Twisted Times: Son of Man (Twisted Times Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Adjournment was called upon immediately. The next meeting was scheduled for the following week on Monday.

  From there he went straight to his room to freshen up before attending his next meeting. He was meeting a prominent businessman – and a devout member of the church. His life of late was taken up by meetings – official and informal, others secret. He had no problem with that. The only thing that troubled him was the venue of the meeting. It was over three years now since he went to a place like that and he intended to go near such places no more. He hated them with passion.

  At 1730hrs he met with the man whom he had known from his sources as a man of God. Samson Ndolo saw Urbanas immediately he showed up almost confused outside the chapel that was used for weekday services at Holy Cross church in town.

  Urbanas liked Samson from the very word go. Samson went straight to the point. They started going round the church in front of the images of Jesus on His way to Calvary. Pretending they were praying, the meeting occurred.

  Samson wanted Urbanas to do a very simple job. He had been highly recommended. Fifteen minutes later Urbanas went back to the Madonna Hostels of Nashville University already planning how to kill his next victim.

  CHAPTER 38

  It was exactly five days after her anonymous caller had given her the info. She had immediately informed her editor who had smugly reproached her. He could not have been any less callous after her last slip ups. The Imperial Media Services is a well-recognized and respected media group not only in east and central Africa but in the whole continent and world over. The editor could, and would, not allow what she had done to tarnish the good name of the IMS. Not in the least, not again.

  “You better be sure this time round, Miss. I won’t give you any other chance no matter what!”

  “What are you afraid of? I told you I won’t slip up again, not when I know.”

  “IMS’s reputation precedes, Carol. We cannot afford the disparagement we got after your purportedly correct information about the First Lady’s incidence with our reporters. As the editor I will not allow such unsubstantiated reportage in this paper.”

  “What do you suggest I do? I go freelance?”

  “You’ll do what you want, Carol, but wrong information to the public is utterly unwelcome. Not anymore, certainly not by this paper.”

  “About this I am damn sure of it. I have already done my investigation. It’s true. Our reporter and photojournalist from the Coast have first-hand information. It’s gotcha, Michael.”

  “Mark my word, Carol. You blow this up I kick your ass out in the open… no second thoughts.”

  That was on Monday morning. Today is Thursday and her report was on the front page of their daily, the Moonbeam, and sister publications; the Daily Post, the Chronicle, and the Star.

  Carol had joined the IMS five years before and her work had been impeccable until when she made a blaring mistake that made the IMS apologize not only to the first family but also to the whole country for misreporting. She was given a severe warning and admonition never ever to do such a thing again or she would lose her precious job, and was awarded a three month’s suspension.

  She was just two days into the suspension when the anonymous call came. At first she thought that it was a hoax but the caller insisted. She made herself busy the entire twelve-week period. She did not want to face her editor again on her reporting oversights.

  No more mistakes.

  Carol surprised him the minute she reported back. She had an incriminating news piece, an exposé. At last the public was going to know what kind of people their leaders were.

  The headline was her photojournalist’s idea: Mexican Drug Lords Thrive at the Coast and the subs had taken it without feeling that their job was being done by somebody else.

  CHAPTER 39

  Sacrifices! Sacrifices were offered to appease the ancestors, spirits, and gods. In the traditional African society elders used to offer sacrifices occasionally so that those living may live in bountiful harvests and better lives – peaceful and healthy. The sacrifices used to avert danger, a red herring to avert the ire and wrath of gods and spirits.

  It started with Abel and Cain, Abraham’s human sacrifice, Jacob and Isaac and those who came after them. Israelites offered sacrifices in the wilderness for forty years. Jesus offered himself. Blood, the tincture of true sacrifice.

  Sacrifices are still offered today.

  They needed a sacrifice, a red herring to avert the wrath of the god of money.

  Job was coming from his case hearing. The evidence was produced – he and his mule were implicated, or rather, were found guilty of trafficking drugs with market value of twenty million shillings. They pleaded not guilty. He could not do anything about it. His friends had gotten him the best barristers in the country, though. What are friends for?

  They promised him that everything was under control. Where there is muck there is brass. That’s what they exactly told him after Grace reduced him to nothingness. He believed them then, and he still did.

  The case seemed to drag, but compared to conviction rate of high profile cases in the country, this was a record breaker. The following month the judge was going to give his judgement. Before then the truth would be long known. The prosecution would have no case than to drop the charges and apologize, in private of course, to Job and his friends. That was the plan.

  Job spent the remaining part of the day at Muthaiga Golf Club playing golf with his friend. At dusk they drained the hollowness of their throats with some alcohol. That’s when the topic of him getting himself a woman to go home to came up. Job just waved his friends off. Never ever again shall he get intimate with the fairer sex? They are all serial heartbreakers, he told his friends.

  Late in the night when he was almost groggy, Job left for his home. The moment he left and sped away and the guard locked the gate behind; Samson made the much awaited and needed call. When somebody picked up on the other end, he just said two words, “It’s time.”

  *

  Like a leopard that had been lying in wait for its prey, Urbanas emerged from his hideout with all the gracefulness of a python. He saw the tail lights of the sedan he was waiting for shimmer away. A moment later, he started his spiced up stolen sports car and followed at a safe distance.

  It was just another night of business as usual.

  *

  Naturally the streets had the aura of daybreak. Nocturnal primates were out there – prostitutes, robbers, ballerinas, and the whole lot to whom epicureanism has dominated their lives, such that they must spill their activities in to the night. Although he was amongst them at the moment, Job knew he was totally different from them. He was going to his home, cold as it was, but home all the same.

  He got fidgety when he realized that the car that had been following him since he left the golf club was still tailing him. The air around him hang with the stench death. He could smell its acridity, its resonant tang in the faintest.

  He smelt the trace of gasoline and sweat. He was damn sure that somebody was out there for his life.

  The car slowed as he neared his house in Westlands, Nairobi.

  The car started to accelerate again.

  There was no time. The guard was delaying in opening the gate.

  Then there was no need at all.

  It felt like hailstones hitting him, and his car.

  Job had never thought bullets hit you like hailstones.

  Darkness.

  Pain.

  Warmth.

  Blood.

  Blackness.

  Death.

  CHAPTER 40

  Mavis had a chain of friends in the police force, from the regular police to the paramilitary Flying Squad and Administration Police. More often than not; the local police boss would make sure that his men worked away from our area of operation, or if we happened to be in the same area there was some kind of mutual understanding and responsibility – we do not attack his boys even if they taunted or provoked us as that
was their job, otherwise he would come on us like all hell gone crazy with the whole fraternity of the law enforcement. On his part, he would make sure that the public knew what it ought to know, telling everything and doing everything as demands his job, yet tell and do nothing to serve the community as he ought. He always got his wages at the end of the day. We had friends high up the national food chain too, courtesy of Urbanas, thanks to his political connections.

  An arms dealer based at Eastleigh, Nairobi, used to sell us arms from the war torn militant Somalia. However they found their way to Nairobi I did not know, but I guess the police facilitated in one way or another.

  Our arsenal consisted of the latest weapons, new inventions. We were always more modernised than the police even though from time to time we used to borrow some pistols from the police, and even their AK47 assault rifles. We had our own arsenal that our uniformed friends envied: machine pistols, machine guns, and rifles. The ammo was never a problem. What was more intriguing was how we used to conceal them. Crude, yes, but efficient...

  One day a titanic classy casket was at the centre of Urbanas’ Madonna Hostels room. You could not tell its colour straightforwardly because it looked insipid, metallic or silver, depending on the angle one was looking at it from. It had golden handles and piping along the edges. How could I forget it? It was the one we had retrieved from Lang’ata cemetery the week after the foiled Nakuru coffin heist.

  Urbanas went straight to the point. We had acquired new stuff and as usual we were supposed to transport it to our armoury. We all knew the drill.

  We had gotten ourselves automatic handguns, M107 and M110 sniper rifles. After putting all the weapons in the casket, we covered it so as not to draw attention from whoever might see us putting it in our ever beloved pickup. We were all dressed in black suits, matching ties and shirts, black hats and Ray-Bans. Jack and Dick got in the pickup while Arnold, Urbanas and I got in Urbanas’ spiced up sports car. Arnold was behind the wheel.

  Final Destination: Nairobi War Memorial Cemetery.

  The grey Mazda marqué pickup came to an abrupt halt at the entrance of the cemetery, one of the places we visited only at witch hours of the night. The sports car followed slowly, closely behind. When the gate was flung open, the events that were to follow were emblazoned on everyone’s mind – it was the drill, well-rehearsed; that’s what Urbanas called it.

  Dick and Jack stepped out of the pick-up and walked briskly to the back. At that moment, Arnold and I got out too. Urbanas was left behind in the car, as usual. We were the pallbearers. One could wonder what kind of a burial ceremony this was – no bereaved and the mourners. Apart from being part of the hearse that had delivered the deceased’s mortal remains, we were also the retinue.

  We removed the casket and took it to the side of the already dug grave.

  Urbanas stepped out of the car dressed in a white robe that Catholic priests wear, the alb. He had a purplish looking scarf around his neck hanging like the stole Catholic priests wear and a Bible in his left hand.

  With the gusto of an officially ordained priest, Urbanas came to where we were mourning our departed friend.

  He, Urbanas, presided over the burial ceremony taking note of the usual rituals of praying to those who went ahead; and the homily of life, death, resurrection, and life after death. We prayed for a split second and Arnold went back to the pickup, took a brand new spade and came back to us.

  We then lowered the casket into the shallow grave, and then the presiding priest scooped some soil and passed it round for us to take a handful to sprinkle on the casket. We did it in turns and left the “cleric” to complete his task. When he was done, he threw the spade on top of the grave, took off the robe, and ran to join us. We left the cemetery grounds the same way we had come in.

  The guard at the gate offered his condolences. Arnold and I smiled at that. Arnold lowered his Ray-Bans, looked at him through the driver’s window and sped off.

  We went straight back to Madonna hostels, the planning room. There was a task for us that night.

  CHAPTER 41

  Carol was a national security reporter at the IMS. She had a degree in journalism and broadcast journalism from the Kenya Institute of Mass Communication. She had joined IMS from the Nairobi-based Miss 24 radio station where she had worked for two years. She was a professional reporter in addition to being a video editor and cameraman, a very versatile journalist.

  While at Miss 24 she had been voted twice the best radio presenter and the most promising broadcaster. When she got tired of sitting behind amplifiers and microphones she broke hearts of the many of her fans and admirers, but in a matter of time she proved to them that her versatility can make her the best in wherever she ventured.

  Through her keen interest in security issues, Carol cultivated an enviable list of contacts within all categories of people in the country. Both the well-known and obscure knew her, and even the security forces gave her first-hand info, anonymously, whenever she wanted it. Among the celebrity circles she was one of a kind, none other like her.

  Her reporting embodied all the police crime scenes, too intricate and conspiracy stories that hit the country by storm and left everybody wondering where the hell she had pulled that, thus she was appointed the Moonbeam’s chief crime reporter and editor. She was known as the reporter of organized chaos because whenever and whatever she reported she sent shivers down many people’s backs. She could easily bring about a political coup with her journalism tsunami.

  One of the big stories she covered and left the country wondering where the security system was lazing was the secret Mungiki undercover workings. She unearthed the outlawed sects’ working details, financiers, how the members have penetrated all sectors of the economy, security forces and their stratagem. The exposé left those in the government who were involved and their secret lives had been exposed in turmoil with nowhere to put their masks. Careers were lost, but just for effect.

  It was feared that she was treading on dangerous grounds and that her life was in danger, but she herself seemed to fear not. She was trying to expose the evil that would otherwise be buried forever and if she died accidentally while doing her job then she would be crowned the diadem of martyrdom. After all she was not going to be the first and the last – journalists die daily for the true lies they expose.

  Just when she was about to cover another big story that was to ripple the tranquillity of the whole country there seemed to be a glitch somewhere. She learned that her contact had been killed at his home, at his gate, the night before. For the first time in her career she felt something she had never felt – fear.

  The dread of the whole thing, of everything going on a rampage, and then finding herself a victim of organized crime almost tore her apart. Over the years she had been threatened but she had given no damn. But this time round she felt that all hell was breaking loose.

  The editor-in-chief had warned her of such reporting especially when she did not have the cold hard facts. She always had them. She did not know where it had gone amok in her last reporting about the First Lady’s crime of passion connection with some reporter.

  It was true, but Carol had covered something totally different from what the other journalists reported about the slain journalist allegedly killed by his fiancée. The crime had tentacles all the way to the first family. Hell, the first family was in the middle of the imbroglio. Her source was from State House and a close friend of the President, and when it was out, the first family went berserk. They wanted to sue IMS. IMS apologized to the first family and the whole country for the mistake, promising that such a mistake would not be repeated again. She was supposed to lose her job with the IMS, but she was given another chance. She was now writing another big story and she was ready to stand her ground.

  Once upon a time, she lost a cousin to drugs when she was in college, and she vowed to do whatever it took to see that those who ruined other people’s loved ones’ lives through drugs were exposed and known to th
e world. The world would be their judge, jury, and executioner.

  Now, Carol thought, it was just weeks after it was all over in the news that some Kenyans had been sentenced to death in China for drug trafficking. Another story was to be in circulation telling Kenyans who the kingpins were, the ubiquitous Mexican drug lords making a kill in Kenya under the tutelage of the government.

  Her article went deeper to expose how unsuspecting citizens were paying for the drugs through Value Added Tax by purchasing products, unbeknownst to them, laced with the drugs right from the manufacturer; the untold story of how the drugs were being produced without anyone suspecting and how those involved were getting away with it.

  She was in journalism trance when the call came.

  She punched the connect button and listened.

  “What?”

  CHAPTER 42

  Job’s friends said he was drinking late, that they warned him about driving at that hour. He was barely to himself; maybe the case was taking a toll on him. Nonetheless, his records were clean, they were sure of that. The drug trafficking case was affecting him, stressing him. They suspected somebody was behind Job’s death because they did not want the truth to come out. They said they too had received death-threat notes warning them against involving themselves in the case, had been told to leave the courts to do their work. They were damn sure Job’s death was connected to the drug trafficking case in court.

  They said that it was such an untimely demise for their friend. Whoever the killer was ought to die, burn in hell, be brought to the book.