City Murders , livre ebook
103
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English
Ebooks
2014
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103
pages
English
Ebook
2014
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Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Publié par
Date de parution
27 novembre 2014
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9789966565990
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
1 Mo
Publié par
Date de parution
27 novembre 2014
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9789966565990
Langue
English
Poids de l'ouvrage
1 Mo
City Murders
Spear Books
1. Sugar Daddy’s Lover Rosemarie Owino
2. Lover in the Sky Sam Kahiga
3. A Girl Cannot Go on Laughing All the Time Magaga Alot
4. The Love Root Mwangi Ruheni
5. Mystery Smugglers Mwangi Ruheni
6. The Ivory Merchant Mwangi Gicheru
7. A Brief Assignment Ayub Ndii
8. Colour of Carnations Ayub Ndii
9. A Taste of Business Aubrey Kalitera
10. No Strings Attached Yusuf K Dawood
11. Queen of Gems Laban Erapu
12. A Prisoner’s Letter Aubrey Kalitera
13. A Woman Reborn Koigi wa Wamwere
14. The Bhang Syndicate Frank Saisi
15. My Life in Crime John Kiriamiti
16. Son of Fate John Kiriamiti
17. The Sinister Trophy John Kiriamiti
18. My Life in Prison John Kiriamiti
19. My Life with a Criminal: Milly’s Story John Kiriamiti
20. Black Gold of Chepkube Wamugunda Geteria
21. Nice People Wamugunda Geteria
22. Ben Kamba 009 in Operation DXT David Maillu
23. The Ayah David Maillu
24. Son of Woman Charles Mangua
25. A Tail in the Mouth Charles Mangua
26. Son of Woman in Mombasa Charles Mangua
27. Kenyatta’s Jiggers Charles Mangua
28. A Worm in the Head Charles K Githae
29. Comrade Inmate Charles K Githae
30. Twilight Woman Thomas Akare
31. Life and Times of a Bank Robber John Kiggia Kimani
32. Prison is not a Holiday Camp John Kiggia Kimani
33. The Operator Chris Mwangi
34. Three Days on the Cross Wahome Mutahi
35. Birds of Kamiti Benjamin Bundeh
36. Times Beyond Omondi Mak’Oloo
37. Lady in Chains Genga-Idowu
38. Mayor in Prison Karuga Wandai
39. Confession of an AIDS Victim Carolyne Adalla
40. The American Standard Sam DeSanto
41. From Home Guard to Mau Mau Elisha Mbabu
42. The Girl was Mine David Karanja
43. Links of a Chain Monica Genya
44. The Wrong Kind of Girl Monica Genya
45. The Other Side of Love Monica Genya
46. Unmarried Wife Sitwala Imenda
47. Dar es Salaam By Night Ben Mtobwa
48. A Place of No Return Mervill Powell
49. The Verdict of Death Onduko bw’Atebe
50. The Spurt of Flames Okelo Nyandong
51. The Unbroken Spirit Wanjiru Waithaka
52. Tower of Terror Macharia Magu
53. The Nest of my Heart Florence Mbaya
54. City Murders Ndũcũ wa Ngũgĩ
Published by
East African Educational Publishers Ltd.
Elgeyo Marakwet Close, off Elgeyo Marakwet Road,
Kilimani, Nairobi
P.O. Box 45314, Nairobi - 00100, KENYA
Tel: +254 20 2324760
Mobile: +254 722 205661 / 722 207216 / 733 677716 / 734 652012
Email: eaep@eastafricanpublishers.com
Website: www.eastafricanpublishers.com
East African Educational Publishers also has offices or is represented in the following countries: Uganda, Tanzania, Rwanda, Malawi, Zambia, Botswana and South Sudan.
© Ndøcø wa Ngøgð 2014
First published 2014
Reprinted 2020
This book is dedicated to the memory of
my mother, Nyambura wa Ngøgð, and that of
my brother-in-law, George Waithaka.
ISBN 978-9966-25-981-3
A CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I have a lot of people to thank for making this book come to life. James, Trish, Khalif and Amira Atwater for their support during the creative process; Jimmi Makotsi for initial edits; Professor Laban Erapu for a superb job of editing the final draft; Henry Chakava and Jane Mathenge for staying the course with me; and my publisher, East African Educational Publishers. I would be remiss if I did not mention Dr. Emilie Paille from whose class assignment at Mercer College the idea of the story was spawned. A special thanks to my father, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, for your tireless critiques of the many drafts of this book; to Maitū Njeri wa Ngũgĩ for your encouragement; to my brothers and sisters - Tee, Kĩmunya, Mũkoma, Ngina, Wanjikũ, Njoki, Bjorn, Mūmbi and TK for the juicy stories, some of which might have shaped characters in the book; to Mĩring’ŭ for your sense of humour, To my nieces and nephews, the N’s (Nyambura 1 and 2), Biko, Chris, June, EJ, Geneva and Gabrielle for allowing me to dream; to my sister-in- law, Anne Kamau, for your insights on the book; a very heartfelt and warm thanks to my wife, Grace Gathũngũ, for your love and support during those long days and nights of writing and re-writing. Lastly, to my daughter, Nyambura wa Ndũcũ - you are the best.
Much love.
Ndũcũ wa Ngũgĩ
Long Island, NY, USA 2014
C HAPTER O NE
A small crowd gathered around the newspaper stand by my bus stop talking excitedly about an event – a death, or something. I stood at the far end smoking a cigarette, trying to mind my own damn business. From the tidbits drifting my way I gathered that it must be someone important – but I could not have cared less. I was not in a curious mood. I had woken up late, with a hangover that could have effortlessly felled a few men and I was headed to work!
The bus ride did not help matters much. The conductor, a young man wearing an oversized T-shirt with Atlanta Braves printed in the front, gave me wrong change from a large bill that I had just handed to him. In fact, it was the only such bill he was holding, folded between his middle and index fingers so that it stuck out like flaps on a paper plane. I was not about to let him get away with it – money was already so tight!
“You gave me the wrong amount,” I said, holding out my hand to show him the change he had handed to me.
He looked at me for a while and then turned around, ignoring me. I am not a small man by any standard but my youthful looks belie my actual size. Or he must have thought I was a pushover, given my huddled posture between two other passengers.
“Give me back my change right now!” I raised my voice, summoning that feeling which my friend Otieno called “the animal.”
I felt a gnawing anger, a fury, that had once propelled me to knockout a well-built wanna-be gangster who had confronted me outside Broadways Tavern a few years back.
“I gave you the correct change!” he said and gave me a long stare, all the while chewing loudly on his bubble gum.
“Who the hell do you think you are fucking with?” I asked him, trying to squeeze myself up from my seat. One of the passengers, sitting to my right, spoke up and told the conductor that they had seen me give him the bill. Reluctantly, the conductor handed over the rest of my change with a few choice words that I did not care for.
At work, the secretary informed me that the boss wanted to see me. We had nicknamed him Bulldog, more from his bullish ways than by the broad shoulders he carried on a small frame. What now? I wondered as I steadied myself to meet with him.
“Jack Chidi reporting for duty, sir!” I croaked, a little phlegm catching in my throat. I would normally stand at attention with a fake salute – that of a private in the presence of a superior officer - but that morning, I did not have the energy.
It was something I had done for too long to quit now but one that started out as a joke. We had accidentally found out that Bulldog had had a stint in the army, just after college, but was discharged when he accidentally shot himself in the foot. He had long stopped seeing the humour in the act but it was one of those things, even in its oddity, that had become part of the office culture.
I pulled up a chair and sat down. He pushed a copy of the morning paper towards me.
“Have you seen this?” he asked, not looking up but continuing to stare at his computer screen.
“ KING’ORI IS DEAD !” the headlines read in bold.
So was this what they were talking about at the bus stop? An old black and white file-photo of him smiling accompanied the story. He looked younger than his age and more energetic but there was something else about his smile that seemed out of sorts. It was, perhaps, a reminder that he had had better days at some point in the not-too-distant past.
“I want you to cover it,” Bulldog whispered. “Find out all you can.” He was still staring at his computer screen the way a concerned parent does at an ailing child. I did not see what the big deal was. King’ori was just another dead Kenyan. As I waited for further instructions from Bulldog, I stared at his balding head on which little beads of perspiration had begun to form.
His office still exuded that familiar musty smell of old papers piled up carelessly, competing for space on the floor around him and on the bookshelves behind his desk. I looked around, wondering how he ever managed to find anything amidst that clutter.
Bulldog had good connections to top government officials and members of the business community with whom he spent an inordinate amount of time, hobnobbing at get-togethers, official functions and dinner parties. He enjoyed it when they came to him for favourable coverage, but he was not one to shy away from reporting any shenanigans that these same people engaged in. To say he was always fair and balanced would be fallacious but he took his work seriously and did not bow to pressure by powers that be.
He stopped caressing the keyboard for an instant to look at me, perhaps wondering why I was still there.
“Is that all?” I asked more out of awkwardness than necessity.
He turned his lower lip as if to sneer at me but he did not say anything for a minute.
“I’m not sure what you will find but we need a good follow up - anything you can dig up,” he said and turned back to his computer. So that was it! Bulldog was a man of few words.
I stood up slowly and walked out of his office, heading to my desk. My head was still throbbing. I tried rubbing my temples to relieve the pressur
