Contributor: Dirky Henkel
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The passing fields along the Umbiquothi highway were now filled with collections of rubbish. Fires were dying out on meadows now more deathly black than green.
“It used to be beautiful,” Cammy remarked on the rot. She was leaning against the passenger window. Her left cheek was orange from the Kenyan sun, her blush of hair falling like a waterfall over a traditional caftan. She nudged John back to reality, and he released his grip on her hand, having forgotten that the ring of his finger was pressing down.
“Remember when they used to plant blueberries here, the kids who'd come play?”
“Times have changed,” he said. “In a bad way.”
“Who did this?”
“Daily Nairobi say Al-Shabaab,” their driver said, butting in. “So many killed yesterday. Senseless violence. That's Kenya. I have to say, you're brave. However...”
“Hm?”
“Maybe foolish for white people.” And he laughed. “I shouldn't speak. Not to offend...”
She clicked her tongue, wound up from her rest. “Good gracious. Fools for trying to help the poor?”
“Coming from rich land, you have little regard for yourselves. I'd be worried in your shoes.”
“Everyone needs an angel, right? I'm sure you'll agree there's too few angels,” John said.
“Well, God bless you.” Thereafter, the driver kept quiet, checking the meter as the fields came to an end. Hlongo rounded a corner into the village of Nyang'oma Kogela, an assembly of shacks rising upon a hill and from which smoke was trailing into the skies to manifest an ebbing mirage. Hlongo braked right at the beginning of the main road, half a kilometer from their destination, and was visibly frantic, tracking the surroundings carefully.
“If I go further, I die,” he said, sweating from fear rather than the heat. “They don't like my kind here. Not Masaai. Are you sure you want to do this, boss? Very dangerous.”
John dismissed him. “Give us ten minutes?”
“Be safe.”
In the open, the weather was cooler, her omen feeling stronger. She rejoined hands with him.
“I'm scared,” she said.
“I know.” John pried her off so he could open the bonnet. “It's just a drop-off. Like it always is. It'll be fine, okay?”
“This is different,” she wanted to say, but she obliged him, taking her share of the aid. As they left the cab further behind, she turned one last time, noting the driver's incessant gawking. Watching the shacks lining each side, she kept expecting heads to peek out. On the surface, the place appeared deserted. “Something isn't right.”
“I'm here with you.” John bumped her playfully, got an appeasing smile in return.
The civic hall was in view, the source of the smoke. Its walls were vandalised, the door off its hinges. The interior, they saw, was a charred ruin. It took them a minute, then, to figure out what those coal shapes were, what that smell was alluding to. Big shapes. Small shapes. Adults and children. Bodies.
Acid rose up her throat. John caught her as she half fainted, and dragged her off, back to the cab that was now hooting. Once more it blared, and John didn't understand. Then it was too late. Shadows coalesced on the ground, corresponding with urgent footsteps. They were being surrounded. Men, plainly dressed enough to appear harmless, were making cutthroat gestures around them, encircling like vultures. They stared on coldly, uncovered machetes stained with old blood, the tips of the blades gleaming.
John reasoned, stammered, “Dr Shepherd from London. Do you remember? United Nations?”
They spat in defiance. John felt behind him. Cammy was still there. Her hand, trembling, slippery, was hard for John to grasp. When he got it, he pulled, attempted to leave through the crowd by force. Only, they wouldn't let him. They pushed him back, struck him in the head twice, and he went to his stomach. His nose was shattered. But he could still smell the ensuing flames, hear Cammy's fighting screams that ceased after a few resonant smacks. As he struggled, he realized someone was standing on his back, keeping him floored. Soon a cloth of vinegar was crammed into his mouth. Fingers pinched his face, made him watch. Right next to him, there she was, her eyeliner streaming down her ears. The other men were disrobing her on the dirt, ripping off her undergarments, until she was bare all over. One man entered through her open legs and thrust as violently as he could; another undid his pants, slipped his penis in orally; and the others took turns, and it went on for eternity. When they were done, they drenched her with petrol. The sound of the crackling fires and her final squeals overencumbered his ears, until, somehow, he was able to fade off.
“Ten years is a long time. Do you feel that you can ever move on, as a human being?” said his psychologist.
“What's human, Doc? What is that fucking concept?” John got up from the couch, observed the back of his hands, the skin indentation where the ring used to be, the boils that never quite healed. “We live in a meaningless universe.”
“What does that mean to you?”
“Actions are meaningless.”
“So you can accept what's done has no bearing? Is that what you're saying?”
“I'm saying I'm thankful for my influence. Gets me places.” John grinned, and left.
He was slightly off-schedule, turning on the television midway through the BBC News broadcast.
“...hybrid flu breakout in Kenya,” the reporter continued. “Hundreds of thousands have been confirmed dead, and the country has been quarantined off...”
John sipped the rest of his wine, dancing his hands to The Blue Danube playing in the background.
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Dirky Henkel is an unwanted child originally from Berlin, Germany, currently residing in Rehburger Moor. Follow her on Twitter @DirkyHenkel.
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- -
The passing fields along the Umbiquothi highway were now filled with collections of rubbish. Fires were dying out on meadows now more deathly black than green.
“It used to be beautiful,” Cammy remarked on the rot. She was leaning against the passenger window. Her left cheek was orange from the Kenyan sun, her blush of hair falling like a waterfall over a traditional caftan. She nudged John back to reality, and he released his grip on her hand, having forgotten that the ring of his finger was pressing down.
“Remember when they used to plant blueberries here, the kids who'd come play?”
“Times have changed,” he said. “In a bad way.”
“Who did this?”
“Daily Nairobi say Al-Shabaab,” their driver said, butting in. “So many killed yesterday. Senseless violence. That's Kenya. I have to say, you're brave. However...”
“Hm?”
“Maybe foolish for white people.” And he laughed. “I shouldn't speak. Not to offend...”
She clicked her tongue, wound up from her rest. “Good gracious. Fools for trying to help the poor?”
“Coming from rich land, you have little regard for yourselves. I'd be worried in your shoes.”
“Everyone needs an angel, right? I'm sure you'll agree there's too few angels,” John said.
“Well, God bless you.” Thereafter, the driver kept quiet, checking the meter as the fields came to an end. Hlongo rounded a corner into the village of Nyang'oma Kogela, an assembly of shacks rising upon a hill and from which smoke was trailing into the skies to manifest an ebbing mirage. Hlongo braked right at the beginning of the main road, half a kilometer from their destination, and was visibly frantic, tracking the surroundings carefully.
“If I go further, I die,” he said, sweating from fear rather than the heat. “They don't like my kind here. Not Masaai. Are you sure you want to do this, boss? Very dangerous.”
John dismissed him. “Give us ten minutes?”
“Be safe.”
In the open, the weather was cooler, her omen feeling stronger. She rejoined hands with him.
“I'm scared,” she said.
“I know.” John pried her off so he could open the bonnet. “It's just a drop-off. Like it always is. It'll be fine, okay?”
“This is different,” she wanted to say, but she obliged him, taking her share of the aid. As they left the cab further behind, she turned one last time, noting the driver's incessant gawking. Watching the shacks lining each side, she kept expecting heads to peek out. On the surface, the place appeared deserted. “Something isn't right.”
“I'm here with you.” John bumped her playfully, got an appeasing smile in return.
The civic hall was in view, the source of the smoke. Its walls were vandalised, the door off its hinges. The interior, they saw, was a charred ruin. It took them a minute, then, to figure out what those coal shapes were, what that smell was alluding to. Big shapes. Small shapes. Adults and children. Bodies.
Acid rose up her throat. John caught her as she half fainted, and dragged her off, back to the cab that was now hooting. Once more it blared, and John didn't understand. Then it was too late. Shadows coalesced on the ground, corresponding with urgent footsteps. They were being surrounded. Men, plainly dressed enough to appear harmless, were making cutthroat gestures around them, encircling like vultures. They stared on coldly, uncovered machetes stained with old blood, the tips of the blades gleaming.
John reasoned, stammered, “Dr Shepherd from London. Do you remember? United Nations?”
They spat in defiance. John felt behind him. Cammy was still there. Her hand, trembling, slippery, was hard for John to grasp. When he got it, he pulled, attempted to leave through the crowd by force. Only, they wouldn't let him. They pushed him back, struck him in the head twice, and he went to his stomach. His nose was shattered. But he could still smell the ensuing flames, hear Cammy's fighting screams that ceased after a few resonant smacks. As he struggled, he realized someone was standing on his back, keeping him floored. Soon a cloth of vinegar was crammed into his mouth. Fingers pinched his face, made him watch. Right next to him, there she was, her eyeliner streaming down her ears. The other men were disrobing her on the dirt, ripping off her undergarments, until she was bare all over. One man entered through her open legs and thrust as violently as he could; another undid his pants, slipped his penis in orally; and the others took turns, and it went on for eternity. When they were done, they drenched her with petrol. The sound of the crackling fires and her final squeals overencumbered his ears, until, somehow, he was able to fade off.
“Ten years is a long time. Do you feel that you can ever move on, as a human being?” said his psychologist.
“What's human, Doc? What is that fucking concept?” John got up from the couch, observed the back of his hands, the skin indentation where the ring used to be, the boils that never quite healed. “We live in a meaningless universe.”
“What does that mean to you?”
“Actions are meaningless.”
“So you can accept what's done has no bearing? Is that what you're saying?”
“I'm saying I'm thankful for my influence. Gets me places.” John grinned, and left.
He was slightly off-schedule, turning on the television midway through the BBC News broadcast.
“...hybrid flu breakout in Kenya,” the reporter continued. “Hundreds of thousands have been confirmed dead, and the country has been quarantined off...”
John sipped the rest of his wine, dancing his hands to The Blue Danube playing in the background.
- - -
Dirky Henkel is an unwanted child originally from Berlin, Germany, currently residing in Rehburger Moor. Follow her on Twitter @DirkyHenkel.
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Dirky Henkel
