A MAN AND HIS PRICE

A short story from Kenya

Reverend Amos Njenga sat at his desk beside
the window, deep in thought.
Outside, darkness had fallen, but he could still
see as the moon was full in the sky, and the
stars were shining like the headlights of so
many cars stuck in a celestial traffic jam. The
moon’s strong light filled his heart with
gladness, and the myriad twinkling stars that
still shone through the darkness inspired him
with hope. For darkness had fallen thick on
the land, and he wondered if the few shining
lights in its midst were enough to drive it
away.
Corruption, like a virus, had infested the body
politic and the Government was rotten through
and through. The Treasury had become the
Ministers’ personal bank account, financing
their flashy Ferraris and paying for illicit
‘diplomatic delegations’ to Paris and Milan.
Rich men committed murder in broad daylight
without a care, as they knew they had the
Judiciary in their back pockets. Right next to
their wallets.
Organized crime was rampant – gangs battled
for control of the streets, exchanging fire in
broad daylight. The police force was
understaffed, poorly equipped, and underpaid.
Crime lords didn’t even bother bribing them
any more – they just ignored them. They
organized themselves into triads and mafias
and syndicates, dividing up the country among
themselves and waging turf wars of almost
civil-war proportions.
Everywhere the citizens were crying out in
anguish; vigilante groups sprang up daily,
only to become one more cog in the
juggernaut of anarchy and lawlessness in the
country. Leaders were either a part of it, or
bullied and intimidated into submission…or
assassinated for their resistance. They had all
fallen, one by one bowed before the Ba’al of
power and wealth that the whole country
worshipped, or been thrown into the furnace
for their refusal. All had been incinerated. All
but one.
Reverend Amos Njenga had risen up, the last
knight in the crusade against the vices, the
virus that had infected every pore if the
country. He stood on a platform of political
reform and religious revolution-he urged
citizens of all faiths to stand for their beliefs
and call for an end to the chaos.
At first he had been ignored, the same way a
horse ignores a mosquito buzzing around its
ears, or perhaps warns it off with a lazy flick
of its tail; but his movement had picked up
steam, and now was the main threat to those
keen on maintaining the status quo in the
country. He was popular among the middle-
class, educated professionals who were
disgusted with the state of affairs in the
country, who were tired of paying bribes to
obtain even the most basic of services…and
also among the low income earners whose
backs were breaking under impossible taxes
and were forced to pay exorbitant protection
fees, and who lived under constant fear…
Secret contributions from like-minded
individuals had enabled him to set up a pirate
T.V station whose location had bamboozled
the authorities. It broadcast his stirring
speeches twice a day across the country, and
the viewing of ‘Truth T.V’ became a felony
throughout the land.
Numerous assassination attempts had been
made upon him; once his vehicle had been
rigged with a bomb, and had gone off one
morning as his driver was warming up the
engine. Another time a bullet had grazed his
temple as he gave a speech at a university.
He had stooped to read from his notes just as
the shooter fired – if he’d stayed still just a
millisecond later his head would have had a
hole blown through it. The shooter had
inexplicably escaped police custody. It seemed
as though providence itself was protecting
him, but he was not about to test how far this
protection extended. Now his very location
was kept secret by his small but dedicated
security detail. He soldiered on, unblinking in
the face of insurmountable odds. He remained
a constant thorn in the side of the country’s
power brokers, like Hannibal, who threatened
the power of mighty Rome. He was just
waiting for his Cannae.
The General Election had come around again,
and Reverend Njenga had called for a boycott
of the polling stations, denouncing both
presidential candidates as puppets of the drug
lords and crime barons. Finally his supporters
had pressured him into throwing his own hat
into the ring. He didn’t campaign publicly, but
used ‘Truth T.V’ as his platform after the
police had ‘failed’ to contain a riot at one of
his rallies which had almost seen him killed.
Deep down, however, he knew there was
absolutely no way he could win. There had to
be another way to restore sanity to the land…
that was why he had agreed to this secret
meeting with one of the candidates, Glen
Muia.
Muia was young, smart and eloquent. He
came from a political dynasty that had seen
his father and grandfather all high-ranking
members of successive governments. Now he
was going for the big seat. Of course, he was
no saint-he was suspected of having been
behind the ‘disappearance’ of a rival for his
constituency seat – but the other candidate
was a twelve-year veteran of a corrupt
Parliament, with links to all the major crime
basses in the country. Njenga was stuck
between the devil and the deep blue sea¬ – he
just chose the lesser of two evils. Muia had
contacted him, proposing the meeting where
they would discuss their different standpoints
and, possibly, come to an understanding…
Njenga had gone through every possible
scenario in his mind – perhaps Muia would
attempt to bribe him, to threaten him, or to
pretend that they were on the same side…
whatever the case, he was ready.
A knock came on his door. It opened a
fraction, showing the wrinkled, worried face of
his assistant, Thatia.
“They’re here,” he said.
Njenga nodded. The door closed, and he sat
down heavily, his face in his hands, and said a
silent prayer.
From the corridor outside his office he could
hear his own tiny security detail remonstrating
loudly with Muia’s huge entourage, Thatia’s
voice prominent among the ones calling for
the politician to see Njenga alone. A mild
scuffle ensued, and Njenga sprung up and
wrenched the door open.
“What’s going on here?” he asked.
Muia’s bodyguards were attempting to force
their way through, but Thatia and the rest if
his detail stood their ground.
“A one-on-one meeting, that’s what we
agreed to,” he said calmly. “if not, tell your
boss that the deal is off.”
Muia’s bodyguards looked at each other,
unsure of what to do next. Then came, from
down the hall, the calm, pleasant voice of their
master.
“Boys, boys, it’s OK. I shall be quite safe. He
is a man of God.”
The huge, beefy guards relaxed at this, and
with a few final menacing snarls backed away.
Njenga went back into his office, and a minute
later Muia’s smiling face appeared in the
door, flanked by Thatia’s concerned one.
“Be careful,” he mouthed, as he closed the
door.
“Forgive my boys,” Muia said pleasantly in the
disarming, affable voice of a Cicero. “They’re a
bit overzealous in their job, but they’re as
good as gold.”
“I understand.” Njenga replied calmly, on the
alert. “Thank you for coming, and please have
a seat.”
Muia took the indicated seat, setting the big,
black suitcase he carried on the ground. He
waited until Njenga took his seat across him,
watching his every move like a veteran poker
player scrutinizing his opponent for the
slightest tic, the tiniest twitch – the tell that
would reveal just how strong his hand really
was.
“I will come straight to the point, Reverend
Njenga,” Muia said briskly. He put his elbows
on the desk and touched his fingertips
together.
“I believe that we can come to an
understanding.”
Njenga just sat, fingers intertwined supporting
his chin, listening to Muia’s every word.
“I believe,” Muia continued, “that you and I
can find a common ground. I believe that we
have a similar vision for this country.”
A shadow came over Njenga’s face – a frown
of agitation, of irritation. Muia’s sharp eyes
did not miss it, although it had passed in a
second.
“You disagree?” he asked. “Just hear me out,
and, I assure you, by the end of our meeting
you will think so too.”
Njenga smiled, and motioned for Muia to
continue.
Suddenly Muia jumped to his feet. The sudden
movement startled Njenga; reflexively his hand
moved towards the second drawer where he
kept a loaded pistol – but Muia was doing no
more than pacing around the room, hands
gesticulating, speaking passionately –
seemingly, to himself ¬– like a character’s
soliloquy in a play.
“Our country is drowning, Reverend; we don’t
need the U.N or the international community
to tell us that. Drowning in a sea of
corruption, of anarchy, of violence….drowning,
Reverend, in a sea of blood…and whose blood
than our brothers’, our sisters’, our cousins’,
our own?
“Our people are crying out…our people are
groaning ¬– from their mouths and their
stomachs – they are crying out for a saviour…
I will answer that cry.
“We must do something! We cannot just sit
back and watch our country burn! We cannot
let our people die- everyday they are dying in
their hundreds; from violence, from disease,
from hunger…this must end.”
He sat back down, the fire still in his eyes, his
nostrils flared, his breathing deep and quick.
“On this one point we are of the same mind,”
he continued; “this must end. And we will end
it, you and I.”
He sat up straight and looked deep and
earnestly into Njenga’s eyes. Njenga was at
once impressed, moved, and highly
suspicious.
“There’s only one way we can do it –
together.” His voice was barely above a
whisper now, and Njenga was hanging on
every word. Muia cleared his throat and said,
in a clear, confident and strong tone –
“You will support my candidature in the
Election. You will endorse me to be the next
President of the Republic of Kenya.”
The words hung in the air like invisible
marionettes, dancing and darting around the
room. It was completely quiet in the room,
except for Muia’s deep, rhythmical – almost
bestial – breathing; and the pounding of
Njenga’s own heart steadily filling his ears.
They sat and stared at each other.
Njenga’s ears were ringing. Over and over the
words echoed in his head like the
reverberations of a shout in a cavern –
“You will support my candidature…”
“You will endorse me…”
The words were said with such conviction,
such authority, as if they were an edict from
Heaven itself, and disobedience was
impossible, inconceivable…
Njenga shook his head, trying to clear his
mind. He chose his words carefully.
“That was a stirring little speech,” he said.
“One you have obviously practiced in front of a
mirror many times; I must hand it to you, the
execution was flawless – perfectly chosen
words, the confidence of a champion, just
enough entreaty, and the eloquence of Cicero.
Forceful delivery and spellbindingly done
too…”
He leaned forward and looked Muia dead in
the eye.
“…and, at the end of the day, a bunch of empty
promises and useless rhetoric. I am not a fool,
Muia, to be swayed by a demagogue. That
was a hundred per cent, unadulterated
rubbish!”
Muia had started to smile when Njenga had
begun speaking, but now the smile slithered
off his face like slime.
“Everything you pointed out was a reality.
People are dying. People are hungry. People
are sick. This must end. We agree on those
points. But what I want to hear from the
enlightened saviour of the people is how he is
going to change all this.”
Njenga folded his arms across his chest,
enjoying the shell-shocked expression and
supreme annoyance of his quarry. Muia soon
recovered though, and replaced these with his
usual, confident smirk.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you? Perhaps
you think you can win the election?” he
laughed. “Well, let me disabuse you of that
fanciful notion. Your chances are those of a
snowball in hell!
“You are not a politician. What do you know
about such things? You should stick to your
sermons and prayers – this is the real world.”
“A world where politicians say whatever the
people want to hear in order to get into
office!” Njenga spat, disgusted.
Muia laughed once more. “Does it matter?
Talk is cheap. No, that’s a lie. That’s why I
pay a speech coach two million a month to
teach me how to do it. Let’s cut the crap,
Reverend, I want your support. It will look
good – to the citizens and the international
community. I want the credibility your support
will give me. You know this. Now the question
is, what do you want?”
“I want,” Njenga said, his voice rising as he
lost patience with this cocky, smiling
politician. “All the things you talked about! An
end to hunger! Disease! Corruption! Injustice!”
“Under my government,” Muia replied calmly.
“Healthcare, food distribution, infrastructure
and law enforcement will all undergo
wholesale reforms. All these needs will be
met.”
Njenga shook his head in disbelief.
“I want an end to corruption and crime!” he
said.
“All corrupt officials will be dealt with to the
full extent of the law.” Muia replied in the
same calm, assuring voice. “The police will be
deployed to protect our citizens. Better
equipment, better pay. Trust me; I want
nothing more than this. The people are
suffering, and they are my people too, you
know!”
“What do you know about the people’s
suffering?!” Njenga replied hotly. “What do you
know about the woman who has to work four
different jobs to feed her family as her
husband was shot dead for standing up to the
local crime boss?
“What do you know of the pain of a single
mother who watches her daughter get hooked
on drugs, drop out of school and forced to join
a prostitution ring?
“What do you know of the anguish of the
family that watches their brother, their son,
evolve from the sweet, caring young man they
once knew and loved, into a hardened,
bloodthirsty criminal that they now tremble
before? Eh? What do you know??!!”
Muia remained silent.
“I want all crime barons, and government
officials guilty of corruption, imprisoned and
stripped of their assets! And the resources
redeployed into nation building!” Njenga was
standing up now, livid, shouting, disbelieving
as the man sat there coolly and tried to force-
feed him these lies.
“They shall be pursued to the full extent of the
law,” Muia repeated, without batting an eyelid.
That was the final straw.
“Really?” Njenga was bellowing at the top of
his voice now, laughing like a madman.
“Really? Hahaha! Wallace Kabogo; drug baron
and racketeer, principal funder of the Muia
campaign? Festus Muia; Minister for
Agriculture – who has embezzled billions,
while the people starve; your uncle? Marshall
Muia; former Minister for Finance, your
father?! And countless others?”
Muia just sat, looking at Njenga, even a bit
bemusedly, completely unfazed. Looking
Njenga straight in the eye –
“People must eat. But even so, they eat, and
get full. And they realize the granary only
holds so much grain.”
Muia almost struck him. It took all of his self-
control to force his hands to his sides; it took
all his concentration to keep from calling
Muia all the names that were running through
his mind. Somehow he managed it. Finally, he
sat and dovetailed his fingers, and fought to
control his voice.
“I see.” He said. “Unfortunately, I have come
to the conclusion that our ideologies are
incompatible, and the proposed partnership
cannot, in good conscience, proceed. Thank
you for coming. I have nothing more to say.”
Muia didn’t budge.
“I will advise you to rethink that.” He said
quietly.
“My mind is made up. Don’t bother making
threats, promising bribes, or anything of the
kind. I am determined, and I can’t be bought.
We are finished.”
“Every man has his price, Reverend.” Muia
said dryly.
Njenga chuckled.
“I’m afraid you can’t afford mine.” He said.
Muia sighed, shook his head, and studied the
Reverend disdainfully, smirking and scoffing in
that infuriating way of his. He examined the
Reverend’s bald, grizzled head with its short,
spiny strands of grey; he sneered at his
furrowed, wrinkled forehead, and scorned his
fiery, passionate eyes…
“The Reverend!” he mocked. “The last beacon
of hope in a dark, lawless land! The Final
Crusader for truth through the shadow of
death, and the gloom of deception…” he
laughed mockingly, pouting contemptuously at
him.
Muia’s jibes had no effect on the Reverend. He
smiled and got up, as if to show his smiling
guest that he had long overstayed his
welcome.
“We are not yet quite done, reverend.” Muia
said.
“I have nothing more to say. We have no
further business to conduct.”
“Ah, but we do, one minor trifle, shouldn’t take
more than a minute. Please, sit down.”
Njenga did so, his patience wearing thin and
his fuse shortening by the minute.
“I love a good story, do you?” Muia asked
affably, sitting back in his chair.
“Really, I have said I have no time for ¬–”
“No, no, this story is very interesting, and is of
paramount importance to our business
tonight. Allow me to begin.
“There was once a young man who was very
good in school. He also had a deep love for
all things spiritual, and determined to pursue
a career in Theology. I imagine you can
identify with such a young man.”
Njenga sat, exasperated, and did not answer.
“Well, I’m sure you can. Now, this young man
works hard in school, attains top marks, and
wins a scholarship to study in the United
States! Bravo! He is to be congratulated, isn’t
he?”
Muia chuckled to himself and continued;
“Well, four weary years of toil and study pass,
and our hero graduates with top honors.
Valedictorian. Summa c-m laude. Honors and
laurels galore. Well, surely this young man
must go out and celebrate!”
Njenga’s features hardened.
“Influenced, no doubt, by his friends, the
magnitude of the occasion and the almost
monastic nature of the previous four years, he
goes out to celebrate. Alcohol, a little
marijuana, and lots of girls; good times, eh?
For only one night, he promises himself, he’d
indulge in the Dionysian pleasures he’d spent
the past four years writing theses and papers
against.”
He chuckled once more, this time at the
dismayed and disbelieving expression on the
Reverend’s face.
“Well, personally, I don’t blame him. I mean,
who better to warn you about the pit ahead
than he who has fallen into it before you? And,
after all, it was only that once. Our young hero
gets into several er, highly compromising
situations. But no worry – the next morning
all is repented and forgiven; just another dirty
little secret to be locked away in the recesses
of his b---m, to be interred with him in his
grave. He gives the valedictory. He comes
back to our dear country.
“But it’s not the same Kenya he left; no, it’s
changed. Corruption, greed and anarchy
everywhere! Vice trumps virtue at every turn!
He sets his mind to fight valiantly against all
this evil; from the pulpit, from newspaper
articles, from every medium he can…speaking
against rampant debauchery, corruption, sin.
Perhaps trying to atone for that one night.”
He reached down and put the briefcase on the
desk, and with a click of the case’s locks Rev.
Njenga’s heart broke.
“Sound familiar, Reverend? For it is no one’s
story but your own. How mistakes from our
past return to haunt us!”
Muia pulled out stacks of what proved to be
dozens of glossy, blown-up photographs, and
Njenga hid his face; he couldn’t bear to look
at them.
“Word of advice – if you’re going to go all out
‘just this once’, for God’s sake do it out of
range of the cameras… and why’d you let your
friend take pictures anyway? Wanted a
memento of the guilty pleasures you gave up?
Oh–”
He took one of the pictures and squinted at it,
frowning.
“You don’t seem quite yourself, no, you look
positively…inebriated! I hope that’s a cigarette
you’re holding…but I don’t think it is…have to
hand it to you though, you have fine taste in
women, she is positively stunning…”
Almost against his will, Njenga found himself
staring at them, unable to look away. Muia
obligingly flipped through them for him to see,
like a sick, twisted slide show – a panorama
of the biggest mistake of his life; haunting
him, following him over an ocean, half a
continent and twenty-five years…picture after
picture, each more sordid than the last…
Njenga saw all of them, Muia lingering over
the more graphic ones, savouring the horror
and disgust on his face. He sat back with a
sigh of satisfaction, and the smirk was back in
place, looking like a man contemplating a job
well done.
“Seen enough?”
Njenga was speechless, horrified beyond words
and totally disoriented.
“Now, you have built your reputation on a
platform of godliness and purity, virtue and
right. And, I’m sure, most if your life you’ve
lived up to these values. Just one night and a
camera should not undo the years of
exemplary living and selfless service. You are
a role model and a father figure to the nation
as a whole. The people need you, now more
than ever. These pictures will destroy the faith
they have in you –”
“No!” Reverend Njenga cut in abruptly, wide-
eyed and stammering. Muia thought, with
glee, that he looked rather like a drowning
man clutching at straws… “That…was…a long
time ago…my character has always been…
unimpeachable!”
“Yes,” Muia assented, “that will make your fall
from grace all the more…ungracious.
Reputation is a fragile thing, Reverend…it
must remain always intact…it does not require
a break to render it useless; it only takes a
crack.”
“No! No! No!” Njenga’s voice was breaking
now; though defiance still burned in his eyes –
his eyes were shining now, and burned more
fiercely than ever, although now they were
fuelled by sorrow, disbelief, and horror…
“That – was – a – long time ago,” now he
was pleading, looking for some sympathy,
some understanding from Muia’s smirking
face – but almost as if drawn to them by a
magnet, his eyes kept falling to the dozens of
pictures spread across his desk; the topmost
one caught him, and his eyes were riveted to it
momentarily –
In it, he was sprawled across the lap of a
woman whose face was cut off by the
photograph, a lazy, bestial grin plastered on
his face, his eyes screwed up in ecstasy, the
whites showing, and only the slightest hint of
a pupil below his drooping eyelids. He was
clutching a hand-rolled cigarette, the smoke
frozen forever in the moment like a sinuous
column of blue-grey winding upwards into
infinity…he stared into the face barely
recognizable as his own, and right there and
then, his heart broke, and the tears flowed
freely down his cheeks.
“I was young,” he sobbed. “I was foolish! I
didn’t understand–”
“I know, I know,” Muia crooned, as if pacifying
a child who’d just stubbed his toe. “I know,
that’s why they’ll never be seen by anyone but
you and I. No-one else would understand. You
know how people are…always ready to pounce
on their leaders’ slightest mistake,
notwithstanding their own…we are human too.
And human is to err.
This will remain between us. No-one need
know.”
“God will protect me. He will never – never
allow His servant–”
“That’s why He put these pictures in my
hands. To remind you of your past
transgressions, and to give you a chance to
atone for them. To give you a chance to do
right by your country.”
Njenga was crying now, the sobs racking his
old, bony frame, the tears flowing down like
twin rivers of hot, salty anguish…
“Tell me – t – t – tell me what you want…”he
sobbed. “anything…anything…just please,
don’t…please don’t…”
Muia sprang around the desk to comfort him,
like a leopard leaping on its prey. “Shhh, don’t
worry. I promise, I won’t tell a soul…this is all
you need to do–”
He stood up suddenly, and Njenga looked up
in surprise. The tall, smiling, victorious
politician over the broken, crying, subdued old
man, looking up at him like a child to its
teacher.
“You will support my candidature in the
Election. You will endorse me to be the next
President of the Republic of Kenya.”
He said it so confidently, with such conviction,
with such authority, as if it was an edict from
Heaven itself, and disobedience was
impossible, inconceivable…
Reverend Njenga couldn’t help observing this
as he stared up at Glen Muia’s beaming face,
the tears still streaming down his face.
* * * *
Twenty minutes later, Glen Muia was in his
black Mercedes Kompressor, heading towards
his Runda home. He thought back at the
meeting, and smiled in satisfaction. He had
destroyed his opponent, dismantled his
defenses piece by piece and finally cornered
and checkmated him…masterfully done. He
always had known when to go for the jugular.
The image of the fiery old man, broken and
pleading brought a smile to his face. It made
his triumph all the more satisfying.
“I take it, Boss, that you were successful?” his
Head of Security, sitting across from him,
asked.
“Oh yes, invariably.” He replied, chuckling. “Oh
yes. You see, Omondi, in the end, every man
has his price, even the most resolute…the
secret lies in finding it out, and matching it…”
Outside the car it was pitch dark and it had
begun to rain, so hard that the driver could
hardly see, despite the car’s strong
headlamps. He wondered why visibility was so
low all of a sudden. He figured the rainclouds
must’ve shut out the moonlight.
He was right. Somewhere in the sky, a light
had gone out.

The End