Hunter & Gatherer

By Okang'a Ooko

She is a hunter and he is a gatherer. She loves building enterprises. He is crazy about making money. But they have to be married because they both want one thing. Power.

 

Kassela Obange is an intelligent and ambitious marketing pro covertly orchestrating her destiny to success in advertising in the bustling business community of Upperhill, Nairobi. The millionaire tenderpreneur Rapudo Oremo wants to marry her. Her unwarrantable attraction to him presents her with the prospect for power and freedom her heart truly yearns for and she is thrown into the arena of absurdity. Rapudo has only one goal: to use politics for gain. He wants to expand his business and amass more millions. He is vicious and overtly ambitious. He's shrewd. He's flamboyant. He's ruthless. He's unscrupulous. He surrounds himself with shady deal makers, power brokers, ruthless lawyers and thugs from Katwikira in Kibira. Every political force in his path is turned into a surrogate for the motifs on the contemporary political scene. But this not any politics. This is Kenyan politics. It comes with furious vengeance and it is manned by greedy and corrupt players with cold-blooded underhand dealings. The game is played in a nefarious world. In a corrupted metropolis. In Nairobi City. The world of men. 

 

Kassela finds herself in a spot. She must be Rapudo's wife. He must marry her on her terms. Her evolution from an ordinary professional into a cold blooded political animal is not by chance or circumstance, she is from Dandora in Eastlands, and she was born to struggle and use every opportunity that comes in her path. She finds herself ensnared in the very dirty world of power and politics. But for her, it's a massage. It's chicken coming home to roost.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oba Kunta Octopus
• Release date: May 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201337933

Okang'a Ooko

Okang’a Ooko is the author of Businesswoman’s Fault, (stories), and three mainstream novels, including Bengaman, When You Sing To The Fishes and the latest, Hunter & Gatherer mostly vivid accounts of scandalous vices, human folly, power games, and peopled by men and women struggling to succeed in the new African renaissance. He writes thrilling and intriguing character-driven fiction based on African characters and situations. His work presents a compelling narrative voice and a new way of seeing the world.Ooko is a very ambitious and hardworking writer for this generation. His three Must-Read cavalier bestselling novels are in categories that matter to him: history, politics, pop culture (especially music), love-and-danger, business, corruption, true crime, and self-development. Known as “Kenya’s new master storyteller”, Ooko epitomizes a new shift in African fiction and his books are mostly set in Kenya. He loves to dispel the myth that Africans don’t read, and incredible readers who have stumbled upon his books have liked them tremendously. He has been writing since childhood when his mother took him to the local library in his hometown of Kisumu to keep him out of the company of bad boys. As a serial daydreamer, it was nice to finally get the stories on paper when he started writing full time in retirement in 2017. He has not looked back since. He believes current African issues (pop culture, politics, business, corruption) make dramatic stories with or without a literary bent, and he knows there is a huge potential to create intriguing stories around these themes. No writer is doing it. With his new book, Hunter & Gatherer, he currently aims to shepherd his vocation as a writer of commercial African fiction.In addition to being a prolific writer, he is an artist, an acclaimed graphic designer and musician. He lives the life of an artist. He worked in the publishing industry as a designer and typesetter, community manager at a content development company, and book cover designer for fiction and non-fiction.When he isn’t reading or writing engaging stories, he’s probably singing, watching edgy black comedy on Netflix. He was born and raised in Kisumu, in Kenya. He lives in Nairobi with his wife and four children.In his spare time, he gives writing lectures, creates graphic arts, plays the guitar and draws things. You can connect with Ooko on Facebook at facebook.com/rd.ooko/.You can also visit his website, okangaoo.com, to sign up for emails about new releases.

Book preview

The predator

Kassela lowered her fingers over the shard of sunlight on the keys of the shiny laptop on her desk and slowly exhaled. An ad was running on Windows Media Player, the slick come-on for the cancer campaign. The insincere and oily voice-over could be heard distinctly, but like all well-crafted propaganda, the message was carried in the visuals as well. The pitch began with a dramatic surge of captivating visuals, clever graphics, and a plethora of emotionally-charged icons. The screen was filled with a dense amalgamation of medical images that intensified the impact of the message, all of which coalesced into the client’s name and logo. When it ended, Kassela pursed her lips, sat back and sighed with dejection. It’s not effective at all. Same old, same old. Does not promulgate messages of hope and renewal. To inspire herself, she clicked on Chrome, went to YouTube and funneled the energy of a live ohangla violin into a spirited sail through the office.

Upperhill seemed quiet. Perhaps a little too quiet. It was a strange day in the wet month in Nairobi City, one of those odd days that sunshine and warmth suddenly sprung up in the middle of the rainy days. The height of February was coming full strong in the early year’s majesties and mildly nonplused the pace of Upperhill, a pleasant part of the city on the edge of the hill where Kenya began—indeed an almost the well-preserved part of Old Nairobi. The upscale business district appeared as a fevered dream, consuming the benefits of unfettered capitalism. It was always changing; growing and expanding. A secluded and tidy world with an invigorating ambience, its sky rocketing complexes, modernist behemoths and nondescript towers were the sanctuaries where business dreams and rituals were enacted in Eastern Africa. 

Beams of sunlight of mock serious morning promises steamed

like hot Brookbond chai and paints on the buildings glistened like a smear of yellow Blue Band margarine.  The sun was bright all the way across from the tip of the busy Jomo Kenyatta International Airport to the depth of Kileleshwa suburbs, providing a raging temperature variation. It was a blustery day, for sure. The heat was nominal, just lightly bating all those who dwelt outdoors. A vast majority of people working within this leafy business community raised their eyebrows and complained about the sudden change in the weather. Inside the offices, air conditioners hummed. 

Finish the proposal. She pulled her laptop with a fragile sense of resolve and started typing. The blinds fluttered; the sun glared in now and then admitting a whole treasury of golden rays to brighten the interior of the office with their cheerful glow. Yet the springing sun’s touch was clearly failing to pluck at her manly heartstrings. For an indeterminate time, she sat idle; buffed by idle thoughts. It was a battle—within herself always; to look for another job or be submissive; accept the fact that she was stuck in this pissy job and deal with the downward parabola precipiciously accelerated by the frustrations of an underutilised executive—or quit. And be jobless? As a professional, she knew she shouldn’t be so accepting of her fate—especially since there were other qualified marketers with that same fate all over Nairobi. It wasn’t natural and far from normal. Temboland Advertising was a haven for some shenanigans the consumers of their ads were not aware of. In her office, the shenanigans heralded a new level of low for her—and she didn’t care. She paused for a moment, took a deep breath and savoured the sweetness of the grinding ohangla music, crystalline tenor key strokes, haunting in its beauty, soothing and fluid.

Her serious face scanned a complicated series of charts and graphs. When it was ten minutes to the hour of eleven, she got up, stretched and called the coffee shop downstairs, ordered the much-needed beverage. Her attention renewed, she repositioned herself on her chair and pulled up her laptop. The ohangla music faded away and was replaced by raspy sounds of a woman hyped with adrenaline intently juggling at a computer keyboard. Then she punched one key, sat back, heaved a heavy sigh. Her manicured fingers rested on gleaming keys, not typing. Her eyes were on the computer screen, searching, impatient, revealing nothing of herself, except weariness of stress and work load on a chiseled face of a middle-aged Luo woman. Take a break. After a hard day farming the corporate commons, it is time for a little hoedown.

The words came to her. Targets of Opportunity—don’t miss! It was a copy bandied on a Marketing Society Facebook post and it wouldn’t leave her mind today. This was one hell of a day. The heat of the mid-morning was stirring thoughts uncommon to her. Philosophical musings that pursued her came now and seemed overwhelmingly compelling. She switched her thoughts and was soon floating up in her dream again. In less than a month, she mused warmly, the cancer campaign will take off, amplified by social media. The City would join the militaristic cancer campaign sweeping the country. But instead of smiling, she frowned as nuances in her body language painted a puzzling picture.

The feeling came again; the hot flush of expectation on her face. There was a sense that today she would be lucky—she wasn’t the kind of person to take good fortune for granted. No one could ever call her a believer in fate. Whatever it was that had defined her identity over the years was her sense of focus. She knew that Nairobi meant business and she worked hard to be part of the City agency to whom she was indebted and she expected some kind of recompense for her loyalty and exertion. But something told her this was the day in which a series of events would ultimately cause her life to change dramatically and she was to be thrown onto the open market to the mercy of the highest bidder.

Her instincts were right. The telephone went off.  Ngrrrriiiing! She nearly stumbled. At first, she glared at it with a frown, let it ring three times. Then she picked the black cordless Panasonic handset, leaned back in her seat.

Kassi Obange, hello. She said her initial hello in a restrained way, as if greeting a minor royalty from the Marketing Society.

She then heard a pleasant male voice. Hello? Is that Kassela Obange? Her first instinct was that the caller didn’t know her well. Her friends and colleagues called her Kassi. That was how she introduced herself, even on her business cards. I think only my mother calls me that these days, I’m Kassi.

She heard him take a deep breath or a sigh, which showed a sign of nervousness. Then, Miss Obange, I was wondering whether I could meet you?

Wondering whether? She was sure she didn’t know this man. Not only was he addressing her unfamiliarly, she didn’t recognise that voice. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?

Oh, sorry, he said. I don’t think you know me. I better introduce myself, I’m Oyamo. Fred Oyamo.

The name rang no bells apart from the fact that he was Luo like herself. Mr. Oyamo, what can  I do for you?

Actually, Miss Obange, I have a proposition for you and I was wondering whether you would spare me a few minutes of your time. I would like to meet you. This is a bit urgent.

Kassela was awed. In essence she really didn’t want to sound rude but she was getting irritated. She hated questions with no answers. Wondering whether was a vague statement, to begin with.

"Urgent? Ati? What would you like to see me about?"

It’s not something that we can discuss over the phone. 

Mr...., she began, having forgotten his names.

Oyamo!

"Mr. Oyamo, the thing is... if I’m going to meet you, I think I deserve to at least know what you want to meet me about."

I can’t say on the phone.

Boss, I certainly can’t meet you unless I know what you want.

The man went silent for one dreadful moment. Then he said, Let me put it this way, Miss Obange, if you agree to meet me, and I certainly insist that you do, the meeting will change your life.

Oh, really. The statement was funny. She thought, what makes you think that there’s anything I want to change about my life?

This is a business call, I suppose, she asked.

You could say so.

She wondered why he was being evasive. If it was a business meeting that he was gunning for, which was what she supposed it to be, why couldn’t he just say what he wanted? Her instincts advised her against meeting him. And yet she was drawn to the pleasant voice. Deep in her heart, despite her better senses, she really wanted to meet this mysterious man.

Can I come to your office?

Mr. Oyamo, I’m not sure about this, you may very well be wasting my time.

"Miss Obange, one thing I certainly wouldn’t do is waste your time. Or mine."

The last two words reassured her somewhat. She felt her heart beating fast; her instincts told her that she had to meet this man who promised to change her life for the better. He seemed efficient and passably committed, vaguely.

Mr. Oyamo, if you can’t tell me why you want to meet me then I can’t give you an appointment.

It’s simple, really. I come to your office, I see you, and I make my proposition. If you like it, well and good. If not, too bad for me. I’ll never disturb you again. Just five minutes, Miss Obange, just five minutes.

I see you? Wasn’t it better to say I meet you? And she heard something like a stifled background ruckus, like laughter. It was then that she realised that he was speaking on a speaker phone. The pleasant-voiced Luo man had a bloody audience, she made out. She could have sworn that she heard somebody titter in his audience. This must be crazy. She was certain that this Oyamo was a most peculiar character. But she didn’t want to stall him. And with his audience she had this feeling that he was charming her. He sounded genuine, though. Like what he was trying to push across was very important to him.

She mulled, considered, then shrugged. What if I say no? She asked with a slightly mocking edge to her voice, playing hard, prodding him along, wearing him out. She had nothing to lose.

Well, like a good salesman, I’ll keep knocking until you say yes. Then I will present my client’s case.

That ruffled her feathers a bit. Client?

He was silent. Bloody salesman. What he was trying to sell to her must have been pretty pricey, the way he was presenting it.  She mused that he was giving titbits away. She reckoned that if she kept him on the phone long enough, she’d discover what he was selling.

So, can I come over? He sounded like he was begging to take her on a date. Her curiosity floored her. She heaved a heavy sigh. Okay, let’s see. I’ll meet you, Mr. Fred Oyamo, she said, mentioning his name to show that she hadn’t lost track.

But not today. Another day—someday.

But not today, maybe...

No! He almost screamed. It must be today, preferably within the hour.

Blow me down. Must? She was incredulous.

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, My client feels that it’s very urgent. And I hasten to add that it will change your life.

You exaggerate.

Do I?

Are you sure this life-changing meeting will take no more than five minutes? asked Kassi with impersonal optimism.

Five minutes at most, probably less.

Five minutes that will change my life?

Five minutes for the initial meeting where I’ll make our proposition. If it’s acceptable to you, then there’ll be a deal to settle. If not, we’ll look elsewhere.

Simple. We’ll see.

Fair enough. Will you bring your client along?

No!

Why not?

He’ll only make an appearance if you give us a positive reply.

Okay. She smiled with a fillip of resignation. 14th floor Castle Tower, Upperhill, Suite 16. It’s eleven thirty, can you be here by twelve thirty latest?

Perfect! the man said triumphantly and cut the call.

So be it.

She stared at the phone for a few seconds before putting it away. She wondered who had given this strange Mr. Fred Oyamo her direct line number. But she reckoned that all would be revealed to her as soon as Oyamo came and stated his mission. She called Chicolette, the agency front office girl, over the intercom and told her that she was expecting a Mr. Fred Oyamo at twelve-thirty.

Lately it seemed the stats were against her. She was thirty-two, stuck up, stuck, not dating. It was like she was caught in a slow spiral. Inside her closed lids, she saw herself as a sling-shooting huntress. A fang-baring predator. A well-sculpted Suba girl. Tall, apt and with a black woman’s pulchritude. She was a blossomed hibiscus, a fragrant honeysuckle with scarlet petals swaying flames like a sunflower, red and yellow like a brilliant blaze. Her bearing among women was like a bougainvillea among the Nile papyrus, amid the riotous hyacinth. She was a mrembo, a beauty queen, model-perfect, predaciously statuesque, inviting an embrace. A curvaceous body chiselled like a Makonde carving. Flawless millet-brown skin, sometimes peanut-butter shade, sometimes the colour of red soil after a rainfall. A fierce-looking face, full luscious lips on a wide mouth. Slight hips with all those curves and enticing handfuls that were the Creator’s most interesting mystery. Men drank heartily at the burning eau de cologne steaming her paths of breathtaking poses. A frown would creep into her face whenever gobsmacked friends and admirers said she was a beauty with a dangerous swag. She impishly tolerated admiration from men as rude faux pas, smiling supinely, with studied grace, playing down her charm with her fragrance rising above her temper.

Slyness blossomed on her face when people yanked her chain saying she was tough, intense... full of beans. She would shrug and say philosophically, downcast, her eyes on the floor, Nice to hear, pissed they were passing off her beauty as a charade, and it even surprised her that her repulsion were resultant from some orthodox, like some puritan sterility of her soul that caused her to repudiate sexual advances of men. Truthful with herself, she had no reverence for her beauty; she had more... was made for more. But it was to be understood that her limpness was mere gallantry. She was tough, it was a fact. Some said her avid shining eyes were the bread and butter of her beauty. In them, sparking hot, rimmed with black eyeliner like Cleopatra, imperious and demanding, was the fire of her soul.

She never wore make-up or stuck odds and sods of dead Indian women’s hairs to hers (the way today’s Nairobi women do them), or other bits ’n’ bobs. She had to manifest the loyalty she had over her Afro image, keeping her hair short and pomaded Queen Nefertiti style. And the fact that she had the same gusto as a man—well, that just made her the woman not to duel with. If she invited you alone for dinner, you would need more goading than a visit to a mean prostitute and you would sup at your own risk. Mostly, though, men sought her favour to seek her brain’s vantage. She wore one-off suits like a modern Nairobi woman, the kind only worn by fierce and impressive lady business executives. In the office, she took off her coat and, in her skirt and high heels, she would stomp around, from her office to the lift, with her head bowed monastically over her smartphone, and her heels always made clomping sounds. 

Nairobi. The name conjured up images of an African paradise, of a beautiful sun city. A different world. The trundling Africana shamba la mawe in Kiswahili—city of hard rock. Nairobi. The world of men. Sometimes spoken of as the green city in the sun but, in reality a corrupted metropolis, lurgy, tough and nefarious. From her office window in Upperhill, she loved to view the sprawl of the City, the inner sanctum of the capital and heart of a financial empire that was the realm of commercial and political life. To some, Nairobi was a bedlam of the scuttling matatus in sizzling colours, propped by chrome, fat wheels and spicey music. It was perhaps a place of chaos, teeming, bustling, pushing its toll on a men and women, their taxes and their work, their family life, bringing up their children, to a futile retirement. For others, ambitious and forward, it was a place of opportunity where excellence and zeal were rewarded with the prizes of success and security. To moneymakers it was no doubt the powerhouse of the great merchant adventurers. To a creative, a place to dream great dreams. To a positive thinker, the biggest market in East and Central Africa. To foreigners, a paradise, and to the investor a rich market to plunder where East Africa revolved, where politicians, opportunistic and privileged, lounged at ease in luxury; men of almost complete moral unscrupulousness behind the public image

This Nairobi girl was potent, forward, active, restless and afflicted by the law of diminishing returns. She knew the City; it was a futile tropical forest pure and simple, and in it were the predators and the grazers. She was one of the predators. She was a Dandora-born girl who could combine hauteur with earthy bluntness. Such girls are made by the ghetto. To such, nothing is foregone, nothing forbidden, nothing fully satisfying. She had lived her life with the sky swinging sideways. Her honky-dory academic qualifications notwithstanding, she was no more than another wonky Nairobian taking the piss and working for the next day like a mama mboga. At the end of the day, feeling whacked and shagged, she would link up with her gobby frenemy Debaba in the offie for a few jars before they found themselves sitting square in a matatu, heading home. And she veg-outted her evenings in her naff apartment in her mitumba jim-jams and she would cook herself ugali and sukuma wiki and eat it in sorrow and push the week wishing she had a better job. Yeah, Nairobi had stitched her up pretty good. Pretty-pretty good. She needed a new needle, for sure. She didn’t want to go on like this filing futile hours in the office, paying taxes to enable greedy politicians and state managers to loot and stash it away into Swiss bank accounts. She didn’t want to go on commuting futilely on a matatu, morning and evening,  year in, year out, it was futile. She needed a new spear, for sure.

Oddly, her thoughts were on the years just prior. Yes, she was a product of Nairobi’s urban poor. The poor live in the East End of the City—Eastlands. The city is like two different picture boards glued together. On the one side, there’s the high society city of class, money and privilege. On the other side, is the tatty world of desperation, sacrifice, hunger, struggle, hustle; a crowded, unplanned disarray. There are rundown boarded-up houses, teeming roads, dilapidated matatus called Nissans, beat-up mini buses called manyangas, gutted slums and sinkholes, crowded market places and police stations, and desperate people shuffling by the roadsides selling fruits and vegetables and cheap Chinese goods, and some more hustling to eat for a day in mjengo construction work hustle and jua kali hustle and mama mboga vegetablewoman hustle and mitumba second-hand clothes seller hustle and kibarua manual jobs hustle and matatu public transport hustle and boda boda cycle taxi hustle and mkokoteni cart pusher hustle and maindi choma maize roaster hustle and mama fua washerwoman hustle and mganga witch doctor hustle and prostitution and teenage-girl pregnancy pandemic and crime. In the low-class dwellings, most people’s entertainment is outside their home in bars, mostly where they forget their problems and watch English football matches on large screen and get drunk on cheap alcohol and talk and dance. Mostly kids watch pirated movies on DVD players. Weird places? The slums. There is all the depravity and decline which will surely hasten the Day of Judgment. Nairobi has plenty of them. That’s the life in the City.

She perched herself precariously on the edge of her seat and gave herself to her thoughts like a heart-horny guilt-ridden pervert losing control to masturbation. She had issues with herself. She emphatically refused to submit to herself that she endorsed the extreme conviction that she was a high-key professional needing another job. A better job. Advertising would never have been her ideal choice of career, but there weren’t many choices available to her when she graduated six years ago. Though there had been an evident expansion in employment opportunities as the new Chama Cha Taifa administration came in after Kanu, this brief boom vanished at almost the same rate as the corruption cartels bounced back. The public sector jobs that appeared to be attractive were soon being given to the children and relatives of the well-connected and Kassela’s tribe was in the opposition. The Government’s policy of increasing taxes and increasing tariffs for energy had scaled down the expansion of the private sector and also destroyed any residual appetite for inward investment and the Republic of Kenya was now a place of even fewer opportunities and rather less hope. Like all pre-capitalist and post-colonial sub-Saharan African countries, Kenya was ever dependent on foreign borrowing. Unable to regenerate capital and to reproduce its own legitimation and relative autonomy, the African countries remained primary vehicle for class formation, grossly looted by the bourgeoisie and corrupt ruling groups.

As there were no openings in the civil service for a career in marketing, Kassela decided that having already stooped somewhat lower than she’d ever intended when she chose to work for Temboland Advertising, in a position suited to her commerce degree, her pride was no longer an obstacle with regards to any decision she made to make money. As she’d already made a living by masquerading as a market research assistant, perhaps now she should actually work as one. So she began to look more favourably at the many vacancies for marketers that were being posted on the internet. It was one of the few sectors in Nairobi’s economy where job opportunities were continuing to grow, but the job opportunities were all cloistered well away from what Kassela viewed as the ordinary world. And that was the world where she believed she belonged.

The hunter instinct in her told her there were targets of opportunity in this Nairobi. And there were many targets too. One was politics. The new constitution had places for women. Women with demented aggression like her. It was a peculiar feeling akin to euphoria she strove to achieve on a regular basis. Weird flex, but okay. What to do—what to do? Bide thy time.

At twelve thirty she buzzed Chicolette and asked her whether her expected visitor had come. The reply was negative. She was on her feet; she was pacing with arms crossed; she was rummaging in her drawers; she was leafing through her newspaper, hurled it on her desk and hastily got up, stretched and yawned. He can’t even keep time, she thought angrily. She was already thinking of where she was going to have lunch. Fifteen minutes later he still hadn’t come and she’d begun to wonder whether the so-called life-changing meeting was in fact a prank call.

She got up from her desk with the intention of going for lunch. She lifted the intercom, and tried to keep her voice level. Chico, any Fred Oyamo there to see me?

No one here, Kassi, came the reply.

Kassela hunkered down on her chair, kicked off her flat office shoes and reached for her high heels. Then she stood up and picked her smartphone. He can’t even keep time, this strange man with  a pleasant voice, she said to herself. Maybe I should go for lunch. Let me call Debbie.

Just then the telephone rang. She picked the receiver. Yes?

Mr. Oyamo is here, Kassi, Chicolette said.

Twenty minutes bloody late. Send him in.

She remained standing, sullen, tense, stiff. The door opened and a fairly tall, averagely built man in an expensive suit walked in, wearing a smile. He had what she’d call average looks. The gleam in his eyes matched his smile. His face was shaped like a lion’s, a punch of Savannah in it. Bright black eyes that looked perpetually startled, as though he were a Maasai boy who knew the moran initiation ceremony was tomorrow, and they would always be momentous for him to make him a man. In a slow lion-like walking, he crossed the office. His strides were sporty, with the resonant arrogant bounce of upscale Luo men, without the resident precipitation that he might have had; a pride, a sweet touch of inelegance; a suggestion of a daily exercise in the gym when his double chin lent downward. He had a golden watch on his left arm and a gold chain on his right hand. She also noticed the golden ring. One thing that was certain to her was this man had some money and was not averse to flaunting it.

Hello. He had the most charming smile she had seen in a long time, charming and really genuine. A surreptitious smile that seemed to extend a bit of uncertainty; somehow. That smile seemed to say this moment was his; at the same time, not being sure of it. Elegance? Obviously. Eloquence? You bet. He approached her with a stretched hand. I’m Fred Oyamo. His handshake was firm, his manners confident.

Hello, she said, inhaling his cologne and noticing that his fingers were manicured. You are late. I was just leaving.

I got held up. The damned Nairobi traffic snarl-ups can be the devil himself in the hot sun. Phew! Anyway, this wouldn’t take long. Five minutes at most. May I have a seat? His English was Luo-tinged with a Nairobi upperclass polish.

Sure, she offered, regaining a modicum of composure. She politely held her pose, noting her visitor seemed to be in distress. She returned to her seat and sat down as he did. Now what’s this business proposition that will change my life?

Oyamo gave her a half grin. I wouldn’t exactly call it business.

Oh. Oh! She was mildly bolted from the blue.

But first things first. You call me Fred. And I call you Kassela?

Kassi will do, she told him.

Very well, then Kassi it is. He made himself comfortable on the seat, adjusting himself further into the leather upholstery for more comfort.

Kassela launched an exploratory syllable. So, what’s this business that will change my life?

As I said before it’s not exactly business.

She stared at him. Something didn’t add up. Her mind was busy figuring and calculating. And then she got it!

Are you the man I spoke to on the phone? she asked him.

Yes, why? He laughed, the sound full and rich.

You sound different!

Must be your phone line, maybe it isn’t clear, he said.

You’re lying, but why?  Can you explain what you want of me?

Yes, Oyamo said, crossing his legs. Have you heard of a man called Rapudo Oremo?

No.

Rap is my best friend and business associate.

He’s the mysterious client?

He’s not exactly a client. He’s a businessman. A successful one. Well connected. With friends up the food chain.

He’s your business partner?

Yes, sort of.

This was met with a stunned shock and eyebrow raise. Sort of? She stared at him with sick speculation and began to wonder. You knew whether someone is your business partner or not. He sounded like some kind of a spy... a private detective. What work do you do, Mr. Oyamo?

I’m a lawyer.

Lawyer. I see.

And you’re a marketer. I’m a marketer too. The only reason I am pushing this deal is because it benefits me as well.

You’re the funnel. I see. What would your Mr. Rapudo like?

As I said Mr. Rapudo is a very successful businessman.

Yeah. Right. I heard you the first time. Mr. Oyamo, I would appreciate it very much if we cut the chase and you save me the rhetoric. Come clean with me, please, I don’t have much time. What would your colleague Mr. Rapudo like us to do for him? This is Temboland Advertising, and we are running a major campaign on cancer. My guess and hope is you read our Wednesday ad and you want to join in for the benefit of socially networking your business in the funds drive to raise awareness on cancer?

She saw him struggling with his thoughts. She didn’t make a face and wince—mostly due to the simple fact she had decided this handsome clown was wasting her time.

I guess you are saying ‘us’ as in this business?

Of course!

Miss Obange you keep forgetting that this is not exactly a business call.

Oh. Kassela made a face. Not business?

She looked at the dapper Mr. Oyamo and wondered what he was up to. What do you want? What prank are you trying to pull?

Mr. Rapudo is a very wealthy man. He looked at her obliquely, his expression wary. He has sent me with a proposition to you.

Which is?

Oyamo looked Kassela straight in the eye and said: Mr. Rapudo Oremo is running for parliamentary office in the forthcoming General Election. He is offering you a job.

What?

We want you to come aboard his campaign machinery as his think tank. As his key campaign strategist.

It hit Kassela like a thunderbolt. There was shock (but no dismay); there was awe, confusion, and wow—definitely wow. Then the realization struck her. Her jaw dropped. For a brief instant, her face seemed to come to pieces, to become merely a set of features without form or control. Her mouth looked like a prelude to a scream. But only for an instant.

Say again? she mouthed slowly in one-word syllable.

I said that my friend Mr. Rapudo Oremo would like you to be his campaign manager. We are aware of your credentials as a marketer and he is keen on working with brains from the private sector. You will design his campaign strategy, bring in things like your cancer campaign and write a win-win manifesto that he will sell to his party in order to get a nomination.

That is a really stupid idea, don’t you think? 

What is stupid? Oyamo leaned closer. We are backed by Ukweli Party and we shall win. And if we do so, you will become his personal assistant. You know, it’s about sex and power.

"Sex and what? This is politics you’re talking here, right?"

This is an offer of a lifetime we’re talking about. We know your ambitions and we know you’re under-utilised in your current position. We know you want power, so this will be the beginning.

Her face set, Kassela said, You know I'll punch you in the dick!

What? Don't be a brat, this is the offer that will change your life, Oyamo said, seemingly unfazed by her anger.

"It doesn’t mean dick to me, now get out. Get. Out! Toka!"

Easy, he said with coolness, getting up from the seat. Looking straight at her he put his hand into his coat pocket. In a moment of dreadful insanity, she thought he was about to remove a gun and she froze in panic. Instead, he removed an aluminum business card case, opened it, extracted a card and placed it on her desk. In case you change your mind, call me, he said coolly. Think about this. My job is to plant a seed in your mind which I have done.

He walked out of the room like a lion after a hefty meal, closing the door softly behind him, leaving a faint swirl of Chanel No. 5 in the air. 

Kassela blinked her eyes. She stood staring at the door, trying to remember the last time she’d been this angry. Her lip trembled and she bit it. She didn’t know whether she was scared or annoyed. And it surprised her how angry she was. She picked up the card. It read: Earthbound Investments, Frederickus Erick Oyamo, Director. A twitch crept into her fingers and she let them drum on the edge of her desk. The stuttering was odd in itself and her lips emitted a sharp gasp as she struggled to get the name right. The stuttering was almost as disconcerting as the burning curiosity that flared in her heart. What surprised her was the fact that the company name sounded familiar. She tore the card in half and threw it into the waste basket.

She sat down breathing hard, angry and confused. He would never get to the end of the lift without a celebration; he would be saying, Yes! to himself. Triumphantly whistling his success with gusto, chest-thumping, happy. And he would go ahead and invoice his client. Which was her memory of him, a self-assured asshole lawyer, a fraud and a scam like they all were. Crafty, greedy, manipulative and heartless. He would never be out of her mind. He would walk out of it second by revered second, but never entirely. If she had only put down the phone and said no to the bloody meeting!

The clock on the taskbar showed it was already past one o’clock. She felt that she had to talk to her best friend Debaba. At least with her, she could let off steam. She tried ringing her office but no one answered. She was sure that she’d left for lunch. She decided to go to the restaurant they normally had lunch in and resolved that if she weren’t there, she’d go to her office and wait for her.

––––––––

Sex and power. She did not know whether to classify the words as sexist. Her day? Definitely indented, incidentally interrupted. She drove with her thoughts ricocheting with the incongruity of it all.

Her mind couldn’t come to terms with it. That Fred Oyamo, the so-called executive of a company, had the temerity to come to her office and ask her to back his crazy horse. In politics. Stupid. And not even for himself but for someone she didn’t even know. What kind of madness in this day and age in Nairobi! Oyamo had appeared sophisticated enough to her, and his style and the way he carried himself said as much. Even his card, which she’d torn, had a look and feel of class. She surmised that only a mshamba would have come up with such a stupid job offer which he wasn’t. And who was this fool who sent him... this Rapudo Oremo?

She drove to Panga Street, parked and picked her way through the short cabro path to Pres Bob’s Grill, which was opposite the front street of a supermarket and a carpark. Panga St. had small businesses catering to quaint little shops, art galleries, boutiques, restaurants, music shops, bookstores, kids’ fun games, and dainty cafes. On this open marketplace with wooden benches and with strings of sunlight spilling through the trees and clean sidewalks, on this zone was Pres Bob’s Grill where her friend, Debaba, was seated lunching with two beatnik girls she knew as Sidika and Amboseli, members of Nairobi’s sensational Afro band known as the Divas. The women were sitting groggily at a table on the terrace of the restaurant, yapping and eating. Their untamed hair streamed, with dreadlocked or braided jubilation, in the wind.

"Sasa? May I join you?" Kassela asked, forcing a quirky grin. As far as friends went, only Debaba qualified to be called her friend, the other two were friends too, but only so-so. Debaba was more than a friend; she was the wife of her boss GK. She was a scooch off-kilter but had a government job. She was a hefty mama with sugarloaf breasts, not overdone. She had a mamaish facial appearance, and a wondrous smile. A sweet smile—it was intoxicating on her very near perfect round face, and made anyone around her smile. Her voice was high-pitched and she was a fussy talker. She hadn’t been friends with Kassela all that long, actually, only a year and a half or so.

A number of unusual sensations filtered through Kassela as she ordered her food, joined her friends, and settled to take a long draught of lunch and chatting. She saw a new iPhone, a classy purse, and remembered Debaba had a queenly taste. The woman’s dress was bright and cheerful, totally without any sign of a wrinkle or stain, and it hugged her body perfectly. Her make-up was lightly and tastefully applied, and a pleasant, clean smelling perfume occasionally reached Kassela’s nose. Maasai bead earrings and a matching bead necklace together with a Maasai bead wristband completed her outfit. She somehow managed to eat and drink without spilling a drop or a crumb, and in such a way that made the act of eating seem almost sensual. When Kassela felt a drop of perspiration crawl down her back, she wondered how this woman remained so cool and dry in Nairobi’s midday heat. The concept of defining pretty was not at all elusive when one looked at Debaba.

While they ate lunch, Kassela tried to make light conversation with the the two girls, Amboseli and Sidi, who were yapping about music... their music. Kassela got a whiff of strawberry perfume on one of them. Amboseli was her colleague at work (working with Temboland as a graphic designer). She was aged twenty-four and she was The Divas’ keyboard player. She was a disabled girl, a little on the hefty side, and had major boobage. But she had a pretty face; was unassuming, serious-faced, rarely laughed. She was calm about her demeanour, making her all the more mysterious. She was a stylish artiste best known for her brassy voice and finely syncopated keyboard strokes which sounded like ivory rattles. The other girl, Sidika—or Sidi, was Debaba’s half-sister, aged twenty-one years, medium height with strong arms and legs, very large lips like a girl who ate ugali, never wore trousers, was fond of short dresses that emphasised her full hips, short to her knees. Old fashioned mitumba dresses for an era of bygone days. Nothing loud, nothing trendy, nothing designer. She had a narrow face which, combined with her dark eyelashes and her dressing, gave her the persona of being kind of gypsy-like. She had a reputation... was said to be a snake. In her heart, she was diabolical, demented, cruel, heartless, and deadly. 

Several chatty fan girls also mingled nearby, some said, Hi to Sidi. As Nairobi’s sensational song-girl, she was a popular damsel. Leaving the cigarette she was smoking between her lips, she held out her free hand as she and the girls carried on a lively chatter.

Come on, hustler. Hustle! Hustle! someone poked Sidi.

I’m hustling, I’m hustling! she said between chews on her mouthful of gum and cigarette smoke.

Oh? Kassela’s mouth hung open; she made a soy face as if she was taking a selfie. Then offered a bit of a smirkish smile. Yeah, I suppose you girls are working hard. Hustling, oh my.

"Hustling to the top. Like never before. Kuliko hapo hawali!"

"No kidding, nakwambia."

Damn good vibes, by the way.

Sounds great! said Debaba. Sawa sawa!

Anything new from the Divas? Kassela asked as she ate her chips and tried to be part of the small chitchat.

"New album toka jikoni!" blurted Amboseli.

Mpya! Mpya! Sidi added. Smooth like Nivea cream.

Iko.

Iko?

Iko!

Okay, keep me posted.

Sawa, Sidi said. To Amboseli, Ambo mazee, tuishie.

Amboseli got on her feet with a flourish. Twende.

The two musicians left after making the pricey news about the Divas new album and offering flyers for the album launch and complementary slips for their Saturday night show.

How are you? Debaba asked her friend, looking concerned.

"Niko poa. I’m okay," Kassela said.

You’re lying, Debaba frowned, making her mamaish face look five years younger than her thirty years. "Why are you so salty? Nini mbaya? What’s wrong?"

Kassela knew that she could not hide anything from her friend, especially her moods. She hesitated, closed her eyes briefly to steel herself before looking at her friend. She set her fork down and sat back. Debbie, sweety, what is it like ... to be a politician?

Debaba frowned. I’m not supposed to tell because I don’t have an inkling. Why, who’s getting into politics? Not you, I suppose.

As a matter of fact, it’s me.

Dimples appeared in Debaba’s cheeks. That’s  impossible.

Kassela paused in her eating and looked to her friend, cocking her head, she then soothed her with a sweet smile, revealing a gap in her front teeth. Debbie, I received a job offer to be a campaign manager today?

Debaba deepened her dimples then gave a silvery laugh and patted her friend on the back.  "Ati nini? What! Tell me about it!"

Kassela gave her friend a whimsical smile. Some gentleman by name Fred Oyamo came to the office and...

And asked you to be his campaign manager in the forthcoming General Election? Ha, typical Kenyan.

No! He was an emissary for one Rapudo Oremo. And she went to feed her astute listener with every nuance of the afternoon’s rendezvous.

Debaba gulped. Did you say Rapudo?

Yes!

Rapudo Oremo?

Maybe.

Where I grew up in South B, there was a guy called Rapudo, Debaba said. Their dad was a councillor who owned a general supplies store. Later he was in the real estate business.

Kassela beamed. Debbie was always a boon of information.

So, you know him?

"Siko sure. I don’t know if they are the same people. They were four brothers and a sister. And they all used Christian names or nicknames. And it’s been a while since I last bumped into anyone of them. But I can make inquiries.’

This is a crazy prank on my career. Make the inquiries.

Mazee, blurted Debaba, "I’d give anything..." she didn’t finish as her thoughts was conveyed fairly enough.

Kassela segued her thoughts. To write political manifestos and manage a politician’s campaign and make money?

I said to manage Rapudo’s campaign if he’s the one. He was always so brainy. I hear he’s now doing Government tenders. And there could be more. I doubt if he’s married.

Kassela pouted. Yeah? Then, "Serious? And I’m a thirty-two-year-old bitch, right? And it’s high time I changed my life, got hitched and tasted a piece of real Kenya ndani ya hi Kanairo? To rub shoulders with politicians and get a powerful man to marry me? I can see through you, my dear. Unanibeba aje?"

Debaba looked confused, "Kwa hivyo? Uh, what do you think?"

"Well, I mean, politics can be messy and... chafu...mavi."

Debaba pursed her lips. "Of course, it can be messy. But it can change your life forever. And, you know, being a politician here in Kenya, you make money without really trying. Doo bila wasiwasi."

Kassela closed her eyes briefly to steel herself before looking at her friend. Sex and power, as Oyamo had put it. Indisputable ambition. She wasn’t a woman who’d normally be described as someone with a nuanced understanding of politics even by those who she interacted with. Her opinions on almost everything generally conformed to those of her friends and colleagues, and if she would ever join a debate regarding politics, the nature of democracy and the like, she would soon get very bored.

Which party is sponsoring his candidature?

Ukweli.

Ah.

Ukweli is a cosmopolitan party, seriously so.

It’s a Luo party, if you ask me.

Luo party? It's a democratic pantheon. Technically the offer he is giving me is to be his manager. And this is crazy even if.

"Even if? This offer comes with power. My husband says that if he got a chance to go into politics without spending much money, he would make a dive for it. Weeh, don't just sit there ndeee. Amka!"

Kassela permitted a laughter. Kenyans want to go into politics for the wrong reasons... to loot the Government. Well, not me.

They continued talking as they ate. Debaba did most of the yapping and convinced her friend to investigate the proposal further. It was not an easy surrender on Kassela’s part. She wasn’t in the mood to argue with her friend about it. It wouldn’t do any good anyhow. Debaba could be such a pest sometimes. And it wouldn’t even be a surprise when she suddenly realised that she was out of cash, and Kassela ended up paying the bill. Debaba was a Kikuyu with the heart of a Kikuyu. A mean-gutted miser.

The cafeteria was filling with the middle-class patrons, and it was time for the two friends to return to work. They agreed that Debaba would make her enquiries and call her. As Kassela drove back to her office, her confusion remained rampant. She couldn’t come to terms with it. That somebody in this Nairobi had marked her out as the brainy lady to run his campaign machinery. She took a record of herself—Kassela Obange, the single and successful professional who read her morning paper on her tablet, who worked as a focused marketing executive, who had a mortgage apartment in Greenfield Estate.

As she wrung her hands and mouthed platitudes about how much she hated politics, she couldn’t deny the fact that this businessman called Rapudo had piqued her curiosity. And she  knew she wasn’t going to wait for Debaba’s call, she was going to look for the information she needed on her own. She blinked and was still mystified at the whole situation. Someone once said life in Nairobi isn’t like a box of chocolates. Politics is more like a can of worms. What you do today, might burn your ass tomorrow. She remembered that saying as she seriously contemplated dipping her paw in the can of worms.

––––––––

Temboland Advertising, reception.

Chicolette’s name, in tall block letters on her badge, dangled along with the sway of her shoulders as she rapped out her cheery words. Her sexy smile did not waver as she traced the edge of the desk blotter with a long nail. She was talking on the phone, laughing, and she kept looking toward the entrance as if on the lookout for her superiors.

Kassela walked in. Damn it! She plopped on the visitor’s couch and dropped her bag on the floor looking discombobulated.

Chicolette gave her a ‘what the...?’ look. She put off her call. "Ni nini? What is it, ka dame ketu? Sidi’s been telling me you couldn’t eat your lunch. Kwani what did that handsome dude tell you?"

Twenty-one years, smallish with a well-curved body, Chicolette Cheptoo was talkative, with a laughter that could break hearts and glass. A part-time singer with the Divas, she was employed at Temboland as front office assistant. She was liberal, an incorrigible flirt, had a penchant for sexy clothes and an eye for hot men, but always chose the wrong ones. Born and bred in Kaloleni, in Nairobi’s Eastlands, she was a wren who was ever attracted to handsome roguish men. She romanced and slept with most of her male fans and associates randomly.

Kassela heaved a heavy sigh. They want to fund my cancer campaign, she lied.

Chicolette was taken aback. "Wacha! You are kidding, right?"

It was clever and hugely cliché these days to lie and think it was 100% kosher but it was bad manners even if everybody lied to keep things running in the business world and in politics and in life. Kassela didn’t know why but that was the reason for clichés. They substituted for thought. There was no shorthand scrawl however in her loyalty for her personal principles. So why lie and make it a habit just because? Just say the truth and you’ll be surprised how good it feels and how relieved you are.

Can you keep a secret, dear? They want to give me a job.

"Wacha! Really?"

"Imagine? Me, Kassi Aluoch Obange! Ati someone wants me to go out there and dribble my ass in politics. A straight A student in my day. A successful business executive. Masters in marketing, a business developer and a marketing professional in the creative world. To dibble in politics? Stinking politics na wajinga."

Chicolette laughed. "Yaah, a real Luo lady from South Nyanza but do I say! Relax. She giggled at the absurd look on Kassela’s face. Remind me to write a song about this. For the Divas. Fred Oyamo ni mhandii. He’s handsome. Did you smell his perfume? He left me his business card. She handed Kassela the card. So classy. I’ll connect him with Sidi."

Kassela took the card, studied it. Earthbound Investments. "What kind of a company is this? Anyway, Chico, cheki, I want to give you some work."

Chicolette’s penciled eyebrows danced. "Sawa. Okay."

It’s not him I am interested in, it’s his associate, the one who sent him. A tenderpreneur who goes by the name Rapudo Oremo. Dig him up. Get me all the dossier on him, the good, the bad, what he eats for breakfast, his birthday, who he sleeps with, all the yarn. And be careful, my girl.

Chicolette gulped and nodded. "Usijali, hiyo job nita do poa. Consider it done, my dear. Let me dig him up on Facebook."

Kassela sneered. "I know you’re snoopy, but say ng’wee to anyone about his and I’ll skin you alive. Ati siasa. Pooh-poooh!"

At that moment, Bossamannu Ali Matutta, the art director, entered wearing his African print shirt and jeans, and carrying two A2 boards. Who’s pooh-poohing here, ladies? he said, then offered a bit of a smirkish smile. He was forty-three years, average height, average build, a bit portly. To Kassela he said, I need you to look at this before it goes to production and traffic. I don’t have time. He held out the boards.

Kassela beamed. The graphics on the board held her with a bombastic awe. She opened her mouth to speak, but at that very moment, George King the CEO, walked in wearing a starched shirt and tie. He was a worried-looking man in his mid-40s, mostly bald by choice, getting the mid-life pudge but not overweight by any means. He seemed stern and no non-sense, and wore the look of having been a businessman for many years.

Good you are here, boss, Matutta said.

George King frowned. Boss? Team leader. We run a team here, this is the private sector. How’s the pitch on Riverside Fund?

Kassela was always repulsed by her boss’ heavy Gikuyu accent, which to her was a genocide to the English language, Nairobi’s business lingua franca. Shrubbing with a swag, she called it. She shifted her eyes from the art and gazed at her boss. I am meeting the marketing manager over coffee for initial social acquaintance, GK. I am working to amplify my messages.

GK, too, put his beady eyes on the art work. What’s this?

The cancer campaign graphics? Matutta told him. With a soft touch, just as you wanted. It’s here finally. I was just seeking Kassela’s view on which one to use for the print ad. We are looking to create bleeding edge solutions.

Matutta took two steps backwards and held the two boards and they all looked. Kassela looked thoughtful as she pointed at the first board. Something’s not right with this one. Dotcom is too superficial. Cannot work with the client.

GK seemed to concur. Uh-hm.

Kassela continued, her eyes on the second board. But this one could work. The black and white makes it parochial, which, to me, is ideal for sending the message across on the dangers of cancer. And the message is well crafted. Who’s the designer?

Amboseli as usual, Matutta said.

Kassela sighed. Amboseli’s amazing. Which reminds me, GK. We need a new designer. Amboseli’s overworked. She worked her mind back to subject at hand. Work with this one, Boss. She turned to George King. GK, you’re quiet.

Matutta made a comical expression of exasperation, winking at his boss. GK?

GK shrugged. I don’t know. This is a campaign, right? So, we are supposed to take a strategy that solves the client’s problem and create a message that persuades people in a way they have not been persuaded before.

I suppose, said Matutta. So?

GK tugged on his lips pointing at the first board. I think the message is clear here. We impose ideas. That’s what agencies do. Impose and influence.

Kassela laughed, shaking her head. It was good coming up with great concepts and it was a good deal for art’s sake, no doubt, but she knew that this pitch wouldn’t sail through without a bribe-to-win add-on. Many were the maddening things in this advertising racket. Many times, men wanted to sleep with you, and if you were a beautiful marketer, that was a plus. And if you were an ambitious professional woman with lose morals, you bent over the desk and gave a piece of you to get what you wanted. It made her sick; the things men made women do to make their way up the corporate ladder! Call it what you like; even call it corporate prostitution, but it gave professional women benefits... huge benefits: nice titles (MD, manager, et cetera.), business success, tenders and contracts, cars, houses and comfort. It gave the ladies that shameful (and most distasteful) title of mistress or side plan—or mpango wa kando in the new Kenyan lingo—but nowadays nobody cared.

She cleared her throat, stepped forward and took the second board from Matutta’s hand. Can I disagree, I beg. The client is the Government. The people. Right? We have to focus on the people and address them. This has nothing to do with strategy, it’s a campaign. It’s the ad talking to the people. It’s us telling them.

Temboland likes to create a little love affair, GK said. In colour. People love colour.

You’ve always said that, Kassela said. It didn’t work for 4K Housing. You love to impose. Maybe it works for your beloved Debbie. All for love and nothing less.

Think of power, lady, GK insisted. Prestige. If you wouldn’t care to turn Kikuyu, I would say you’re missing on some privileges.

Privilege? Kassela said. You want me to apologise for not being a Kikuyu? You’re a tribalist, you know. I have an idea.

The two men spoke in concert.

What?

A modem, spot-colour version of the story. Can’t you see? Amboseli got it very well. We don’t need too much visuals and dotcom stuff. Look beyond visuals and think about the impact....

Promising, dear girl, Matutta agreed. Promising. Perfect. I will take Kassi’s verdict on this one. He packed his boards.

Kassela turned and mimed applause.

Don’t worry, mate, GK said with a sneer. You win.

See you guys, Mattuta said and went into the studio.

GK turned to Kassela. My wife told me something that interested me very much. You had lunch with her?

Kassela changed her persona slightly, thinking. Then she spoke, And coming from Debbie, that’s quite an indictment. Ajoji Kiongosi, I need to talk to you about something. Personal.

When? My afternoon is rather squeezed.

Say before you get too busy. In about thirty minutes?

Fine, GK said. Your office or mine?

Mine will do.

––––––––

Next door was the public relations department. Sospeter Omondi manned the department single-handedly. He was the guru of the spoken and written word and his portfolio covered public relations and copywriting. He was a loud-mouth with an ear to the ground who seemed to know every Kenyan who mattered in business and politics, especially prominent Luos, even the ones who didn’t appear prominent but were. He had a knack for hearing what wasn’t being said in the media and the public arena.

Kassela reckoned that the mystery of Rapudo Oremo was a personal matter and Sospeter could help her unravel it. She intended to wait for Chicolette to come up with the ’goods.’ But by three thirty she was despairing and decided that she’d have to use Sos after all.

The PR door was open and Sospeter was pounding furiously on the keys of a beat-up computer keyboard, his back hunched and his expression focused. Sospeter was somewhere north of fifty and built like a midget wrestler, writ, large; hunky, squat, and heavily muscled. He looked out of place in his dark-brown corduroy suit. He’d worked for the Daily Nation as a journalist long before Kassela graduated from high school.

Kassela smiled and knocked on the door frame. Hey, big man. Could you spare me a minute?

Sospeter raised his Temboland-branded mug and sipped some cocoa. "Sure, mrembo," he said in his gravelly voice. He leaned back in his chair as Kassela sat on one of the visitors’ seat.

Kassela begun. Sos, have you ever heard of an outfit by the name Earthbound Investments?

A blatant expression of curiosity sprung from a distance up Sospeter’s usually don’t-waste-my-time sneer as it was possible to imagine. He swirled the aromatic dregs in his mug and downed the last of his cocoa before answering.

Earthbound InvestAfrica Holdings.

What?

Earthbound InvestAfrica. Earthbound Investments is run by one Robert Rapudo son of Oremo and InvestAfrica is run by one Fred Oyamo. They are best friends. But Earthbound Investments is the one that matters.

Kassela licked her top lip thoughtfully; her mind was a whirl. Slowly curiosity got the better of her when she recalled a newspaper article she had read about this Earthbound. What do they do? she asked.

Sospeter shrugged. Hard to say. They deal in anything and everything. I reckon that they fancy themselves as trading houses. But what they do is make money, lots of it. Why do you ask?

Fred Oyamo was here to see me.

Sospeter stared. Then he smiled with all his teeth. What did he want? He sat back and pushed his spectacles back.

He wasn’t very clear; it was like he was trying to pick my mind. At first, I thought it was about my social media marketing and networking programme. You know I am looking for a strategic partner to help amplify my messages. But it turned out to be something else. Have you ever met them?

Sospeter got a flash in his mind. Bits and pieces and it took only a moment to put the pieces together. He said, Yes, once and very casually. It’s part of my job in this racket to know people who matter in Nairobi. Business relationships are built that way. I met them at the unveiling of Ukweli’s manifesto during the last General Election. I doubt that they’d remember me now. But what do they really want with us? Maybe they want to buy the company.

A tinge of an alarming flash came to Kassela. Buy the company? Buy Temboland? They have that much money?

Sospeter nodded. Don’t be surprised. These guys are raiders. They look for an opportunity in everything. Once they’ve sniffed what they want, they move in. We should be worried more about Rapudo. He’s the real wheeler dealer of the two. If he sent Oyamo it was just to sniff us out before he makes his move. And when he comes, we wouldn’t know what hit us.

They appear interested in me, not Temboland.

Sospeter blinked his