Open Writing

Chapter 25
Mtanda Wanda

Our billowing sails drew us so quickly to shore that the crew had
to tack speedily to avoid beaching the dhow. Then, with the anchor
holding us fast, the old craft easily rode the incoming swell, successive
waves slamming ineffectively at our stern. From this position a
couple of hundred metres out, Mtanga Wanda had the appearance of
the smallest of villages comprising only simply constructed huts of
mud and wattle. There were few people around, save a cluster of
busy subsistence farmers attending to their maize.

‘What now?’ I asked Nimrod.

‘We have no choice but to wait. If they don’t already know we
have arrived, they soon will. A dhow in this God forsaken place cannot
be an everyday occurrence.’

We remained at anchor for more than two hours. The heat was
blistering and sapped our energy. On shore, powdery sand had begun
to blow a fine yellow dust-cloud inland. Trying to take my mind
off Sanya I passed time by gazing into the water, counting any fish
which came close to the surface. But in general the water was too
choppy to see much. I thought of the red snapper we’d taken home
from Malindi but had had no time to eat. Those left back at camp
would be enjoying them, and I was glad, for I hated to see good food
wasted.

As we fiddled and fretted our attention was suddenly grabbed by
a small, open motor boat which approached from around the bay.
Steadily it made its way towards us. There was only one old man
aboard.

‘Hamjambo!’ he shouted from a distance of twenty feet, keeping
the boat’s engine running. ‘Are you the people from up?’ he asked,
pointing north. Spray from a wave soaked the man’s face and chest
as he turned the boat around, but he was oblivious to it.

‘My name is Amina Abdullahi. We have come for my daughter.’

‘You will see her. Just wait for some time more,’ our visitor replied.

With that he revved the engine of his craft and headed back in
the direction from which he’d come. Another hour passed. I could
see that Nimrod was quietly seething. Finally, as the late afternoon
sky began to fill with striated colours of darkening orange and grey,
the sun dipping below the horizon, a much larger boat approached.

We could make out only two figures aboard. Perhaps it was a reflection
of our impatience, but it seemed so slow to reach us.

When it did, and we saw its livery, our hearts began to thump
hard. The boat was about twenty five feet in length. It was equipped
with a single Yamaha engine. A tarpaulin cover was stretched over a
rudimentary aluminium frame to provide cover from the sun. The
hull of the vessel was royal blue. Across its full length was the single
word which caused our dread: ‘POLICE.’ The men were dressed in
brown fatigues, and black berets which sported the Marine Unit insignia
of the Kenya Police. One of them raised a pistol and pointed
it in our direction. And here were we, anchor six fathoms below, unable
to react.

‘Do not do anything stupid,’ the taller one with the pistol said.
‘My assistant here is going to board your dhow to search for any
weapons. If I see as much as a flinch from any of you, I am going to
begin shooting.’

The vessel was moved closer and the shorter man leaped aboard
our boat. He had a cockiness about him. He frisked us all, lingering
longer with me than he did the boys. I could see the lust in his snake
eyes – the same sort of look that I had seen in the vile Ishmail, may
God rot his very bones. The policeman opened the hatch, and
looked casually into the cargo space below.

‘Anything, Fisi?’ his boss called from the police boat.

‘Nothing but stench,’ he replied with a smirk on his face.

‘Okay. Get back here.’

The officer called ‘Fisi’ leaped back to the motorboat. Obviously
they were satisfied we were not smugglers and that we were not carrying
whatever else they might have been looking for. The tall one’s
next words puzzled me at first, and then I was stung with the realisation
of their implication.

‘Where is the money?’

These might be policemen but now we understood this was no
chance encounter with a marine patrol vessel. These were the men
who had taken Sanya! Nimrod and I looked at one another in disbelief.

I had always assumed Kenya to be a lawful country, relatively untarnished
by corruption of people in authority. How wrong could I
be. The tall one must have thought we were dopey.

‘The Koranteng euros!’ he shouted to emphasise his meaning.

Now their planning of the meticulous operation to kidnap our
daughter, homing in on their target, knowing about the existence of
the money – all of it was beginning to make better sense. The bank
or Charles Muranga must have told the police about the deposit in
Malindi. These two men must have been put on the case. They too
would have seen the publicity in Kenya about the Ocean Salvation
Corp, as we had started to call ourselves. It wouldn’t take much to
conclude that we based ourselves not a stone’s throw from the
Kenya border. The crooked policemen concluded we would be easy
prey, that it would be like taking the money from children. But why
hadn’t they simply swooped while we were withdrawing the cash in
Malindi? Maybe too public an arrest would have meant them having
to hand the money back from whence it came, or at least to the
Kenyan Exchequor. This way however, they could claim we had
eluded them in Malindi, and get their grubby hands on the money.

‘Where is Sanya? We’ve come all this way. Do you think we would
not have brought the money to ensure her safe release?’ I shouted,
while Nimrod remained silent, brooding.

Fisi walked to the stern of his vessel and hauled away bungee
straps and some black plastic covers. Underneath was a prostrate
figure. It was Sanya, bound and gagged. She was alive! I could see
the terror in her eyes but at least she now knew we’d come for her.

‘Untie her, you shits!’

‘Shut your mouth, woman,’ replied Fisi, or I’ll come over there
and shut it for you. Maybe permanently.’

The tall one took over.

‘We’re going to make the exchange now. Get the money from
wherever you have hidden it. Throw it over here. And at the same
time, your lovely little offspring here will be going for a swim.
Cut
her bonds, Fisi. Leave the gag. I can’t stand her whining.’

Nimrod had gone below and collected the money, still packed in
its blue school rucksack. He threw it over to the other boat. Fisi
quickly checked the contents and nodded enthusiastically to his boss.

‘What’s to stop us now just leaving with your daughter and the
money? She looks old enough for a pumping,’ he laughed.

The remark was designed only to torment us. Wasn’t it? He
grabbed Sanya and without a second thought, pushed her overboard.

Nimrod was first to react and dived in to help her reach us. There
was little need. The girl could swim like a fish. By the time she was
pulled onto the dhow, the police boat had turned and was well on its
way into open water.

**

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