Uhuru Street Read Online Free PDF Page B

hand. Tembo-mbili stood weaponless and flustered in the middle of a loud and jeering crowd outside our store.
    ‘They’ll beat him up!’ I said frantically from the doorway and turned to look out again. As I did so I noticed Alzira’s anxious face. She was straining to look outside from where she sat, unaware in her agitation that her needle was pressing her thumb. I continued to look out, uneasy and dejected.
    A constable walked up and started dispersing the crowd. Then Alzira’s brother Pius arrived stiffly on his scooter, drove it on thepavement and picked the unharmed man up, and without a word they rode off.
    Alzira stood up and left, shaken, almost in tears; Mother and I stared after her and then looked at each other without a word.

The Beggar
    He comes out from the shadows and stands beside the solitary service pole at the corner and watches the boy intently. A stocky old man in a checked loincloth and a tattered white T-shirt. His face has a tough leathery texture and is wrinkled at the eyes. He is black. Across the street the boy gets his change from the Arab shopkeeper and walks away with a can of milk in one hand and a Coke bottle in the other. The street is dark, except for the light that falls from the shop; a few pedestrians are about. The man watches the boy’s shape blur and enter the darkness which arrives before the paved and lighted Kichwele Street further ahead. He takes a few steps to follow and halts when the boy, as though afraid of the dark, breaks into a run. Soon the patter of footfalls subsides and the man walks back into the shadows.
    A while later he emerges again and crosses the street to the Arab’s store. It has a wide serving window open to the street, behind which its owner sits. ‘Give me some water,’ the man says gruffly, standing outside. The owner looks up from behind a kerosene lamp at the one-armed man and points to the red clay pot at the doorway. The man shuffles to it. The Arab turns his gaze outside once more. The radio, turned very low, gives the news from behind him.
    Having had his drink the man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and starts walking towards the main street, whose pavements will be kinder to his feet. The night is warm and the airis still. The shopkeeper watches the stocky figure disappear in the dark, holding a cane in the one hand.
    Last night the one-armed man saw the boy escorting his older sister on Kichwele Street. He followed, keeping his distance. The girl walked fast and the boy had trouble keeping up. He tried talking, to slow her down, but she kept her pace and the boy had to trot along beside her. Finally they reached an open store, where he left her and then retraced his way back. Hands in his pockets, face turned downward, kicking stones on the pavement. For a moment the man thought their paths would finally cross, he would get his prey. His face tensed up and set into a wry bitter smile, his eyes gleamed. But then the boy started walking along the road behind parked cars and in a quick motion crossed to the other side. A bus hurtling along and two cars later the man had lost his quarry, who disappeared in the shadows of the buildings across. He turned back.
    I will get him. I will get this chubby Indian boy even if I have to walk this street up and down every day
 …
    At regular intervals green government trucks suddenly appeared in the main streets at night and a general chase ensued, policemen jumping out and checking African pedestrians for their cards. Those who couldn’t produce them were carted off to the police station, and if not claimed by employers the following day were sent off to their villages.
    A month ago he had found his way back to the city after six months upcountry. And a few days later on the morning of Eid, he had come across the three boys, returning home from prayers, all in crisp, new clothes, polished shoes and slick hair. They were in a jolly mood. He stood aside to let them pass and stretched out his