Open Writing

Chapter 23
Intermediaries

We always knew well in advance when Annie McInnes was about
to descend on us. Her beaten up old VW beetle had holes in its twin
exhaust pipes and the car’s noisy protests could be heard from afar.

The vehicle stopped with a cough. Annie jumped out, bright as a
button, her bonnet perched precariously on her tangle of curly hair.

We embraced warmly. My teacher friend was just in time. I was
brewing chai. At her request she and I took our tea down to the
beach and sipped at it, in between excited chat about the apparent
success of our pressure on Western authorities.

‘Did you know,’ she then said, reflectively, ‘that according to BBC
radio, a ship sailing through these waters is seventeen times more
likely to be hijacked than is the killing of a British soldier on combat
operations in Afghanistan?’

‘Hmm. Are you sure? Quite a strange comparison. What made
you say that?’

‘Oh, nothing really. But it just goes to show how many ships are
held up by pirates these days. A sign of the times, perhaps.’

‘Or of desperation, at least in our case.’

‘Yes,’ said Annie. ‘Who’s going to Kenya to pick up the money?
Won’t it be risky?’

‘I’ll go with Nimrod. We’ll use a third party for the actual withdrawal
from the bank. Someone who’ll be glad of a few hundred
shillings in return for doing us the favour.’

‘I’m worried you may be falling into a trap. They may have police
watching you.’

‘We’ve thought of that. Don’t be concerned. We may look stupid
but ..........’

Annie brightened again. ‘Anyway, I’ve got something I need to
ask you. It might be important.’

‘How mysterious. I hope you don’t want to know my age or vital
statistics.’

‘Nooo. I’m far too polite! But yes, it is a bit mysterious.’

‘Well, spit it out then!’

‘Okay. A man has been asking questions about you in Kaambooni.’

I’d noted her customary rosy smile had faded, replaced by a
gleam in her eye and a look of deep inquisitiveness.

‘What kind of man? So long as he’s not a soldier or a policeman I
think I can tolerate his attentions. You’ll need to keep it from Nimrod
though.’

I’d been joking of course but only to obscure an underlying anxiety.

I didn’t like the idea of being the subject of investigation. My
thoughts had automatically turned to having to flee again, to finding
another place to live.

‘He’s white, Amina. I don’t think he’s here to threaten you. He
says he knows you.’

‘Then he must by lying. I don’t know any white guys.’

‘What about your dim and distant past?’

That glint in her eye had intensified. Her eyes were burrowing
into mine, searching for an answer.

‘Annie. I’ve only ever known one white guy. That was a long time
ago.’

‘Go on.’
‘His name was Stewart. Also a Scotlander, like you.’

‘Was it Stewart Munro?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered, incredulous. I could hardly take in what my
friend was saying. ‘Are you serious that he’s actually here?’

‘Don’t be silly, Amina. Of course I’m bloody serious!’

Suddenly the two of us were giggling like schoolgirls, and I was
relating, among other things, that single smokey kiss I’d received at
Mogadishu airport.

‘What’s he like?’ I begged. ‘Does he still have hair? I know these
white guys start to look like eggs when they get older. What about
his belly? Is he fat from beer and too much good living?’

‘He’s neither fat nor bald. I can see he might have been handsome
in his time. There’s been press coverage about you all over the
world. Your photograph and story were in The Times for goodness
sake. He showed me it. That’s how he traced you to Kaambooni. Do
you want to meet him or shall I tell him that you’ve moved on?’

I didn’t answer for some time. I was as good as married now.
Nimrod was my only love, and Sanya had been the product of that
love. Our life for better or worse was here. And yet I was intrigued.

What had driven Stewart to land here after all this time? I’d heard
about men, having failed in their marriages, trying to look up old
flames in often misguided efforts to rekindle love. I remembered too
what I perceived as his premature declaration of love for me.

‘Tell him I will meet him. But I regret not until I’m back from
Kenya. He’s waited twenty years so a few more days shouldn’t make
any difference if he’s keen. While I’m away, I’ll tell Nimrod about
him. I don’t want any grief to come from this.’

Annie finished her chai and rose to go.

‘That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Take care over the border
my dear. You’re my best friend. I wouldn’t want anything untoward
to happen to you.’

We kissed cheeks and off she went, waving quickly to Nimrod as
he emerged from under our canvas. It was the first time anyone had
described me as a best friend, and I was very happy about it.

‘What are you two plotting?’ Nimrod asked, perceptively, stretching
his strong frame in the morning sunlight as he emerged rather
later than normal from bed.

‘I’ll tell you when I’m good and ready,’ I beamed, putting on a
false but hopefully reassuring smile. And with that, I pulled him back
inside the tent.

**

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