playing with herself, shutting her eyes and moaning. The heat between Kimathi’s legs was hammering harder as he watched what she was doing. He did not resist as she curled her fingers around his erect penis and massaged it.
“The usual price,” Lakeisha whispered in his ear. “A thousand at your place.”
“Give me a good price, Lakeisha.” As he spoke, Kimathi moved his hand up Lakeisha’s thigh. “You know I’m your best customer, don’t you?”
“I know that,” she said, digging her fingers deep into his scrotum. “But business is business, darling.”
Kimathi felt a glorious energy spreading through his veins. He wanted to be on top of Lakeisha, to devour her. He could not endure it any longer, and moved his hand between her thighs. As he did so, Lakeisha reached for his wallet, which he had placed between the seats. Kimathi didn’t complain as she removed a wad of notes, lust was running through him and he didn’t care how much money she took.
Kimathi was still enjoying the delight that prostitutes afforded lonely men like him when he heard a window breaking nearby. This was followed by the sound of a car alarm going off and as Kimathi watched two guys ran past his car and disappeared behind some big trees. Seconds later two Chubb security vehicles raced past him and stopped by the parked car. Kimathi thought of driving away, but decided against it. He didn’t want to attract unnecessary attention from the security people.
As he was about to chase the prostitute out of his car, there was a tapping on his window. A torch flashed on to reveal the scene between him and Lakeisha inside the car. Lakeisha opened her eyes wide; two police officers were standing outside, looking at the wad of notes lying between them. Upon seeing the two officers, Kimathi permitted himself to get angry and began selecting the precise wording of his official protest.
“What do you want?” he asked them as he opened the window slightly.
“Step out of the car, please,” demanded the shorter of the two policemen. His breath smelled of raw onions.
“Why? Are you arresting me now for asking for directions?”
“Yeah, right, asking for directions with your finger on her shaved pussy,” jeered the officer with the onion breath.
“That’s an assumption,” Kimathi responded, trying to contain his temper.
“You’ll tell that to the magistrate,” the taller officer said. “But now we are going to the police station with you.”
“You can’t do that,” Kimathi protested. “I’m calling my lawyer.” He took his cellphone from the dashboard and held it in his right hand. “I will sue your asses for defamation.”
Before he could dial, the taller officer opened the car door. “Have you been drinking, sir?” he probed, looking at both Kimathi and Lakeisha accusingly.
“No,” Kimathi replied, his face tensing with anger. “Do I look like I have been drinking?”
“You have to come with us to the police station so we can breathalyse you,” said the taller officer with malicious delight.
“Why?” enquired Kimathi, rearranging his facial muscles into a frown. “I think you are now violating my rights, gentlemen, and that is against the constitution of this country.”
“You are coming with us in the van,” said the officer with the onion breath. “I will drive your car while you sit in the back of the van.”
“No way,” Kimathi said, his anger nearly choking him. “You are not arresting my car, are you? I will drive it myself.”
“Not when you have been drinking,” said the taller officer. “You can’t drive the car.”
“I told you, I’m not drunk,” Kimathi insisted.
“Well, we now have three charges against you,” responded the officer with the onion breath, shaking a warning finger at Kimathi. “One, resisting arrest; two, interfering with police duties; three, buying sex from a prostitute. How about that?”
“Do you know who I am?” asked Kimathi. “I know people in high places. I will call the Commissioner of Police, and you’ll both lose your jobs.”
“We don’t care who you are,” said the taller officer. “This is not Holland. Prostitution is still illegal in South Africa.”
“Who said I was buying sex?” Kimathi responded, sounding offended. “I was just asking for directions.”
“Yes, we know, with your zip open,” the officer with the onion breath responded sarcastically.
“Fuck off! You imbeciles! You will all pay for this!” Kimathi threatened as the two officers dragged him out of his car and began to force him into the back of the police van.
The two officers didn’t answer him. Instead the officer with the onion breath dismissed him with a wave of his hand and the taller officer gave him a look that said: don’t fuck with us. He then got into Kimathi’s BMW with Lakeisha.
As they drove in the direction of Hillbrow police station, Kimathi’s eyes bulged with terror as the reality of the situation started to dawn on him. His libido was diverted, there was a more pressing matter at hand – the possibility of sleeping in a police cell. He was already imagining the embarrassing headlines in the newspapers, and the damage they would do to his chances of winning the tender he was about to apply for. The last time his reputation had been at stake was when he had been working in the Presidency and a female colleague had accused him of sexual harassment. Although the case had been dismissed, due to a lack of evidence, it had done a lot of damage to his relationship with Anele.
Chapter 5
It was Ludwe who reunited Kimathi with his family in Dimbaza in February 1992, six months after he had arrived from Angola. This was the happiest day in Kimathi’s life. His father had told him a lot about his aunt, Yoli, and seeing her for the first time was a great thing.
Kimathi had carried with him two old photos of his father, taken at SOMAFCO when he was still a commissar for The Movement. In both photos, Lunga wore two-tone Florsheim shoes, khaki bell-bottom trousers and a floral shirt that hung open to expose his hairy chest. He also sported a huge Afro.
Yoli was unable to conceal her joy. “Oh, God is alive. He left here in August 1968. In fact, he just disappeared.” His aunt smiled as she looked at the pictures. “He only wrote to us once, saying that he was in exile, but did not specify where.” She paused and expelled her breath through stiffened lips. “I assume he is no longer alive.”
Yoli looked at Kimathi for a reply, but instead it was Ludwe who spoke. They had agreed that he would do all the talking, especially in relation to Lunga’s death.
“He died in Tanzania from gunshot wounds in 1985,” Ludwe said with exaggerated grief. “He was my father figure in Tanzania. I left to go into exile in 1977, at the age of twenty. Comrade Lunga was already known as mgwenya, a veteran, when I arrived in Tanzania. He made sure I was well fed and clothed. He was my teacher.”
“Was he shot by the Boers?”
“Yes,” answered Ludwe, wiping an imaginary tear from his left eye. “He asked me to bring his son back before he died. He
