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Cock thief it off

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John Naiguran woke up suddenly and Cock thief it off, adjusting to the dimness inside Cock thief it off bus.

There were people around him, strangers, fellow travellers. And the hand on his shoulder had been shaking him for some time. It was the student — Janet? They were on the night bus from Nairobi. She had boarded the bus in Limuru, half an hour into the journey. He had told her he was Alfred, a money-changer on his way to Busia at the border. He felt for the bag beneath the chair.

It was still there, still heavy. He sank into his seat and sighed. You were looking at me as if I stole your grade cow. This girl whose name eluded him. She was skinny and small Cock thief it off probably more than a little high on the miraa bulging in her cheek. She looked very different from her voice, a rough, rousing roar of four in the morning in those dark little hovels Cock thief it off the roadside, the ones run by fat round women called Rhoda and Francisca who serve cheap lethal brews to broken men in oversized jackets.

Now she spat suddenly into a polythene bag magically extracted from somewhere in the complicated folds of her clothes. And then she was unwrapping half of a Big G, chewing it, making rude, rhythmic clicks. She seemed to appreciate the sound more than the flavour. She stared at him the whole time, her large liquid eyes shining out of the khanga that covered her head and framed her face; the rest of it disappeared inside a fur-lined jacket, unzipped half-way down to reveal a T-shirt tucked tight into a pair of worn jeans.

Limuru, he knew, got very cold. He wondered what she would do with her jacket in the heat of Kampala. But it was the boots with their steel-tipped points that convinced him this was a malaya, going west to seek new flesh markets.

There was no money in Kenya. Everybody was leaving, and lying about it. She made it sound like a word in her mother tongue. Then she turned to him as if she had just remembered something. Lights appeared in the large windscreen up front; illuminated the "Cock thief it off," a large battling figure hunched over the steering-wheel; whished past. The driver tried to engage a low gear.

The sleeping passengers seemed to rise, and for a moment were suspended above their seats, dancing shadows. He remembered once seeing a music video, Michael Jackson, where the dead were resurrected in mist and smoke.

Roused from their long sleep, they now walked the earth in silent, terrifying formations. The gears crunched in and the passengers trembled like eggs in a tray.

And from deep in the belly of the bus a wail, low and desolate and full of dying machinery, began to organize itself. Then the beast sprang forward and the passengers fell back. Corporal Naiguran held onto the seat in front of him and the bus settled down to a groaning, sedate pace. He used the sleeve of his dead arm to wipe the window. It was misted with sleep-breath.

He wanted to open it, but feared the cold.

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He turned away Cock thief it off the girl and peered into the darkness. There was nothing to see outside — a vast emptiness falling away as they climbed up the shoulder of the Rift Valley. But as they came to the crest of the hill, he saw the silhouette of the Mau escarpment on the horizon, like the wall of a giant stadium, the moon a solitary floodlight. He calculated that they were past Kikopey and about half an hour from Nakuru where the bus usually stopped — at the petrol station rumoured to belong to the old man — and people grabbed something to eat at the all-night restaurant.

He remembered the first time he came here, with his father and their animals, when he was an uncircumcised boy, a layionidressed in nothing but a red shuka. He remembered the sound of cow-bells in the dust. It was during the drought and the salt and minerals in the soil more than the grass sustained the few animals that survived.

His father, tall and straight and pointing with his stick at where they had come from, how in the old days their animals had filled this valley.

These were good pasturelands, but Naiguran knew that these days the land was being turned into little plots of maize.

There was no room any more for men like his father, roaming with their sons and their cattle. His family had never returned here, had moved up into the Mau. He was seized by the despair of lost things. He thought about the old man. It seemed incredible to Naiguran that it was just this morning that he had driven him to the airport.

He pressed his foot down on an imaginary brake as the bus lurched over a pothole, remembered the power of the long Mercedes, the deep vibration of the steering-wheel in his hands. He had personally recruited Naiguran when he first heard his name. The Maasai, he had said, were loyal. The old man, even now when things had become difficult, was still respected as a peacemaker. Corporal Naiguran could see him in the rear-view mirror of the Mercedes, could see the top of the balding head, the grey hair at the sides, a semi-circle of matted cottonwool.

It suddenly struck Naiguran that he had become so accustomed to that image in the rear-view mirror he could not remember the exact moment when the hair began to thin out and Cock thief it off. At the airport, as he got out of the car, he had spoken directly to Naiguran, his voice grating more Cock thief it off more these days, as if his soul was being dragged through a cement-mixer.

But he was in a good mood, and had joked: Take care of the country until I "Cock thief it off." He knew now that he would not be seeing the old man again, not after this. If he did, if he met the old man face to face again, he would probably be just about to die, badly, with his stink all around him, begging for mercy in words and ways he could not conceive. Words would be dictated to him by fear and they would be useless words, the words that accompanied you to the other side.

She was sitting very close to him, beginning to assume intimacies. He could smell her sweat, and there was something exciting about it. "Cock thief it off" long thin braids swung free from her headscarf and brushed against his neck as she leaned into him. He was aroused and shifted in his seat, saying nothing. Are you all right? She was not his type at all. He faced her and glanced down at her breasts, banana-shaped and rising low in her T-shirt.

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He realized she was not wearing a bra; her nipples stretched the thin material. She noticed him looking, and slowly zipped up her jacket, her eyes never leaving him. He looked away, angry with himself. There was still nothing to see outside. The window had clouded over again. He found himself comparing the girl — Janey? His erection bulged against his trousers.

It was becoming a problem. He reached for the bag.

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It was heavy but he put it on his lap. She continued as if he had spoken. Do you have a cock in that bag? Can I touch it? Cock thief it off reached across and began to trace her hand along the bag.

He grabbed her thin wrist and squeezed. She moaned theatrically, her eyes wide as if this was all a big joke. She was still shaking with laughter as the bus slowed down, pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.

The Cock thief it off smell of the tyres came through unseen cracks and openings. And there were other lights doing a firefly dance in the windscreen. Naiguran peered through the interior gloom. He saw figures in luminous green waving torches — the dancing firefly lights. The police usually waved buses on, unless there was a problem — a highway robbery or a radio alert for escaped convicts or suspected thugs.

The door was pulled open and a policeman clambered in, talking loudly and urgently into his radio. Since the old man was flying back from Khartoum the next morning, one of them, probably Kipkorir, the security boss, would have sent for him. When he failed to respond to the radio call, somebody — probably Ndambuki, because everybody knew how close he and Ndambuki were — would have been sent to his room at the base. Ndambuki would have found it padlocked from the outside.

The Cock Thief has 5...

And he must have stood there staring at that lock and sensing absence — the way you walk into an empty house and Cock thief it off its uninhabited silences. It would have hit him then — that Naiguran had gone ahead with the plan without him. Enraged, vindictive, he would have broken the lock, marched into the one-roomed house, knocked things around.

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