A gray blanket lay over me. I was cold. It felt like death was a close friend about to visit. I was in a windowless cell lit by one electric bulb. The door was dark green iron. The bed was wire. The walls smelled of rot.
I guessed this was Nyayo House, Nairobi’s famous prison. I pulled the blanket up to my neck. It was stained with maroon blotches. Time passed. The back of my head hurt. I thought, Would Mrs. Steele really do this to me? Put me in Nyayo House just to get a contract? My contract was worth millions; I, obviously, was not. Somewhere, a man howled, screamed his head off for a bit, then hushed. In the new quiet I stared at the four concrete walls, the floor, and the ceiling—all gray, all cracked. I thought about Senior Father’s stories about Fam, the evil brother inside us who sits in his prison hole and drinks from the different skins of evil. I never realized it before—how lonely evil is.
A black spider crawled out of a crack in the ceiling. It looked down at me, and I looked up at it. It reminded me of my hotel room. And thinking of my hotel room reminded me of Mrs. Steele. I thought of her sitting by the pool, and of our deal: her Bloody Marys and my Tuskers. I smiled at the thought of my face in her dark glasses and her breasts in the black bikini. I know scammers, liars, and thieves, but by the pool—just her and me—she didn’t seem to be scamming. What had happened? But who can stop the chang’aa greed from making you forget what is right?
Locks clanked. The cell door swung open, and Gihilihili clicked into the cell. A wave of perfume attacked me. “Hello, young man,” he said. He smiled down at me with his giant grin. “And how are we feeling this evening?”
I stood up and the blanket fell. I said, “I’z fine, sa.”
Gihilihili turned to two policemen behind him. He waved the back of his hand at them. “They call me General,” he said. “But you, Bingo, are to call me Prophet. You and I have a great deal to talk about.” Then Gihilihili turned and clicked out of the cell. The two policemen took my arms and we followed Gihilihili to Interrogation Room 6, which consisted of two wooden chairs and a metal table. The two policemen stood at the door. Gihilihili said, “Mr. Mwolo, sit.”
I sat. Gihilihili sat on the other side of the table. He put his hands on the metal and spread out his fingers. His gold Rolex watch had diamonds on it. His fingernails were smooth, like a girl’s. His skin was dark, and his light gray suit was shaped to his body. His white shirt was bright and he wore a blue-and-red striped tie. The silver cross on his lapel shone. The bright ceiling lights bounced off his bald oval head, but his teeth were brightest of all.
Gihilihili took a deep breath. “First of all,” he said, “let me say that I am most sorry that we had to bring you here at all, Mr. Mwolo. I know that you are a busy young man.” He tried to wash the Kenyan out of his voice, but it stained every word. “But understand this,” he continued, his eyes wide. “I am here to help you.”
“Yes, sa,” I said.
“Prophet,” he corrected. “It seems that Father Matthew received a troublesome telephone call from Mr. Goerlmann, an associate of Mrs. Steele. Father Matthew asked that you and I have a talk to help you walk surely in the way of God.” Gihilihili touched the silver cross on his lapel. “I have brought you here, Bingo, in order to remind you of your good fortune and to counsel you on your possible fate.”
I was right; it was the contract. Mrs. Steele and her Thaatima had called Father Matthew. But I knew that Gihilihili could not dispose of me—not until Mrs. Steele found Hunsa and was able to take his paintings. Gihilihili was here to play, not to break the toy.
“Mr. Mwolo, it has come to my attention,” Gihilihili said, “that you may not be showing our visitors from America all the kindness that is becoming of a Kenyan of your stature.” He picked his teeth. “But my greater concern, as a minister of the church, is that greed has gotten the better of your sense of right and wrong. Might it be, Bingo, that you have become trapped by worldly things?”
The chief of police spoke through his smile. “Mr. Bingo, the matter we have to discuss is most straightforward.” He got up and clicked around the room. I wondered when he would get to the Kepha Kepha contract.
“Yes, sa,” I said.
Gihilihili leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “For the last time, it is Prophet.” His breath was minty, and I felt sick from the mint, the breath, and the perfume. He went on, “We are here to discuss the matter of paradise.”
Gihilihili’s voice was soft. His breath puffed on my ear. “Mr. Mwolo, where is paradise?”
“I don kna’, Profit,” I said. I pointed at the cracked ceiling. I said, “Paradise up there?” I knew that whatever I said was wrong. “In heavin.”
Gihilihili said softly, “No, Mr. Mwolo, I will ask you again. Where is paradise?”
I said, “I’z not certin’, Profit.”
He threw the metal table sideways. It smashed against the wall and clanged. But I knew it was an act. He stepped in front of me. He pushed me, and the chair I was seated on tipped back. I fell onto the floor. Gihilihili was on me in a second. He knelt on my chest. “Mr. Mwolo, I asked you a simple question. I swear, I will rip your arms off your body if you do not tell me.” He glared down. “I asked you, where is paradise?”
“In heavin,” I repeated.
It was a game. If I told him where the Hunsa paintings were: game over. If I showed up to see Mrs. Steele with no arms: game was also over.
Gihilihili stood up. He pushed his peg leg into my belly. I could see that the wood was scratched up. “Let me tell you about paradise, Mr. Mwolo.” He leaned forward, and I screamed under his weight. I grabbed for the wood. He smiled down at me. “In paradise, it is the poor man who is the king and the rich man his footman. That is the first teaching.” He lifted the weight off his leg. I cried out and reached for my belly. The scratches on the wood told me that he had played this game before. “Mr. Mwolo, do you wish to know the second teaching?” he asked me, still smiling. He continued, “Paradise is the poor man’s dream.”
“Yes, sa. Profit,” I said.
Gihilihili looked at the ceiling for a moment. “The third teaching,” he went on, “is that paradise is a dream inside you. Deep inside.” He leaned his peg leg into my belly again. I screamed out and gripped the wood to try and lift it off me. “Paradise, Mr. Mwolo, is where you go when everything else has cleared away. Paradise is what remains when everything else has gone.” He looked down at me. “Mr. Mwolo, you understand?”
I screamed, “Yes, sa.”
He said, “I am sorry?”
“Profit,” I said, and his leg relaxed.
“Mr. Mwolo, God has bestowed upon me the burden of guiding others in their duty on earth, of guiding them from beneath the shade of sin into the light of eternal paradise. Every man has his duty. A man without duty is like a clock without hands; it does not matter if it works or not. A man without duty is as good as dead. My duty, dear Bingo, is to help others find their sense of duty.”
I knew about the cut-up boys found in sacks at Krazi Hari’s feet. Gihilihili had brought many supplicants to paradise—many, in fact, without hands. He saw that I was thinking my own thoughts and stamped the peg leg down on my belly. The pain felt worse than death. Gihilihili talked on. “The problem, Mr. Mwolo, is that paradise is only for the poor man. The rich man cannot reach paradise drunk on Satan’s greed.” He looked down at me. “You understand?”
I nodded. Pain ripped across my body and into my back. Black crept in from the edges. If this was paradise—with everything gone—I was close.
Tears rolled off my face. Gihilihili adjusted the peg into the middle of my belly and leaned forward. “That is why, Mr. Mwolo, the thief can never go to paradise. That is why a man who clings to worldly possessions can never go to heaven. A greedy man, Mr. Mwolo, is lost to heaven’s song. The greedy man can never taste bliss; avarice is Satan’s kiss. Mr. Mwolo, clutch unto worldly things and paradise is forever lost. But because forgiveness for Jesus, is like thieving is for you I shall offer you an opportunity to correct your ways. The contract you cling to is a worldly thing more fitting for an American’s indulgence.” His smile fell. “Now, are you certain you fully understand?” Then he leaned forward so that all his weight, the peg leg, the concrete floor, and me were one. He whispered, “Now you sure?”
My scream was my prayer. I begged to enter paradise, if paradise was painless dark. But Gihilihili, chief of police, doctor, curator of art, and special envoy to paradise clicked out of Interrogation Room 6 and away.