A Court Of Fowls: Episode 34
Stewart Munro reads the headline on the front page of Kneya's newspaper The Daily Nation - a headline which brings the worst possible news!
Michael Conrad Wood continues his vividly readable novel set in East Africa.
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Chapter 12
Crash (continued|)
I expected Jamila the following afternoon. She’d phoned saying
she had effortlessly handled all the necessary customs clearance
formalities and would be leaving Diani Beach early so that she could
drive in daylight hours – always an important precaution on the
treacherous Mombasa road. She asked how Dalila was behaving in
her absence and said she loved the new car. What had I been doing?
‘Oh, just this and that, and of course the tax returns,’ I lied.
There was no sign of her by 6.00pm. I began to worry as darkness
fell. Two hours later she still hadn’t appeared and I’d heard
nothing more from her. I rang our friends in Mombasa but they said
she had left on time. At 10.00pm I rang the police at Nairobi Central.
They took Jamila’s details, and mine, and said they’d get back to
me after they had made some enquiries.
The following morning I’d heard nothing and was frantic. I de-
cided to visit the police station in person.
‘So you say you have a flend who should be back yesterday?’
‘She was driving up from Mombasa in our new car.’
‘Maybe she have break down somewhat,’ the beefy sergeant surmised.
‘She would have found a way to call me.’
‘Maybe she have stop off with another flend?’
‘She would have found a way to call me,’ I said again with exasperation.
‘When I reported her missing last night, did the duty officer
initiate any enquiries with police stations and hospitals in towns
between here and Mombasa?’
‘You say you repotted the matter last night?’
‘Yes. At 10.00pm.’
‘Oh. That would not be me at that time.’
‘I’m not saying it was. But what enquiries were made?’
‘I am thinking that man you may have spoken to have not done
his duty.’
‘Who was that?’
‘I do not know.’
It was torturous. What was I to do? I could get no sense from
these paragons of the constabulary. I left my details a second time
and urged that they take early action to find out if there had been an
accident on the Mombasa road the previous day.
As I left the building, in a state of desperation I changed tack.
Rather than wait any longer I decided the best thing I could do was
conduct my own investigation. It would be quicker and in any case I
could not contain my anxiety. I would drive south, stopping if necessary
at the few regional hospitals and police stations en route.
Perhaps
I’d find Jamila broken down and stranded as the sergeant
thought. I called in at the club with the intention of telling staff that
I’d be away for a day or two. In the area we reserved for morning refreshment,
a copy of the Daily Nation lay on a coffee table. I spun it
around. Kenya newspapers had a reputation for plastering outsized
headlines on their front pages when there was something gory or
scandalous to report. That day was no exception. A cold dread
spread through me when I saw it:
‘MATATU CRASH KILLS TWENTY THREE’
The accompanying story filled me with the sort of fear I had only
once before experienced – when that little twirp Peter Goodwin told
me I’d contracted the dreaded virus. This time it wasn’t fear for my
own life, but Jamila’s.
‘At approximately 11.00 am yesterday, police and fire crews were called to yet
another accident on the Mombasa road, this time near the busy intersection at
Tsavo. An overloaded matatu carrying more than twenty passengers, travelling in
the direction of Voi was involved in a collision with a saloon vehicle heading
north. It is thought that the matatu driver was overtaking a lorry on a blind corner
when the accident occurred. Both vehicles were written off (see crash pictures
on pages 3 and 4). Cutting equipment had to be deployed to remove dead persons
from the wreckage.
Member of Parliament for the area, the Honourable Peter Kifoto reiterated
his earlier calls for the road to be upgraded to dual carriage way. “The carnage
each year is something we politicians should all feel some degree of responsibility
for. We have failed to act.”
The dead were taken to the mortuary at Voi hospital. Police have provided
the following telephone number as a contact point and have urged anyone with
concerns about a friend or relative to come forward to help with the process of
identification.......’
The inside pages had no fewer than eight pictures of the crash
scene. In one, the dead, like a row of canned sardines, were lined up
on the side of the road. Thankfully I could not see Jamila among the
bloody corpses. But in another photograph, the shattered rear end of
a white Peugeot 405 was unmistakable.
