“And with a day to spare.”
The old man was… Kendi couldn’t read him exactly. They’d been having such an easy time, but now he was upset at the interruption, happy that Jared had delivered the print, disgusted by the Manifesto that now sat on his desk, embarrassed at getting so worked up over such a silly, useless thing, and, well, drunk.
“Cutting it close, I see,” he said to his Chief of Security.
“There is more,” said Jared.
Kendi could always see right through Jared. He was worn out, maybe hadn’t slept for at least a day, and he was dreading something… bad news for Newton…
“I could not find the source of the breach. The signal came from a relay mast a few kilometres from here.”
“A dead end, then,” grumbled Mr. Bundi.
“Not quite. The boys are still here.”
The men went silent, maintaining eye contact. They spoke volumes that Kendi could not hear.
“You cost us the old man,” said Newton.
“It will not happen again.”
“Damn right it won’t.”
The ice needed breaking. “I believe this calls for a celebration,” Kendi piped up.
“Of course,” said Newton, smiling down at her.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Jared.
“Brief me every hour,” Newton called.
“Yes, sir.”
Jared left the Bundi mansion and strolled to the Clarence Administration Complex, wondering how his girlfriend and his boss would “celebrate”. He cut a sharp right, opened a nondescript door, and went down a flight of stairs into the basement that housed the CU servers, wishing he had brought a snack. It was going to be a long few hours.
***
Kendi poured the drinks. Newton was just about ready to undress her when Jared arrived. The night was still young, and she was about to be a very, very lucky girl.
“Do you know what this is?” asked Newton. He was higher than a kite.
The word was elated. Newton Bundi was elated; in the two years of their love affair, Kendi had never seen him this way.
“No,” she said, settling into the sofa, handing Newton a glass. She was glad to be off her feet; her knees had almost given out when she saw the print in Jared’s hands.
“Well, Petite,” said Newton, “it is bullshit.”
“Is it? What kind of bullshit?” Kendi pitched her voice a little higher; her soprano was the old man’s fetish. Funny, it did not work this time. Newton was getting angrier. He was like a kaleidoscope tonight. Or maybe I’m losing it. The print had just walked into her life.
“It’s the whining type of bullshit.”
Newton gulped down his drink, stood up and paced—if you could call that pacing. He turned the print in his hands back and forth, upside down, every which way.
“He was too self-righteous to support my father, and he got cut out of the deal of a lifetime. He pukes his filth into this whole dull volume, griping about how unfair life is, but really, it’s because he was left broke when we got loaded.”
Newton tossed the print onto the coffee table. He took his lover by her little shoulders and looked into her eyes. Here we go, thought Kendi, incoming fatherly advice. She braced herself.
“Petite,” said Newton. “If you ever, ever get the chance to make a ton of money, ever, do you hear me?” Kendi nodded. “Don’t hesitate. Do what my old man did, what I did… Do what I am trying to do for my daughter. Secure your future, no matter what.”
Kendi kissed the old geezer’s cheek. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.
“Now, my office is a no-bullshit zone,” said Newton, bright as the sun. “What do you suggest we do with this… crap?” He sneered at the print.
“Leave it with me,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Oh no, you won’t take care of it,” said Newton.
“No?” Instant sobriety. She mentally crossed her fingers.
“No, you’ll burn it. And bring me the ashes.”
Oh, thank the gods. “No problem.”
“Jared is taking care of the pest that brought it here.”
“Good,” said Kate. She waited for the catch.
Newton went to the minibar and heaped a generous drink into his glass. Kate placed the print into her handbag, snapped the clasp shut, memorised the feeling of a job bloody well done, of years of donkeywork paying off, of unbelievably good luck, of becoming a new woman.
The old man scooped her up in his arms and kissed her gently on the lips. He raised his glass in a toast.
“To Clarence,” said Newton.
But Mr. Bundi was toasting to the end of his empire, kissing his usurper..
She kissed him back, fixed a smile on her face, and raised her glass.
“To Clarence,” she said. And to Amira Bundi, too. And to my new office.
***
Muthomi’s throat was filled with sand. His jaw was hot and swollen. He slowly moved his tongue around his mouth, found wet, painful gaps where his teeth should be. His stomach twisted with hunger. He smacked his lips, tried to swallow, coughed and hacked and wheezed, spat out blood. The grit was in his chest, too, blocking the air from his lungs.
His left eye stayed shut; his right only saw grey and flecks of white. He could not move: not his head, or his hands, or his legs, didn’t know whether he was sitting or standing or lying on the ground. But he was alive. A corpse could not feel this much pain.
There was a deep, constant rumble, like a thousand lorries rattling on potholed roads, heading in every direction. His ears ached, his bones shook.
Make it stop.
No words left his mouth.
He tried again, but the words came out mangled and threatened to choke him.
The sand seized in his chest; his cough ground his lungs into a pulp.
“Easy, there.” The voice came from the walls, calm over the thunder in his mind. “Relax. It could be worse. You could be in class.”
That was not Kioko. Are you alright… Joseph, yes… get off the bus… a giant of a man laughing at him…
Muthomi panicked. Darkness beckoned.
“We didn’t have the chance to get to know each other before,” said Mr. Omondi, “so, please, get comfortable.”
The voice moved farther and farther away from him.
Muthomi surrendered.
A thought faded in and out: How friendly Mr. Omondi sounds.
***
The thousand lorries crashed. Muthomi woke up. He was burning alive.
“Water,” he croaked. “Please, water.”
He was tied to a chair, his hands bound over the backrest, his ankles tied to its metal legs. A tube ran from a bag that hung from the wall and into his arm. His clothes were soaked with sweat, his skin aflame, boiling blood coursing through his veins. His skull would burst at any moment, his ears would bleed, he would turn into a heap of ash.
Speakers hissed and crackled.
“Of course, Joseph,” said a voice. “Just a moment.”
Then Muthomi quaked. A waterfall crashed over his body, freezing him through and through. Shivers rent his body. His wet clothes turned his bones into ice, right into the marrow. His teeth chattered, his muscles tensed. He was frozen in place.
The chill was gone as fast as it had come; the fever flared up again, consuming Muthomi, burning every shred of sanity from his mind. He struggled against his bonds, but where the rope touched his limbs, his skin tore open and bled out onto the concrete floor.
The door opened; white light followed Mr. Omondi into the cell. He took a few steps towards his guest, bent down, and placed a plastic bottle of crystal-clear water just a foot in front of Muthomi’s chair. Drops of dew formed on the outside of the ice-cold bottle.
“There you go,” he said, turned swiftly and shut the door behind him. Grey light filtered through the tinted glass at the top of the cell door.
Jared did not lay a finger on the boy; he did not need to. All he had to do was...