floor, stepping to the soukous beat. Zeituni grabbed my hand, and Roy took Auma’s, and Amy took Bernard’s, and
soon we were all dancing into a sweat, arms and hips and rumps swaying softly; tall, ink-black Luos and short, brown
Kikuyus, Kamba and Meru and Kalenjin, everyone smiling and shouting and having a ball. Roy threw his arms over his
head to do a slow, funky turn around Auma, who was laughing at her brother’s silliness, and right then I saw in my
brother’s face the same look I had seen years ago in Toot and Gramps’s apartment back in Hawaii, when the Old Man
had first taught me how to dance-that same look of unquestioned freedom.
After three or four numbers, Roy and I both relinquished our partners and carried our beers into the open courtyard
out back. The cool air tickled my nose, and I felt a bit tipsy.
“It’s good to be here,” I said.
“You know it. Like a poet.” Roy laughed, sipping his beer.
“No, really, I mean it. It’s just good to be here, with you and Auma and everyone. It’s as if we-”
Before I could finish, we heard a bottle crash to the floor behind us. I spun around to see two men at the far side of the
courtyard pushing another, smaller, man down onto the ground. With one hand, the man on the ground appeared to be
covering a cut on his head; with his free arm he was trying to shield himself from the swings of a billy club. I took a
step forward, but Roy pulled me back.
“Mind your own business, brother,” he whispered.
“But-”
“They may be police. I tell you, Barack, you don’t know what it’s like to spend a night in a Nairobi jail.”
By now, the man on the ground had curled up into a tight ball, trying to protect himself from the haphazard blows.
Then, like a trapped animal who senses an opening, the man suddenly jumped to his feet and climbed onto one of the
tables to scramble over the wooden fence. His assailants looked as if they were going to give chase but apparently
decided that it wasn’t worth it. One of them noticed Roy and me but said nothing, and together the two of them
sauntered back inside. I suddenly felt very sober.
“That was terrible,” I said.
“Yah, well...you don’t know what the other guy did first.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “When were you in jail anyway?”
Roy took another swig of beer and fell into one of the metal chairs. “The night David died.”
I sat down beside him and he told me the story. They had gone out to drink, he said, in search of a party. They had
taken Roy’s motorcycle to a nearby club, and there Roy had met a woman. He had taken a fancy to her, and they started
talking. He had bought her a beer, but before long another man had come up and started getting in Roy’s face. The man
said he was the woman’s husband and grabbed her by the arm. The woman struggled and fell, and Roy told the man to
leave her alone. A fight broke out. The police came, and Roy didn’t have his identification papers, so they took him
down to the station. He was thrown in a cell and left there for several hours, until David finally managed to get in to see
him.
Give me the keys to the motorcycle, David had said, and I can get you the papers you need.
No. Just go home.
You can’t stay here all night, brother. Give me the keys....
barré
(Barré)
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