THE MEN DO NOT EAT WINGS: A Novel

THE MEN DO NOT EAT WINGS

THE MEN DO NOT EAT WINGS

A Novel

S. W. Omamo

Richardson-Omamo Books

The Men Do Not Eat Wings is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

2023 Second Edition

Copyright © 2023 by Steven Were Omamo

All Rights Reserved

Manufactured in the Republic of Kenya

First Edition Published in June 2004

Second Edition Published in July 2023

New Growth International, Ltd.

P. O. Box 48044, Nairobi, Kenya

Cover design and internal illustrations by Clara Richardson-Omamo

Copyright © 2023

All Rights Reserved

Second Edition: July 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

For the men in my life

In memory of three of them:

Friends, Ken Abura and Peter Mboya

My father, Dr. William Odongo Omamo

There are so many of us – so many lives that come and go without being told, without being recorded. We know so few of our own stories. I don’t mean the big stories told about us every day on the BBC World Service for Africa. I mean the small ones… like mine.

1

Waiting and Wailing

Is that it? asked the younger man.

It had to come to this – the story. It was quite a simple story, actually. But it was also a very old one, its grip gnarly and layered – layered with generations of people. So the story was always reproducing itself. Always renewing itself. Staying alive. Continuing to breathe. But occasionally, someone living inside the story would see the whole thing. And that person would try to cut some branches off the old story, allowing new shoots to emerge and grow. And so it came to this.

Is that what it means, dad? continued the younger man.

No, that isn’t, said the young woman. I mean it is, but then it’s more … deeper… I think.

Is that it dad? asked the younger man again, ignoring his sister. Dad? Are you still there?

I am here, replied the older man, their father. I need to use the WC. You two carry on. I am coming.

1

Have faith in God but trust only yourself. The Old Man used to say this to him a lot. There were people around the Old Man all the time. Looking after him. Protecting him. Making money for him. But not one of them did he trust. Not one.

I should have done the same. I should have listened! he hissed, slapping his palm against his thigh. I should have listened!

He had climbed out of many ditches in his time. But this one… this one was deep and dark. There was shit everywhere. And blood.

If there is a way out, I cannot see it. Dear God, help me see it. Help me find it.

It reminded him of the time Agnes caught him with that woman who was doing that thing to him. He was moaning like a donkey. He never understood how he got himself into that one. But even that did not end the marriage. Agnes. That woman had been full of problems from the very beginning. She thought she could manage without him. But of course she couldn’t. Otherwise she would have left altogether. But she was still there. They just never saw each other anymore. Even when Lorraine died, they managed to avoid each other at the funeral.

Oh, Lorraine. She had understood him better than all the rest – her mother, her brothers, her sister. That useless man she had married had killed her – driven her to drink. What do you do when your daughter leaves your home, marries a fool who breaks her heart, and then drinks herself to death, right before your eyes? What do you do?

How the years had passed. So many years. And here he was, still in charge, but alone. Nobody to talk to. No friends. No real ones. Just hangers on. Never seeing the children. Just hearing about the things they were doing, using his name. They had so little common sense. They irritated him.

He was always irritated. He was always tired. But he could not rest. He had to keep moving. He had heard his bones creaking the other day. Not the joints. The bones. And more and more he could feel his liver moving around, expanding and contracting, as if breathing.

He was old.

But he had to keep moving, moving, moving. Always moving. Presenting a moving target.

Something had been bothering him last night. What was it? Oh yes. Security was behaving poorly, as if annoyed about something. Perhaps the constant movement was getting to him.

I do not like him anymore, he muttered. He's too slow these days. Probably sleeps too much.

He reached for the phone. Blue button, then star.

Staff. Prepare a letter for Security… Yes… It does not matter. Maybe Ambassador to Australia or Canada. Consult with Protocol and Doc. No... leave Doc out of this one. I need him for something else. Who is next in line for Security? You should know! I want to talk to Yitzhak right away. Tell him to come this morning. You handle Security with Protocol. Immediately.

Yes, Security had to go immediately. Yitzhak was back from Tel Aviv. He would have some suggestions for a replacement from the group in training. Staff and Protocol were still fine… for a while. They were fighting each other again. Useful for now. But these characters, all of them were so pathetic. He could see that they thought he was past it. They thought they knew more than he did about things. But had they ever stood before even one crowd and asked for a vote? Had they? Bloody idiots! The people believed in him, not them. He had been doing this for fifty years. Fifty years! Only Doc got it… this business. But he was a hard one to understand, that one. Ungrateful. Knew he was needed, especially now... after... that thing. Bloody, bloody hell! How did he get himself into that one? Bloody hell!

His back was getting stiff. He stood up and walked to the window that faced the back lawn, where official luncheons were held during the dry months. He looked up at the calendar. He could never remember the day or date anymore without calendars, so they were all over State House. Friday. February 12, 1999. The rains had come early in parts of the country, but Nairobi was still dry, the skies clear. He took out his reading glasses, put them on, and glanced down at his watch. 0624. He had been up since 0400. As usual. He liked the look of the grounds this early in the morning. In the orange dawn light, the gigantic trees planted in the 1960s by the Old Man made long shadows on the dew-covered grass. He stood like that for many minutes, watching the shadows shorten, the orange fade. The sun rises quickly in Nairobi.

Doc was waiting outside. He had been there since 0530. He had come for an answer.

The President was stalling, trying to buy some time. This was the third time. The other two had been easier. They had ended things. This one felt like the start of something that would not be easy to control.

OK, he said to himself. It has to be. Yellow button, then star.

Tell Dr. Siromene to come in.

He walked over to the new painting and chuckled to himself. The Norwegian Ambassador had liked it.

That is an interesting red, Your Excellency, the Ambassador had intoned. I have never seen one quite like it before. Very... em... deep.

Yes, it is a special blend. If you come back in a few months, you will see that it is even deeper, the President had replied, allowing himself to look pleased.

I am a painter myself... amateur, of course... in my free time. I would very much like to buy some of that red. Where might I find it?

Unfortunately, the artist tells me that it is not readily available. But if I hear of some, I will let you know.

Thank you very much, Your Excellency. I would appreciate that. It is quite extraordinary.

What a moron. If only he knew.

He walked across the room to his desk and sat down behind it.

Dr. Siromene knocked once and entered. Unlike the others, he never waited to be called in.

Good morning, sir, said Dr. Alfred Siromene, stopping his advance at the edge of the long, plush rectangular Afghan that dominated the President’s private study. The desk stood at the other end of the carpet. The President nodded his greeting and motioned toward the sofa immediately in front of the desk. Siromene advanced further, sat down, and waited, watching the man whose towering height, awkward gait, beady eyes, and graying close-cropped hair atop a small head had earned him The Stork as a nickname.

The Stork did not move. Siromene waited. They seldom spoke directly to each other. Staff and Protocol were the usual conduits. Only at times like this was direct communication necessary. There had to be no misunderstanding.

Dr. Alfred Siromene, fifty-seven years of age, six feet four inches tall, one-hundred-and-six kilos in weight. Long but proportional. A regular exerciser. Well-kept. Well-dressed. The only person in State House whose height approached the Stork's. Official salaried position: State House Physician. Unofficial position: special advisor to the President on domestic, regional, and international affairs, concentrating on large-scale business ventures. Immediate goal: enormous wealth. Long-term ambition: the Presidency.

Siromene had stopped thinking of himself as principally a medical doctor on the day in 1984 when he and other members of the Kenya Ear, Nose, and Throat Association went to State House seeking seed money to launch a flying doctors service. They had found the President in an agitated mood. Students at the University of Nairobi had gone on the rampage the night before in protest over rotten food in the cafeteria. They had stoned shop windows and cars on Koinange Street and University Way. It was the third such outburst that year. The President wanted the General Service Unit to use more force this time. But key figures in the Cabinet were urging restraint, arguing that the students should be treated like adults and allowed to voice their grievances in peace.

While clearly preoccupied with other matters, the President had been impressed with the ENT Association's presentation and pledged five hundred thousand shillings from his office – half the amount they needed. The meeting ended abruptly with the news that the students were on the loose again. A large group was heading up University Way toward State House, apparently planning to seek audience with the Stork.

These students! the President had cried out, slamming his hand on the table in exasperation. They are trying my patience! He had dismissed the doctors hurriedly and risen to leave. During the meeting, Siromene had positioned himself as near as he could to the President, waiting for an opportunity to single himself out. Sensing his chance, Siromene had sidled up beside the departing President, just close enough to be heard mumbling under his breath, These Kikuyus and Luos with sons and daughters at the university are just confusing the issue.

That was all it took.

The President whirled around and stared at Siromene, who had met the gaze straight on. Each saw the same thing in the other's eyes.

History.

Destiny.

Car! the President barked at his Chief of Protocol. Come! he commanded Siromene.

That was the day the President began to hold meetings – the real ones – in his cars... on the road. Look, Siromene would say many times in the years to follow. Who says that policy has to be made sitting down at a table in a building? Roosevelt, Witte, Rosen, Kamura, and Takahira were on a boat in 1905 when they negotiated peace between the Russians and Japanese, and so were Bush and Scowcroft in 1991 when they decided to bomb Iraq.

During that twenty-minute drive around Kileleshwa and Kilimani, the President and Siromene decided not only how to deal with the students that day, but also how to handle the Cabinet from that point forward. The dreaded General Service Unit was ordered to disperse the students immediately, using dogs, teargas, batons, and, if necessary, bullets. For the Cabinet, three changes were signaled. First, the Cabinet would no longer be consulted on security issues; it would be informed after the fact. Second, the delicate but influential political alliance between the large Kikuyu and Luo tribes had to be obliterated once and for all. Simultaneously, minority tribes like theirs had to be united. Third, from that day forward, students who took to the streets were to be referred to as rioters. The phrase student demonstration was to disappear altogether from Government communications.

At the emergency Cabinet meeting called that afternoon to deliberate on the student problem, the President had opened with, We must not confuse the issue.

History.

Destiny.

He knows everything, Siromene began when the President had risen from his chair, slowly rounded the table, and sat down in the armchair across the carpet from him.

Hmm, grunted the President in reply.

He says he has damaged the system... changed the codes. We can make him talk. But, sir, even if he talks, we cannot afford to let him go. He knows too much. How should we proceed?

Hmm.

Sir? Siromene wanted him to say it. He waited.

Do it! snapped the President. Finish him. Now leave please.

Siromene left, smarting slightly at the curt dismissal. But he had what he wanted – a direct order from the President to eliminate that stupid Luo farmer. He further consoled himself by focusing on the bigger picture into which this all fit.

History.

Destiny.

The President waited for the door to close behind Siromene before letting his face drop into his hands. How had he let himself get into this one? He stood up and walked over to the painting. At least there would be another one of these soon. Small consolation, but consolation all the same.

Siromene went directly to his secondary office in the basement. His primary office – the one next to Protocol's – would not do for this. He found Geoffrey waiting for him outside his door. He did not know the man's other names. He did not want to know. All he knew was that this Geoffrey fellow never failed to complete a job.

They shook hands quickly. As always, Siromene was surprised by Geoffrey's dazzling smile. The man was unnervingly handsome. He always looked cool and dry, even on the many occasions they had met in sweltering Mombasa. He was very dark, a little over six feet tall, wide-shouldered, narrow­waisted, full-mouthed. But as always, his lively and observant dark brown eyes were not touched by his smile.

We are to proceed, Siromene informed Geoffrey as they entered the office.

OK, replied Geoffrey, smiling a little. The amount will be as usual.

OK. Two hundred thousand dollars in cash.

Where is the gentleman?

He will be taken to Nakuru today. The DC has been briefed.

No. Not Nakuru. Not that DC. He is too eager. Take the gentleman to Londiani. The DO there is better.

Siromene began to protest but stopped himself. He did not care where it happened.

Fine. He should be there by… he checked his watch. He should be there by six this evening.

OK. I will be finished with him by midnight. I will let you know in the usual way. Please note that that all arrangements must be completed properly. I did not like what happened last time.

Siromene's courier had failed to wear a black shirt as instructed and had been shot dead. No questions asked. The money had therefore not been delivered. Siromene knew that Geoffrey had taken the money from the dead man. But fearing for his own life, Siromene had made a second payment as demanded.

Make sure he suffers, said Siromene, looking Geoffrey directly in the eyes for emphasis. He must feel pain.

OK.

Do not forget the spear and flag. Remember also to send text messages to his wife from his phone tonight, tomorrow, and on Sunday. At least seven.

Yes.

And be sure to fill the flask and seal it immediately, and then shake it well for thirty seconds. And put the flask into the ice chest right away.

Geoffrey nodded his understanding of this last piece of information and left quickly, leaving his client already beginning to engage with an appointment book.

As Siromene looked over his plans for the day, he saw that he would need to base himself upstairs in his primary office for the rest of the morning. At 0700, he would be with the Coast MPs prior to their 0715 audience with the President. They were driving a hard bargain. They had lost credibility in the eyes of many Kenyans because of the part they played during the last tribal clashes, but in return for what they saw as too few rewards from State House. This time they wanted more up-front. He glanced at his watch. 0640. That gave him about ten minutes for breakfast, if he hurried. He picked up the appointment book and read it on his way to the dining room. The President would probably give the Coast MPs ten of the fifteen minutes allotted to them. So he would have five minutes to make phone calls before the next group – the troublesome Kambas. Those Kambas! If only the Party did not need them so badly. They made a lot of unnecessary and annoying noise in between elections, but, to their credit, they always delivered on election day. OK. Thirty minutes for them. That would take him to 0800. Breakfast – the daily business breakfast hosted by the President, who, as usual, would not eat anything, but just ask questions, listen, and watch. Siromene would be doing the same. Bacon, eggs, toast, and juice loosened tongues and lowered defenses almost as effectively as did beer and whiskey. The day's breakfast guests were members of the moribund Council of Economic Advisors. They wanted to revive it. What made those people think anyone needed them? Should be interesting anyway. Between 0900 and 1200 there would be one after another foreign dignitary, ending with the US Ambassador, who wanted forty-five minutes, fifteen more than usual. That meant it would probably include a personal matter. Probably the teenage son again. Siromene had heard that the boy had been involved in something odd with a beach boy in Malindi over the Christmas holidays. The Nation and Standard were going to publish what they knew, which was not very much, but still enough to embarrass the Ambassador and the US. The Ambassador wanted the President's help in quashing the story. Why these people brought such tiny matters to the President was beyond him. There was a very simple solution. Find the journalists and pay them to take a holiday somewhere far away. Or, if necessary, use someone like Geoffrey. These Ambassadors sometimes behaved like small children. The afternoon was free. Maybe he'd fly Laura and that other one to Mombasa for a late lunch and massage? What was the other one's name? Doreen? Dorcas? But he had to be back in Nairobi by 1900 for the Rotary Club dinner. He was the guest speaker. A massage would certainly get him in the right frame of the mind to let the Indians and Kikuyus know who was really running the country. But it would be too tight. No. He’d have lunch with Christopher, and then go to Athi River to check on the flower farm. Maybe Christopher would come. The boy was 24 but still drifting. The mother was still pampering him. He would have to find a way to put an end to that. It was very worrying… Anyway, he would have to be through with the Rotary Club by 2100. The consultants from Washington had been in town since Wednesday. They had been calling continuously, begging for a meeting. Their firm was one of the bidders for the contract to restructure Customs and Immigration. Eleven million dollars over 3 years. He had met them in December. Old men, all of them. They'd already given their best years to the US and were now going around Africa collecting huge fees for mediocre work. But he preferred them to the irresponsible young boys and girls the other companies had sent – the ones who saw Kenya as some kind of playground. He would tell them eight percent up-front, or nothing. And then at 2230 he needed to see the Commissioner of Lands to make sure the man acted promptly to finalize procedures for the President's up-coming land reallocations in Mombasa and Nakuru. For Siromene, there would be twenty-five acres of prime land in Nyali. Excellent.

While Siromene was staring into his appointment book plotting his day, Geoffrey was being driven down Dennis Pritt Road in a shiny black Range Rover. He told the driver, Nicholas, to stop at Caledonia shopping center. One of his women lived in a flat behind the petrol station. He always needed sex, a cold shower, and cocaine before a big job. He was back within forty-five minutes.

To South C. I need BJ, Spike, and Pele, Geoffrey instructed Nicholas as he climbed back into the car. Nicholas could read the signs. The rapid speech. The sniffing. The sunglasses. He was about to be released for the day. Pele would drive the boss wherever he was going.

*           *           *

For Pele, driving the Range Rover was always the highlight of the jobs. The longer the drive, the better. Limuru, Naivasha, Gilgil, and Nakuru flew by in quick order as they headed west out of Nairobi. They would soon be there.

Once, in 1993 or so, they had driven all the way to Goma. What a trip! The shocks had been finished by the time they got back to Nairobi, but it had been worth it. That was the only time they had seen Geoffrey afraid. It was in Uganda, at a checkpoint outside Kinoni, a small town near Mbarara. One of the police officers had stared at Geoffrey for a long time and ordered him out of the car.

What is your name? the policeman had asked.

Geoffrey.

Do not be stupid to me! snarled the policeman. I want to know all of your names!

Smalley. Geoffrey Adrian Smalley.

What is your country of origin?

I am a US citizen. Here is my passport.

I did not ask for your passport. What is your country of origin? Where were you born?

I am a US citizen, officer.

You are a Black American?

I am a US citizen, officer.

So in America there are people who look like Obote, eh? Eh? Why do you resemble our deposed disgraced ex-president Dr. Milton Obote? Why are your eyes like his? Why, Mr. Smalley Geoffrey? Is he your brother? Your cousin? Your father?

Silence. Beads of sweat forming on Geoffrey’s forehead. Widening wet patches under his armpits.

No answer from you, Smalley Geoffrey? Anyway, no problem. Clinton is our friend, yes?. Ha, ha! You can go.

As Geoffrey climbed back in, Pele, BJ, and Spike looked at each other knowingly. They had long suspected that Geoffrey was Ugandan. But each knew better that to bring it up. When cornered, Geoffrey was vicious and ruthless.

But they were wrong. Geoffrey was as much a Kenyan as were the three of them. He had recognized the policeman right away. Twenty years before, during his years as a member of Idi Amin 's Special Defense Unit, he and the man had come face to face in a banana field, near Bugiri in eastern Uganda. Each had lost contact with his colleagues. Each was wielding a blood-stained machete. But one, Geoffrey, was the hunter, the other the hunted. Geoffrey – at the time he went by the name Mussolini – was disoriented. He had spent only three days in Bugiri, and even then, only in the area immediately surrounding the SDU camp. He was certain he could find his way back to the camp. But at that moment nothing around him looked familiar. His uncertainty must have shown on his face because the man lunged at him. Mussolini jumped to one side, preparing to counter. But the man darted past and into the banana field, already moving at close to full speed. Mussolini did not give chase, deciding instead to try to make his way back to the camp. If I ever see that man again, I will kill him, he vowed to himself.

Pele, BJ, and Spike did not understand the chuckles that Geoffrey let out periodically during the rest of the trip to Goma. Nor did they understand why, on the return leg, he kept them waiting by the roadside for three hours while he drove into Kinoni on some personal business. When he returned he had a smile on his face, a cut on his left hand, but not a word for any of them, all the way back to Nairobi.

Limuru, Naivasha, Gilgil, and Nakuru flew by. Rongai. Mau Summit. They pulled into the Londiani District Officer’s compound at two o’clock. They had four hours of daylight left to prepare.

*           *           *

Gilbert Kuria Kimani, the District Officer, Londiani, was fifty-three years old. He would be retired in two years. He had no illusions about life on a civil servant’s pension. Poverty. Hell. He had six children, all still in school. He needed money. This was the fourth job he had done with Geoffrey. In the previous three, he had played smaller roles but done well enough to be given a lead supporting position this time. Fifteen thousand dollars. Nine hundred and fifty thousand shillings. Twelve times his net annual salary. It would bring his total earnings from Geoffrey to slightly over two million shillings. Enough to start a business that would educate his children and other dependents, and keep his wife happy.

DO Kimani knew