The final charge, p.1
The Final Charge, page 1
Dawood Ali McCallum has been visiting Kenya since the early 1980s. He has also been leading justice and human rights projects across Africa for the past 20 years. He has worked in police stations, prisons, prosecutor’s offices and courtrooms in Botswana, Ethiopia, Ghana, Nigeria, Somalia and Zimbabwe. He is the author of three previous novels, The Lords of Alijah, Taz and The Peacock in the Chicken Run. He lives in the UK with his wife and two children.
www.dawoodalimccallum.com
Also by Dawood Ali McCallum
The Peacock in the Chicken Run
Taz
The Lords of Alijah
THE FINAL CHARGE
Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail
Dawood Ali McCallum
First published in Great Britain
and the USA in 2015
Sandstone Press Ltd
Dochcarty Road
Dingwall
Ross-shire
IV15 9UG
Scotland.
www.sandstonepress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored or transmitted in any form without the express
written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © Dawood Ali McCallum 2014
Editor: Moira Forsyth
The moral right of Dawood Ali McCallum to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.
The publisher acknowledges subsidy from Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.
ISBN: 978-1-908737-92-2
ISBNe: 978-1-908737-93-9
Cover design by Mark Swan
Ebook by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore
Dedicated to the memory of my Father,
‘Archie’ James McCallum
CONTENTS
Transcript of Trial
Glossary
PART I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
PART II
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
PART III
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
PART IV
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Acknowledgements
Transcript of Trial
Republic of Kenya vs Thomas James Miles
Day 8 (Extract)
Presented in Evidence by Prosecution: Twelve (12) copies of one (1) black and white photograph.
Mr Muya, prosecuting: Dr Miles, can you describe what is happening in this picture?
Ms Zain, defending: May it please the court, I must object most strongly to the introduction of new evidence in this way. Cross examination cannot be a licence to dispense with the rules of disclosure. The prosecution has rested its case. I urge that the court rule that this photograph is inadmissible.
Mr Muya, prosecuting: My Lord, I do sincerely apologise that this document was not the subject of previous disclosure, but it has only just become available. With the Court’s permission, we propose to enter it now among our exhibits.
Chief Justice, presiding: Proceed. Dr Miles?
Accused: The photograph . . . it shows the body of an African, the head is propped up . . .
Ms Zain, defending: Objection . . .
Mr Muya, prosecuting: My Lord, I should perhaps have said that this is an authenticated copy of a photograph which is among the Colonial Office papers held by the United Kingdom National Archives. Its authenticity has been certified however we will be happy to call the Director of the Kenya National Archives and Documentation Service to attest to its provenance. Please continue with your description, Dr Miles.
Accused: Beside the body kneels a British Officer. He has a Stirling sub-machine gun across his lap.
Mr Muya: As a doctor, can you describe the injuries of the dead man as they appear in the photograph?
Accused: From the photograph, I can say that the deceased has suffered severe head and facial injuries. The wounding is consistent with a gun shot. The stomach is considerably distended. This is consistent with internal bleeding, again, possibly as a result of gunshot injuries.
Mr Muya: From the photograph, can you identify the corpse?
Accused: No.
Mr Muya: Why not?
Accused: Because the head injuries are too severe.
My Muya: But you know whose body it is, don’t you Dr Miles?
Accused: It is the body of Wilson Mumbu Muya. General Jembe.
Mr Muya: And the British officer kneeling beside the corpse. Who is he, Dr Miles?
Accused: He is me.
Mr Muya: Can you see the hands of the deceased in the picture before you, Dr Miles?
Accused: No.
Mr Muya: Where are my father’s hands, Dr Miles? What happened to them?
Accused: They were removed. It was . . .
Mr Muya: What do you mean, ‘they were removed’? How were they removed?
Accused: They were cut off. It was standard . . .
Mr Muya: Where are my father’s hands at the time this photograph was taken, Dr Miles?
Accused: In the cardboard box on the ground beside me.
Mr Muya: Who cut my father’s hands off, Dr Miles?
Accused: I did.
GLOSSARY
Ki-Swahili English
askari police constable
boma village
debe tin / can
dukas shops
habariako! Greeting. Lit: What news?
hiaya come on
jembe hoe
karibu welcome
kipande identity card
kodi poll tax card
kwaheri goodbye
matatus taxi buses
mazungu/wazungu white man/white people
muhindi/wahindi Indian person/Indian people
mtoto child
nyama choma roast meat
panga machete
shamba farm
siafu stinging ant
TKK Acronym for Toa kitu kidogo.
Lit: Give me something small. Request
for a bribe or tip.
upesi hurry up
wananchi citizens
PART I
CHAPTER ONE
Five minutes earlier his biggest dilemma had been whether to attempt the crocodile steak.
It was the last evening of a fine holiday. Dinner at The Carnivore, feasting on exotic meats, prior to heading out to Jomo Kenyatta International and the charter flight back to Stansted was part of the package. They were on their second round of Tusker beer, when a rich preacher’s voice, Oxford diction in Swahili rhythm, slowly intoned:
“Under the Provisions of Section 34 of the Kenya Criminal Procedure Code, I arrest you, Thomas Miles, for murder, contrary to Section 204 of the Penal Code, in that you did, on the 30th day of April 1955, at South Kinangop, location unlawfully kill Wilson Mumbu Muya, alias General Jembe.”
The Nairobi restaurant exploded with flash photography and bellowed questions.
Tom Miles half rose, his mind and vision both out of focus. His face was reddened from two weeks fishing on the coast, his sparse white hair awry. The names echoed with the churning familiarity of an ancient nightmare: Jembe, South Kinangop. His eyes widened in horror and he froze. Guilty. The cameras caught it all. He couldn’t have been more different from the erect, heroic figure who now placed a manicured hand on his shoulder.
Stony faced men in dark suits dragged Tom Miles out of the restaurant, shouldering their way through the cross-tide of reporters like fishing dhows in a brisk wind. Out to the car park, where a pair of gleaming E Class Mercedes saloons awaited, their engines running. They drove slowly down the Langata Road with six carloads of newsmen in their wake. Past Wilson Airfield into the city, heading for the Central Police Station. They took their time, easing over in response to flashing headlights to allow camera crews to speed past them so they could be in position to capture their arrival.
Tom Miles’ confused and frightened fellow diners left behind a
Should one eat a crocodile, they recalled him asking, when a crocodile could eat you?
The Charge was in its thirty-first year. Leo ‘Coke’ Kane loved it, because it was a test not of strength, stamina and fair play, macho attributes he had always despised, but of intelligence, enterprise and sheer devious cunning. A fiercely fought competition with no rules.
The fact that it raised money for a good cause was for Leo Kane completely incidental.
Leo Kane was tall yet looked, as he had ever since a bout of childhood pneumonia had nearly killed him, somewhat gaunt and undernourished. Thin rather than slender; weedy more than wiry; weather-beaten, not tanned. Women, even those many years his junior, felt a need to mother him, to cook him meals and worry about how much he drank. From this, he did nothing to discourage them.
Leo and his two sons had driven in the last six Charges. They had never won, or ever even been among the first four who qualified for trophies and car badges. Only twice had they completed the course, having on all other occasions ended up hopelessly lost. But they had loved every minute of it, as did all the other lawyers and their kin who took part. For men who made their living poring over volumes of rules, deducing principles, distilling precedents and delighting in interminable debates about definitions, interpretations, due process and pre-trial protocols, the Charge was a joyous, anarchic release. They said there were no rules, but there was one, pithily summarised by Nick Friedlander when accused of tampering with a fellow charger’s ignition system three years earlier: You can cheat. You just can’t bleat.
This year, Leo had assured his boys, victory would be theirs. He had told them that in every previous year too, but this year he really believed it. Why? Because he had a secret weapon up his sleeve – although he would never admit it to anyone, he had been practising. Every weekend. To win the Charge was suddenly very important to him. It was one of his resolutions.
Three years earlier, on his fortieth birthday, Leo had made a whole raft of such resolutions: all could be summarised under one heading – to hit middle-age head-on. He had traded in his sensible family car, the sole material possession the bruising divorce settlement had left to him, for a glitzy little 4x4. He had surrendered the lease on his apartment, forsaken his office in Nairobi, and moved back to the coast. He had even begun smoking again – something he had kicked in his late twenties.
He had decided to win the Charge – the final Charge.
For there was no doubt about it: this was going to be the final Charge. The authorities had made that abundantly clear. It smacked too much of a rich, white boys’ game. It was also dangerous: not so much to the competitors as to those across whose path their bouncing vehicles careered.
Over the years, there had been numerous claims for crops damaged and cattle stampeded into barbed wire fences. All had been more or less amicably settled out of court.
Then, two years earlier, four youths had been flung from the back of a pick-up which had swerved to avoid the lead car.
Not that it was the competitor’s fault; the pick-up had no headlights, and its driver was as high as a kite on miraa. But the competitor, an old hand sensing victory for the first time, and slightly nervous of mob vengeance, had kept going, relying on the softer consciences of those behind him to deal with any injuries.
Unfortunately, the pick-up was full of PNU Youth Wingers – the ruling party’s young bloods – returning from a rally. The government had wanted to put a stop to the Charge there and then. For good and forever. The organisers pointed out that they had a contract with the Department of Wildlife which allowed them to race across National Park land and which still had two years to run. Even a government as authoritarian as the Kenyan regime was wary of breaching a contract with forty-two lawyers.
So, for its last two years, the Charge was restricted to National Park land, and notice was given that the agreement would not be renewed. A decades-old tradition was coming to an end, and Leo was determined that, in their dotage, his boys would be able to recall, if not a victory, at least a place in the first four, in this, the final Charge.
Leo glanced at his watch: Paul should have been here by now. He sat, waiting for his long-time friend and first-time navigator, with a dozen other men in the coffee shop of the plush Serena Hotel. Six months earlier, Paul Muya had agreed to make up the fourth for Leo’s team in the Charge, but in the last few weeks they had seen little of one another. Paul was plenty busy, God knew: his parliamentary responsibilities and preaching took up enough time, let alone his legal practice, which seemed to consist these days solely of high profile court appearances. But that’s why they called him the Total Man.
The nickname had first attached itself to Paul Muya several years earlier. It fitted and it stuck. An eloquent attorney. A Member of Parliament, a star of New Wave Kenya, a significant faction of a fragmented opposition. A lay preacher. An eloquent orator. A family man, heir of a martyred hero. A man of God. A man of the people. A man for his time.
The Total Man.
The absent Total Man, reflected Leo. It was not like Paul to let anyone down when he’d said he’d be there. Where the hell could he be?
The coffee shop was almost deserted. A couple of tables away, a European, an old man with thick grey hair, sat with a small girl. His grandchild, Leo guessed. Both devoured ice cream in distant silence. Out beyond the air conditioning, their voices muffled and indistinct, a party of young Asians chattered boisterously over Cokes at two tables pushed together amid the floodlit bougainvillaea beside the still pool.
At Leo’s table, Nick Friedlander was, not for the first time, explaining how he could have, and bloody well should have, won last year. His protestations were greeted with a groan.
Leo’s party were all European but for three Asians and two Africans. Not surprising, really. The whole mad idea of the Charge was typically White Kenyan – a hark back to the days of the White Highlands, Happy Valley and the settler mentality. The sort of bloody-minded, dangerous game that would appeal to a community renowned for its cross-grained, cantankerous individualism and gloriously self-obsessed pursuit of personal liberty. And for all that he decried it, Leo Kane was a child of that tradition.
If Paul didn’t turn up soon, Leo realised, he would have to strike his name and enter a vacancy as fourth team member.
“I suggest we get started,” he said, with a final glance at his watch. “If Paul joins us, that’s fine. If not. . . .”
Nick Friedlander, a third generation white Kenyan, winked at one of the Asians before asking, “Don’t you know where he is, Cokey? You surprise me. He told me he was hunting game tonight.”
“Going after a big one, so he said,” added Harvinder Singh, loyally. Leo could never understand the structure of their relationship; what made Harvinder so willing to play Friedlander’s fag? Everyone knew Friedlander owed him a lot of favours and was reputed to be into him for a surprising amount of money too.
Leo sighed. “There’s nothing I enjoy so much as a double act. Do you write all your own material?”
Friedlander chuckled, and nodded to the waiter, drawing a circle in the air with his index finger to call for another round of drinks. “He said we should catch habari – the news on KTN – if we want to see what he bags.”
Leo checked his watch again. “It’s ten to now. Can we get a TV in here?”
Tom Miles’ arrest made the headlines. There were good quality images, although the sound was poor. There was Leo’s friend Paul Muya, looking noble, confident and assured. And the ageing Englishman, confused, dishevelled and scared.
