Dizzy Worms

The two had arranged to meet beyond the forecourt. In one hand the boy had a tattered oily rag, and in the other a fluorescent jacket, the badge of office that made the wearer all but invisible, for he was seen as a mere petrol dispenser and windscreen cleaner.

The agreed fee for the job was 100 ngwee, which Ntoto had persuaded Furniver to lend him from the bank’s entrepreneur fund, promising that the money was needed as a down-payment on a pair of pliers that he would use to set up his business as a wire toy-maker.

The boy shuffled nervously. It was all very well to devise the scheme for extra cash when polishing a succession of car windows and dreaming of what you could do with the money; but with Ntoto standing in front of him it was a very different matter.

The captain of the Mboya Boys’ football team had a formidable reputation as a thug on the field and a bully off it.

“The petrol captain wants his share,” said the boy nervously. “That is 25 per cent.”

“Very well,” he said. “This time I will do it for 100 only, as a favour.”

Ntoto’s eyes looked through the boy, with underlying menace. He counted out the notes and handed them over.

“And we share tips,” said the boy, a tall skinny youth who was suspected by the Mboya Boys of being a sympathiser of mungiki, if not a member of the fast-growing sect.

“Rubbish,” said Ntoto. “Just rubbish. All tips are mine and that is what we agreed.”

“If you think I will give you tips our agreement is broken,” and he threw the peaked cap at the boy’s feet.

For a terrible few seconds the boy seemed ready to call Ntoto’s bluff but then reluctantly and sullenly bent down, picked up the cap and handed it to Ntoto.

Ntoto looked at the clock on the forecourt. It was 10.30 a.m. and the service was due to start any minute now.

“Why are you wearing that cloth around your head?” said the pump boy nervously.

“Toothache,” said Ntoto. “Very bad toothache. Where can I leave my lunch?”

Ntoto removed the small sack from his baggy shorts, dumped it in the bin and covered it with the sheets of a discarded newspaper.

The oily forecourt of the garage had four petrol pumps and two pumps for diesel.

Ntoto took the rag, the bucket of soapy water, and the peaked cap with the sign “Lucky Lucky Motors” on the brim. So far so good. Although there was only a slight chance that he would be recognised by the other petrol boys, the less time he spent on the forecourt the better.

As the official pump boy left Ntoto to it, and made his way across the road, Ntoto could see in the distance the four-wheel drive that invariably escorted the mayoral Rolls approaching. Jamming the cap on his head, pulling the peak as far down as it could go, obscuring his face, clutching the can of soapy water in one hand and the oily rag in the other, he trotted to the entrance to the petrol station and waited for his quarry. The Rolls Royce rolled to a halt like a beast approaching a watering role, but without fear, replete and well groomed.

Mounted on the short flag holder on the right of the bonnet was the mayoral insignia.

Ntoto looked out from under the peak of the cap and to his horror saw that the man sitting alongside the driver was none other than his old adversary, Sokoto, who had been responsible for beating him in the presence of the mayor. Too late now to have second thoughts. The huge vehicle drew to a halt. Sokoto, to Ntoto’s enormous relief, immediately set off for the Gents.

Ntoto then gambled on his knowledge of life in Kuwisha and added, “He told me about your discount, suh.”

He wound up his window again and got out of the car, slammed the door shut and went off to join Sokoto in the Gents. This was a stroke of luck for Ntoto, for the riskiest part of the operation was about to begin. He thrust the nozzle of the pump into the tank, turned the machine on to automatic and retrieved the sack from the bin, a couple of paces from where he stood.

A tug of the string at the top opened the bag. Quickly, he turned the pump back from automatic to manual, pulled out the nozzle and poured the contents of the sack into the tank of the Rolls. He was just in time. The driver returned and signed the chitty, which Ntoto had prepared.

As Sokoto left the Gents, he motioned to the driver, indicating that he would wait for the car at the point where the garage met the main road.

The cuff that followed caught him by surprise and sent him reeling. He contained his rage.

The driver gave Ntoto a final clip over the ear for good measure, stepped back into the car and drove off, collecting Sokoto on the way.

Ntoto did not wait. He abandoned his peaked cap, dumped pail and cloth, disappeared in the direction of the toilets, made his way across the busy main road and concealed himself in the branches of one of the trees that lined the avenue. From there he watched and listened.

He tensed in anticipation. If it was going to work, it would work in the next 100 metres of its journey. For a terrible moment he thought he’d failed.

Then he heard the sound that signalled success. Above the noise of the traffic, the Rolls backfired once, twice, three times, like the cough of a wounded buffalo.

It continued on its journey, coughing, jerking, rallying, seeking shelter, before coming to a shuddering halt, dying at the very feet of a distraught Mayor Guchu.

The sugar had worked! The maintenance manual was right! Dirt in the carburettor could be a problem – and sugar did the most damage.

A few minutes later Ntoto was joined by Rutere, who had left the chapel and was waiting for him, panting, concealed by a bush on the far side of the road.

Rutere, his heart bursting with pride at his friend’s cunning, described the scene at the chapel.

Again Rutere acted out the part, raising his hand to his forehead, and peering out, like a man scanning the horizon.

“Next, more coughing, like that Aloysius Hatende. Three times, maybe four times, all the time the car is struggling to reach Guchu, struggling, struggling.”

“When it reached the feet of Guchu, it died, at his feet. And then, and then, that boy called Cephas, who we said stole the sugar, the boy who loves Arsenal so much, Cephas began singing, like they sing in England, all pointing their fingers, and singing.”

“The song he sang was so good, soooo good, all the boys started singing at Guchu.”

Rutere completed his performance singing the song himself, his thin, reedy voice surprisingly loud:

Guchu, your car’s dying!

Guchu, why you crying?

Guchu, you’re rubbish

Guchu, your car’s dead!

Arms slung around each other’s bony shoulders, the boys set off back to Harrods, singing their defiance as loud as their lungs could manage.

Guchu, your car’s dying!

Guchu, why you crying?

Guchu, you’re rubbish

Guchu, your car’s dead!

And every five minutes or so, the two boys danced, their stick legs stomping, pot bellies shaking, and elbows pumping, they celebrated the humiliation of the street boys’ enemy.

As the boys took the backstreet route to Kireba, Rutere asked the question that had been on his mind.

“What can he tell? He is better to keep quiet. If he says he sold his job to me, Titus Ntoto, captain of the Mboya Boys, he will be punished for being stupid.”

“The garage manager will not sack him, because he is Guchu’s nephew. And Guchu will beat the boy,” added Ntoto, matter of factly. “Guchu will maybe even disappear him. So the boy will have to stay quiet. And if he is a problem to me, I will say that he helped me do it.”

“And Rutere, there is sugar left over – enough to make a bucket of changa!”