“We have our own, actually,” she lied. She opened a bedroom door. “So you can leave it all to me.” She disappeared into the bedroom.

Paul wondered who their surveyor was but showed more interest in the ‘plane that was landing at the nearby airport.

“Here come some of your paying guests”. Alistair had sidled up behind Paul.

“What airport’s that?

“That is EmbakasiAirport, soon to be renamed MoiInternationalAirport.

I don’t know who the fuck he thinks he is.”

“Mmm. It’s nice around here.”  Paul was keen to change the subject. “I like flat, open spaces” he continued.

“Yeh. Apart from the Airport, you’ve got NairobiGamePark over there to the right. Mrs Simpson who owns this place used to feed the odd zebra and ostrich that would wander across from there. You could put that sort of thing in your advertising for the place, couldn’t you? Listen, I’ll drive round the back and get Sammy, the houseboy. If you and Julia decide to buy the place, you don’t have to keep him and his wife on but I would suggest you do to start with. They know the place and will be very keen to impress you. They’ll need the work and the little quarters that go with the job, even if they are about half a mile away. For two hundred shillings a week, you can hardly fall off.”

“Two hundred shillings? Ten quid? You must be joking.”

“No. And don’t try to change the world, like most new-comers. They’ll take you for fools and you’ll regret it. That applies everywhere, not just here.”

 

Julia returned downstairs enthusing about the bedrooms and two en-suite bathrooms. “Some of that raffia furniture will have to go, though.”

Paul felt good and half-way there. He was also a little surprised when Alistair came back with “the boy” who turned out to be a short, thin, balding man of about forty years, with his very dark, considerably younger wife, Rachel.

Alistair made the introductions in fluent Swahili and Sammy replied.

“Jambo sana bwana mkubwa na mamsaab”

“Sam, niletee kahawa tatu na kombe wa sukari, tafadhali”

The two shuffled off obediently to get the coffee.

“Julia, Paul, you have to decide quickly about this.”

“We’ll give you a ring by tomorrow lunchtime, Alistair.” said Julia. “ Our surveyor will come round next week some time.”

Paul liked the way she made the decisions but still wondered who the surveyor was.

“O.K. Julia. If you do decide to go ahead, though, I’ll need a deposit pretty soon.”

“We’ll ring tomorrow, Mr Gordon” was Julia’s way of saying she was in charge and would call the shots.

 

That evening, Julia and Paul had a shower together in their room at the PanAfric. They were enthusiastic about Nyumba Yetu at Embakasi and the wine flowed as the conversation warmed. Paul’s excitement was obvious as Julia covered him in shower gel. They stood together under the powerful jet. Paul took the bottle of gel from her then, squirting it on each of her shoulders, rubbed it gently into her shining skin. Her proud nipples bounced from his hands as she bent forward to let him gel her back. Confronted by his thick shaft of throbbing excitement, she engulfed it in her eager mouth, licking its uncapped undercarriage until his hot juices filled her mouth. As they escaped down her chin, she stood up and rinsed her mouth in the powerful jet. They embraced, tired and loving.

 

Two hours later, they left their room then enjoyed dinner in the now-quiet dining room. At about 11 p.m. they climbed the steps into the Starlight Club.

Robbie was serving behind the bar but indicated to them to sit at his table.

They ordered and waited for their drinks.

“Shit! Here comes that Isaac bloke,” said Paul who, having returned to the Starlight after last night, had just remembered his bet with Robbie and Joe.

“Can I join you?” asked Cheptoo who gave the unloading waiter 100/- and ordered a drink for himself and Robbie.

“I know this is Robbie’s table but I do sit with him often.” he said. “We did all the wiring and lighting here” he added by way of explanation.

“Are you playing tonight?”

Robbie came and sat.

“Maybe” said Paul. “I could do with a blow; the tour starts on Monday.

It all depends on the news I get tonight” he added, looking over to Robbie who faintly shook his head as he glanced at Cheptoo under frowning brows. Paul got the message and Julia quickly changed the subject.

“We fly up to Kisumu on Monday and start playing on Tuesday” she said.

“Did you like the house at Embakasi?” asked Isaac.

“Yes” Julia replied swiftly to stop Paul. “We’re still thinking about it which we’ll do during the first part of the tour then make any move as we pass through Nairobi here on our way to Mombasa.”

“How long is the tour?”

“We finish on Saturday1st August. Then Paul and I are staying for a holiday.”

Robbie stood up. “Paul, have you got a minute?”

He walked over towards the office, behind the stage with Paul following.

Once in the office, they sat down.

“You know that Joe romped home at 11 to 1 this afternoon?” Robbie smiled.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not, actually. I’ll have 12 hundred quid for you on Monday.”

“Shit, that’s wonderful.

Can I ask you a couple of favours, Robbie?”

“You can ask, as long as you give us half an hour on stage.”

“Yeh, no problem; I need the blow.

Robbie, do you know a good property surveyor who could look at this house in Embakasi for us and who doesn’t work for Falkus Estates. All we need is an all-clear or don’t buy.You can pay him from my winnings while we’re away. It’s that property opposite the airport. Sam, the houseboy is there all the time and can let your bloke in.”

“Yeh, I’ll see to that. Paul can I just warn you about Isaac Cheptoo. I don’t really trust the guy and I know quite a few who feel the same about him. His work’s excellent…………….he did all the wiring here. I know you’re thinking of setting him on to do your electrical work but, be careful. There are tribes and tribes within…….makabila ndani.”

 

 

The NDO2 orchestra flew into KisumuAirport on Monday 29^th June 1970 at 11.30a.m. Their plush G-Line coach dropped them at the Imperial

Hotel where the section leaders and other VIP’s had “suites” on the fifth floor while the rest of the band were in the third and fourth floor “deluxe” rooms. The whole set-up was a little passé and three-starish; it hearkened back to the recently-expired colonial days when Kisumu, on the banks of Lake Victoria, was called Port Florence, an important Ugandan railway junction. The mzungu was still in charge and much in evidence but seemed to be losing his grip as he prepared for pastures new. It would be ten or fifteen years before the locals would start to regenerate Kisumu into a thriving tourist centre on the shores of Lake Victoria within easy reach of Naivasha and NdereNational Park.

 

Paul and Julia, obviously now accepted as an item, were given a double room on the third floor. Julia noticed and wondered why there seemed to be no disabled facilities but, there again, she hadn’t really seen any white disabled people. There was still a long way to go before the African (let alone the disabled African) would feel comfortable or welcomed in these colonial relics.

After a buffet lunch the band had a rehearsal in the Hotel’s conference hall where they would perform over the next four nights for the mostly white audiences. These would live in and around Kisumu but others would travel hundreds of miles from up the Rift Valley and stay the night at the Imperial or one of the other colonial dug-outs.

Wherever they stayed, large quantities of booze disappeared and, by the Saturday morning, an extremely hung-over bunch of musos poured themselves into the G-Line coach en route to Nakuru.

They dreamily watched the beautiful Rift Valley countryside roll by. LakeNakuru, with its thousands of pink flamingoes and other wild-life intrigued the motionless, awed musicians, as the coach made its way up to Nakuru Lodge Hotel.

This was a different ball game to the Imperial in Kisumu. Here, the band shared lodges in groups of 4 to 6. But they were big enough to avoid the others if you wanted and, after yet another splendid buffet lunch in the restaurant, Paul and Julia enjoyed a couple of drinks in the outside bar overlooking Lake Nakuru before retiring to the solitude of their lodge porch where they dozed until shower time.

In the late Sixties and Seventies, Nakuru was a hotbed of Kenyan Politics really until Jomo Kenyatta died in 1978.

But, in June 1970, EgertonUniversity was to host the five nights of concerts in Nakuru with local audiences and coachloads of visitors from Naivasha, Nyeri and Thika.

 

 

During the couple of nights turn-around back in Nairobi, Paul and Julia, who had decided to go ahead with the purchase of Nyumba Yetu were able to co-ordinate the surveyor’s visit and the employment of Cheptoo’s men to complete the re-wiring that was recommended in the survey report.

 

They attended the Starlight over the weekend where Robbie gave Paul what was left of his winnings and he also promised to set up a meeting for Paul and Julia with his letting agent. Indeed, everything seemed to be going well and, as they set off for Mombasa in the G-Line coach the following Tuesday, Julia hoped the six-day tour would be a peaceful rest.

When they returned to Nairobi for their two-week “holiday” Julia would have her work cut out getting Nyumba Yetu into shape and fitting in these wretched barazas with Thomas Gituku.

 

The coach driver stopped in Ron Partridge’s place at Voi, about half way down the six thousand foot drop from Nairobi to Mombasa in order to re-inflate the tyres. Failure to do this would certainly result in some very expensive “flats” by the time they reached Mombasa. Nowadays, coaches in mountainous parts of the world are often adapted to adjust the tyre pressures automatically according to height and temperature.

 

The city of Mombasa is older and more run-down than many of its up-country, former colonial footholds. Having traded for centuries with Arabic and Indian settlements there is a strong Muslim influence. There is often quite a large presence of British and American sailors wandering in the main streets and bars, seeking male relief from the many willing girls who ply their trade in Mombasa as in any port around the world.

The NDO2 personnel could miss all this if they wanted because the Government in London had arranged accommodation in the British Services rest camp at Silver Sands. The concerts would be in three different messes with civilians attending as guests and, for the rest of the week the band would travel up to Malindi each day for two or three concerts in this ex-pat community with a strong Italian bent.

 

They returned to Nairobi on Sunday July 3d. The Band flew out of Embakasi the following day and on Tuesday 5^th , Paul and Julia were awaiting Gituku, as arranged, at about 12.30, in the PanAfric bar adjoining Reception. Julia and Paul felt relaxed and relieved that the Band had gone back to the UK. They were free agents. They had enough cash to relax and enjoy their two week break with the prospect of plenty more coming after the barazas.

Gituku entered with his expected theatrical aplomb. He was dressed in a white jacket with a wine-coloured handkerchief and bow tie. His shirt and slacks were pale beige and his clearly cheap deck shoes had soles that appeared to be made of thin rope with perforated cream uppers. His matching cream stetson had a dark hatband that had captured an imitation, lemon-coloured fisherman’s fly. The whole ensemble was somewhat de trop but, with his proud, yet not over-stated paunch, his panache and broad, genuine smile, here was another fully paid up bon viveur.

“Paul, Julia! How nice to see you both!” He beckoned a waiter.

“Christ, I hate that journey! A very large Grouse and water…. no ice, and whatever my two friends will have. Julia, Paul, will you excuse me a moment while I sign in and get a tab going?” He rolled off to Reception, nodding and smiling at the occasional passer-by.

“I like the guy” said Paul. “I’m certain he’s not one of Sam’s bum-boys. We should have a good time on these barazas or whatever they’re called.”

Julia was pensive and gazed silently into the middle distance.

The barazas were planned for that weekend. They would base themselves at the Aberdares Country Club in Nyeri and hold a total of ten barazas over the Saturday and Sunday in villages and settlements throughout the Rift Valley. They had been carefully mapped out by Sam Terik in Manchester who knew the best places in the Valley to mop up the cash from Ndugi and his cronies.

“What are your plans until the weekend, Thomas?” asked Paul.

“I’m going to be busy. I’ve got my speeches to write ……. some of them will have to make references to local people and events. The more appealing they are, the more money we’ll get particularly if we massage the egos of Ndugi’s pals.”

“Just remind us Thomas. What do we do?” asked Julia.

“Absolutely nothing. You are business partners from the UK attending the meetings just to make sure fair play rules. After my speech at each of the barazas you’ll be whisked off in one of the cars supposedly to go on to the next baraza where people are queuing up to invest in the Mount Kenya Industrial Development Trust, aren’t they? It’s important you say nothing at all. If somebody does speak to you, refer them to me. I’ll be staying back with my team one of whom will spend the rest of the day collecting money and pledges. Everything’s got to happen quickly, for obvious reasons.

But today, I’m going to shower, have a rest, enjoy dinner with you two then make our own kind of music at the Starlight. Incidentally, Sam wants shit-face Cheptoo to organise a PA system for our barazas.”

To Julia, the pecking order was becoming clear: Sam Terik (number one) with Thomas Gituku (at two) and Isaac Cheptoo (a definite three). Her father used to often say “Watch out for the ones at the bottom”.

 

After a very pleasant dinner together at the Topaz Grill in town, the three took a cab up Kenyatta Avenue and dropped Julia off at the Panafric for an early night. Paul picked up his trumpet and the two “boys” headed off to the Starlight.

Robbie recognised Gituku and the three enjoyed a convivial hour with Thomas greeting occasional male clubbers and not a few attractive ladies. Cheptoo’s arrival dampened the ambiance so Paul eventually made for the stage and Gituku danced with a couple of the girls. In fact neither hide nor hair was seen of Gituku until breakfast in the Hotel the following morning, Wednesday 6^th July. Then, apart from the occasional meal on the 7^th and 8^th, they saw little of each other because Thomas was working on his speeches and Paul and Julia were bibelot-buying and organising at Nyumba Yetu in Embakasi.

At 7p.m. on Friday 8^th July they set off in convoy from the Hotel for Nyeri. Thomas, Paul and Julia were in the first, chauffeur-driven Merc., Cheptoo and two of his boys followed with the PA in a VW van and the rest of the team, four besuited, unassuming African men took up the rear in the second Mercedes. They arrived at the “Aberdares” at 8.20. Little had been said in the first car, Julie quietly wondering how the whole thing would pan out. She knew and worried that Paul was driven by what was effectively greed but was satisfied or at least believed that Sam was genuine in his aims and reasoning.

At an early breakfast on Saturday morning, Cheptoo was his usual “creepy” self, ignoring the lads in his team most of the time and concentrating on engaging Julia, Paul and Tuku in casual chat. Some of Julia’s reticence seemed to rub off on Thomas but, by the time the convoy set off, the three in the first car were in animated chatter.

Two or three miles before the site of the first baraza, Thomas and the driver became excitedly engaged in Swahili conversation. Thomas had the driver stop the car which was now on a narrow murram country road.

Tuku got out of the car, took something from the boot, then seemed to disappear behind a clump of bushes. Minutes later he reappeared having removed his jacket and tie and replaced them with a three-quarter length tie-dyed top and fly-whisk, giving the impression of an educated, well-travelled Kenyan.

Another mile or so on, they parked the car and walked the few hundred yards to the site of the baraza. The VW passed them and half an hour later, Paul and Julia were seated, listening attentively and smiling appropriately at Tuku’s address to the fifty or sixty local dignitaries who then went to the tables manned by the men from the third car and paid their money. It was all so smooth. An hour or so after the meeting had started Paul and Julia were joined by Tuku in the first car and they set off on the ten or fifteen miles to the next baraza. This pattern was repeated several times on the Saturday then, after another overnight stop at the Aberdares, at a dozen more meetings on the Sunday. The totally exhausted convoy returned to Nairobi at 11.30 p.m. that Sunday.

Tuku, Paul and Julia agreed to meet at Nyumba Yetu for dinner the following evening. Cheptoo and his team had finished the re-wiring work the previous Friday so, on the Monday morning, Paul went into Nairobi to buy the materials for dinner while Julia, Sammy and Rachel busied themselves tidying the place for the evening’s festivities. Tuku had asked Julia if she minded if he brought a girl with him “just to make up the four” so, while Rachel gathered and presented some flowers for the coffee table (a large drum made with zebra hide), Sammy cleaned the kitchen and Julia prepared a bedroom on the east wing of the gallery “just in case”. That gallery was a definite favourite of Julia’s who would take a break leaning on the rail, and survey the huge lounge below with the two settees, the black and grey skin coffee table, the tall bookcase which served as a drinks cabinet too and the six-place dining table which stood near the kitchen, giving easy access to Sammy who would be ‘waiting on’. The only thing she didn’t like were the two fluorescent tubes on the ceiling of the main room. Cheptoo had insisted they were good lights for working under so Julia had installed three standard lamps to gently illuminate their more social occasions.

At around 5p.m. Paul returned from Nairobi completely laden with goodies and slightly laden with lunchtime booze. He willingly obeyed Julia’s curt suggestion that he should have a nap while she set about preparing the dinner.

At seven, Julia and a recovering Paul showered and prepared for their guests, due to arrive at eight. The lit candles on the table and the dimmed standard lamps set a warm, welcoming scene.

At quarter past, a Peugeot taxi appeared at the front door; Tuku emerged first, wearing a bright sky blue, open-necked top with white slacks and his favourite deck shoes. His baseball cap slightly spoilt the image as he bent down to open the other passenger door.

Julia was pretty but this girl was ravishing. She straightened herself and stood smiling broadly at Tuku who gallantly offered his arm and took her travelling bag with the other hand. Clearly they were planning an overnight stay.

Paul and Julia opened the front door to welcome their guests.

“Claire, Julia and Paul.” Julia stepped forward and kissed Claire on both cheeks. Paul was not a social kisser and made do with a handshake for Claire then Tuku. “Come on in” he suggested by way of welcome then led the other three into the house.

Tuku was encouragingly enthusiastic about what he saw. Claire just stood quite separately from the others, taking it all in.

She was about 5’10” in her sensible high heels. Being Afro, she had no need to hide her shapely legs in tights. Her knee-length dress clutched her perfect figure and her cluster of necklace was a pedestal for her serene face, tastefully offset with teal highlights and her shiny black hair.

Tuku and Claire sat together on one settee, Julia on the other while Paul prepared two large whiskies, a port with brandy and a “Bloody Mary”. It was going to be a good night.

Claire was from a wealthy Zairean family and worked as a Community Relations Officer in her country’s embassy in Nairobi. Tuku had firstly met her at a diplomatic function in Manchester and had quite accidentally come across her at a recent garden party somewhere in Ngong. She was single and was clearly planning to make music with Thomas Gituku.

The second round of drinks came and went accompanied by Peggy Lee’s rendition of “Fever”.

Julia got up to go to the kitchen; then, as if instinctively inspired, Claire followed her, presumably to lend a hand.

Paul replenished the two whisky glasses then sat on the other, empty, settee.

“We did very well in the barazas, Paul. Close on three million quid.”

“Bloody Hell! Nice one! At least our money should be safe”, then, realising that Tuku might not be aware of the agreement between him and

Samuel Terik. “Not that it’s a great deal” he added.

“I know exactly what you’ve agreed with Terik.”

Paul was surprised at the use of Samuel’s surname. He glanced at the kitchen door.

“Don’t worry about Claire. She’s very much part of my plans.”

Sam, the houseboy, came in to put the final touches to the table.

“We’ll chat later.” Tuku said.

The meal, a starter of salmon pâté, followed by stuffed grilled poussin with Lyonaise potatoes and asparagus tips, then a selection of desserts was well received. The volumes of wine contributed to the giggly atmosphere and, as usual on such occasions, the men spoke to each other, the girls did the same.

After half an hour of this behaviour, Sam appeared clearly hinting that he wanted to clear away.

“Paul!” Julia shouted louder. “Paul. Tell Sam we’ll tidy up tomorrow” She indicated with the back of her hand that he, Sam, should leave then giggled.

Tuku, perhaps more experienced than the girls at covering up his drunkenness, gave Sam the message in Swahili. It being near midnight, he was clearly relieved as he left, mumbling repeatedly “Asante sana. Mpaka kesho, bwana, memsahib”.

The girls took this as their cue to leave, too.

“I’m just going to show Claire their room,” said Julia with a stumble and a giggle. “They are staying.”

Claire followed Julia, clutching both banisters for safety.

Paul and Tuku watched the two as they laughed their way round the gallery towards the room that Julia had prepared, at the east side, just above the lounge area of the main room.

“Oh Thomas. I’ve forgotten our bag” shouted Claire.

“Ill bring it up in a minute, darling,” shouted Tuku.

Unheeding, the girls laughed into the room.

“Shall we sit over here?” asked Paul as he, followed by Tuku, headed for the settees.

“Whisky?”

Tuku sat on one couch while Paul prepared the drinks then, placing the glasses on the skin drum, sat opposite, on the other.

Tuku glanced briefly upstairs then gulped his whisky.

“Paul, we need to chat, honestly, you know?”

“Oh, Christ! He’s going to tell me that Claire is only a cover” thought Paul. “He’s a bender like that fucker in Manchester. Shite!”

“Paul, you have agreed £100,000 with Terik. He’s promised me £500,000.”

“That’s OK isn’t it? Anyway why are you telling me? He needs you more than he needs us.”

“I want to be honest with you.”

“Shit! Here it comes” thought Paul. “I’m not gay” he said.

“I know that, for Christ’s sake. Do you think I am?”

“In Sam’s …………..in Terik’s flat I thought……. we thought we heard you and………”

“Christ, I hate that bastard with all my heart and soul. I can assure you, my hole doesn’t come into it. I’ve had to play it very close to the wind, though. God, the thought of it makes me puke.”

“So why do you have anything to do with him?”

“He says he wants to return the millions of foreign aid to the British Government and have the locals contribute a little to their own futures.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all. Did he, Terik, tell you about his place in Bosnia?”

“No.”

“About eighteen months ago, when he thought he was grooming me in Manchester I had the chance to snoop around his flat. I saw a letter from an estate agent in Bosnia stapled to a sort of contract from Manchester United tying him to a tour there with the youth squad. You know about his connections with them? I was reading a letter from Isaac Cheptoo that was beginning to get very interesting when I heard Terik coming back. I never had another chance to follow that up.”

“What are you saying, Tuku?”

“I’m saying two things, well, probably three things.”

“Go on.”

“One, from the little bit I read in the flat and, from one meeting I witnessed in his flat between him and Cheptoo, I got the impression that Terik might just bugger off to Bosnia with Cheptoo and all the money. I don’t trust either of them.”

“And secondly?”

“Secondly, I could use a lot of cash. Claire’s family won’t even look at me without at least a million.”

“Thirdly?”

“I’ve observed you. I’m taking a big gamble telling you any of this, but am I not right in thinking you could do with a million too?

“Everyone could do with that. You are suggesting we scarper with the dosh. I suppose it was never going to reach the poor locals anyway”

“That’s right.”

“Tuku, even I know one add one makes two. You said we had collected three million.”

“About one million came from the big boys as cheques payable to the Mount Kenya Industrial Development Trust. There’s nothing we can do about that except say to Terik that’s all that was collected from the big boys so we’ve paid it into the Trust Fund along with the cash and names of the smaller investors. He’ll never know that the rest was paid in bonds and other securities signed over to me.”

“What about Cheptoo? He’ll know or realise that there were a lot of people at these barazas.”

“Which is why I had him and his team move on at the end of each baraza while people paid their money. He had to set up the sound system at the next venue, didn’t he?

Look, Paul, I’m going to have a million pounds of that money then bugger off to Zaire with Claire. If you promise to keep quiet, you can have a million, leave this place as a false trail and settle somewhere nice.”

“Why are you telling me all this, Tuku? You could bugger off with two million and I wouldn’t be suspected of anything. Why?”

“Paul, I like you and I like Julia. My mother died with MS two years ago after my father had abandoned her. For Christ’s sake take the money and stick with Julia.

God, look at the time; it’s after one. I’d better get to bed. We’ll talk first thing in the morning.”

Gituku picked up Claire’s bag and slowly made his way up to the gallery.

He had had a lot to drink but it almost looked like he was waiting for Paul to say something.

“Tuku, O.K. A million each……………………Tuku?”

Thomas stopped and looked down at Paul. He gave a thumbs-up to Paul then crossed his lips with an index finger before disappearing into the bedroom.

 

At 3a.m. Paul was still downstairs, sipping a small whisky and trying to visualise a million quid. No sign of Julia who would be well asleep. What was he going to do with her? She would never agree to the Tuku plan. But he would keep the plan a secret as indicated by Tuku; apart from anything else, Julia might tell Claire which could cause complications.

 

Half past three; one more whisky then off to bed he must go.

 

By ten past three, Cheptoo had spoken to Terik in Manchester and, following instructions, had set off for EmbakasiAirport. By ten to four he was sitting in the lounge nervously playing with a coffee, surprised at the stillness broken only by the occasional plane landing or taking off. At four-thirty precisely he got up and made his way reluctantly to the car.

 

At a few minutes after 3.45a.m, Paul was about to turn off the whispering stereo when he heard a quiet crunching noise outside like a car slinking up on the gravel. Paul stood frowning at the door. He turned again to switch off the music but the sudden implosion of two men through the front door made him drop his glass. He died quickly and quietly in the hail of their automatic gunfire.

 

Roused by the noise, the other three emerged from their rooms, Tuku first, Claire in a conveniently red nighty then a naked Julia who died last, bent over the gallery banister. Her blood was still dripping onto the skin coffee table, audible but out of tempo with the Billie Holliday track, when Isaac Cheptoo arrived at twenty to five.

 

The stereo ended its odyssey. Cheptoo didn’t look but climbed his ladder to dismantle the tiny microphones and transmitter he had installed in the fluorescent light casings.

 

Then he went home. Jacob would have made breakfast.