“Work?” the shopkeepers said. “We can’t even sell enough to keep ourselves, let alone some up-country refugee.”
I went to the wholesalers on Kimathi Street and the City Market and the stall traders and I got the same answer from each of them: no economy, no market, no work. I tried the street hawkers, selling liquidated stock from tarpaulins on the pavement, but their bad mouths and lewdness sickened me. I walked the five kilometers along Uhuru Highway to the UN East Africa Headquarters on Chiromo Road. The soldier on the gate would not even look at me. Cars and hummers he could see. His own people, he could not.
After an hour I went away.
I took a wrong turn on the way back and ended up in a district I did not know, of dirty-looking two-story buildings that once held shops, now burned out or shuttered with heavy steel. Cables dipped across the street, loop upon loop upon loop, sagging and heavy. I could hear voices but see no one around. The voices came from an alley behind a row of shops. An entire district was crammed into this alley. Not even in St. John’s camp have I seen so many people in one place. The alley was solid with bodies, jammed together, moving like one thing, like a rain cloud. The noise was incredible. At the end of the alley I glimpsed a big black foreign car, very shiny, and a man standing on the roof. He was surrounded by reaching hands, as if they were worshipping him.
“What’s going on?” I shouted to whoever would hear. The crowd surged. I stood firm.
“Hiring,” a shaved-headed boy as thin as famine shouted back. He saw I was puzzled. “Watekni. Day jobs in data processing. The UN treats us like shit in our own country, but we’re good enough to do their tax returns.”
“Good money?”
“Money.” The crowd surged again, and made me part of it. A new car arrived behind me. The crowd turned like a flock of birds on the wing and pushed me toward the open doors. Big men with dark glasses got out and made a space around the watekni broker. He was a small Luhya in a long white jellaba and the uniform shades. He had a mean mouth. He fanned a fistful of paper slips. My hand went out by instinct and I found a slip in it. A single word was printed on it: Nimepata.
“Password of the day,” my thin friend said. “Gets you into the system.”
“Over there, over there,” one of the big men said, pointing to an old bus at the end of the alley. I ran to the bus. I could feel a hundred people on my heels. There was another big man at the bus door.
“What’re your languages?” the big man demanded.
“English and a bit of French,” I told him.
“You waste my fucking time, kid,” the man shouted. He tore the password slip from my hand, pushed me so hard, with two hands, I fell. I saw feet, crushing feet, and I rolled underneath the bus and out the other side. I did not stop running until I was out of the district of the watekni and into streets with people on them. I did not see if the famine-boy got a slip. I hope he did.
Singers wanted, said the sign by the flight of street stairs to an upper floor. So, my skills had no value in the information technology market. There were other markets. I climbed the stairs. They led to a room so dark I could not at first make out its dimensions. It smelled of beer, cigarettes and poppers. I sensed a number of men.
“Your sign says you want singers,” I called into the dark.
“Come in then.” The man’s voice was low and dark, smoky, like an old hut. I ventured in. As my eyes grew used to the dark, I saw tables, chairs upturned on them, a bar, a raised stage area. I saw a number of dark figures at a table, and the glow of cigarettes.
“Let’s have you.”
“Where?”
“There.”
I got up on the stage. A light stabbed out and blinded me.
“Take your top off.”
I hesitated, then unbuttoned my blouse. I slipped it off, stood with my arms loosely folded over my breasts. I could not see the men, but I felt the shanty-eyes.
“You stand like a Christian child,” smoky voice said. “Let’s see the goods.”
I unfolded my arms. I stood in the silver light for what seemed like hours.
“Don’t you want to hear me sing?”
“Girl, you could sing like an angel, but if you don’t have the architecture…”
I picked up my blouse and rebuttoned it. It was much more shaming putting it on than taking it off. I climbed down off the stage. The men began to talk and laugh. As I reached the door, the dark voice called me.
“Can you do a message?”
“What do you want?”
“Run this down the street for me right quick.”
I saw fingers hold up a small glass vial. It glittered in the light from the open door.
“Down the street.”
“To the American Embassy.”
“I can find that.”
“That’s good. You give it to a man.”
“What man?”
“You tell the guard on the gate. He’ll know.”
“How will he know me?”
“Say you’re from Brother Dust.”
“And how much will Brother Dust pay me?”
The men laughed.
“Enough.”
“In my hand?”
“Only way to do business.”
“We have a deal.”
“Good girl. Hey.”
“What?”
“Don’t you want to know what it is?”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“They’re fullerenes. They’re from the Chaga. Do you understand that? They are alien spores. The Americans want them. They can use them to build things, from nothing up. Do you understand any of this?”
“A little.”
“So be it. One last thing.”
“What?”
“You don’t carry it in your hand. You don’t carry it anywhere on you. You get my meaning?”
“I think I do.”
“There are changing rooms for the girls back of the stage. You can use one of them.”
“Okay. Can I ask a question?”
“You can ask anything you like.”
“These…fullerenes. These Chaga things…What if they; go off, inside?”
“You trust the stories that they never touch human flesh. Here. You may need this.” An object flipped through the air toward me. I caught it…a tube of KY jelly. “A little lubrication.”
I had one more question before I went backstage area.
“Can I ask, why me?”
“For a Christian child, you’ve a decent amount of dark,” the voice said. “So, you’ve a name?”
“Tendeleo.”
Ten minutes later I was walking across town, past all the UN checkpoints and security points, with a vial of Chaga fullerenes slid into my vagina. I walked up to the gate of the American Embassy. There were two guards with white helmets and white gaiters. I picked the big black one with the very good teeth.
“I’m from Brother Dust,” I said.
“One moment please,” the marine said. He made a call on his PDU. One minute later the gates swung open and a small white man with sticking-up hair came out.
“Come with me,” he said, and took me to the guard unit toilets, where I extracted the consignment. In
