Jambo, Bwana!

Charlie Manson was not exactly a bundle of joy that morning. Or any other morning really.

Charlie was a miserable git, a real downer, partly due to the unfortunate name he had been born into, partly due to his job, but mainly because he was naturally miserable.

Eighteen years as a detective. Six as a D/C, another four as Sergeant and then onto the dizzying mediocracy of Detective Inspector. Add the (just on) thirteen years he'd spent on the beat and D/I Charles Manson had seen it all, heard it all, and was bloody sick of it all!

With his retirement lump-sum, his wife, sorry, his ex-wife, no not ex…erm, he couldn't quite find the word for her, so…she had decided they were going to blow a large chunk of it on travelling the world. Charlie sat in his armchair, made polite grunting noises, and totally blocked out her incessant plans with his own incessant internal curses at his bleeding crossword puzzles.
Then, three weeks after he'd hung up his truncheon – literally hung it up, on the landing, his squad had had the beggar engraved and mounted as a going away present. Charlie would've preferred a nice bottle of Scotch, or a cheap bottle of Scotch, or even twenty ciggies. He hated that bloody thing – anyway, three weeks later the daft old girl had gotten herself run over by a bloody tractor! A tractor of all things! They lived in a second floor flat on a busy road in the middle of the bloody city!

How the daft old cow had walked out of the travel agent, directly in front of the only agricultural vehicle for 500 miles was beyond him. But she was dead. So, he would never know, now, would he? Bloody typical, the one mystery he couldn't solve was the death of his own wife by a bleeding errant combine harvester! That made Charlie even more miserable.
But that was six months ago. That wasn't the reason for this morning's joyless bundle of Manson.

Charlie tried resting his sweaty head on the vibrating plastic windows of the antique Toyota as it bounced along yet another orange muddy track, with the oohs and ahhs of the same annoying tourists that had been oohing and ahhing for the last four hours; when they'd oohed and ahhed their way out of the perfectly decent air-conditioned Mombasa hotel onto the uncomfortable death trap that would transport them halfway across Hell to try and catch sight of a few bleeding animals that they could see for a few quid at any zoo, or for nowt on any bloody David bloody Attenborough show, and Christ knows the old geezer certainly churned the bloody things out!

He took a figurative breath. Forehead squeaking annoyingly as the driver aimed at another perfectly avoidable crater in the road. Charlie sat back in the uncomfortably sweaty plastic chair, tilted his neck to catch the tiny breath of fetid air that flowed by and cursed his dead wife. He hated travelling, he hated Kenya, Hakuna bloody Matata his backside, and he truly, truly, bloody hated Safaris!

Losing His Tembo

The ancient Toyota bounced to yet another bone-jarring stop. Tourists oohed and ahhed as they frantically pointed over-large camera lenses in the rough direction their guide, Augustus, was pointing.

'Shhhh, tembo! Tembo is here!' The guide beamed his blinding smile.

More oohs and ahhs as the tourists frantically juggled over-large cameras with tiny bought-at-the-airport English-Swahili phrase books, well-thumbed to the Hakuna Matata page, but otherwise left in the bottom of most camera cases, along with the short lenses.

Charlie sat forward in his slippery seat; this was one thing he was actually looking forward to. He found elephants to be fascinating beasts. He'd been on a few CITES courses as a Ports D/S back in the day and was still appalled that criminals could kill these wonderful creatures for a few quid a tusk.

His apparent interest in conservation had been a large factor in his late (Late! Yes, that's the word!) wife's keenness to include a good few safari in their globetrotting plans. He'd bought a tee-shirt that read 'Only elephants should wear ivory' to try and get himself in the safari mood. Rhino, lion, giraffe, then elephant and hippos. She'd planned and booked a full itinerary for them both.

Sadly, after the first three, sitting alongside an empty seat, Charlie was bored stiff, and stiff as a board, and very quickly went back to cursing her, Kenya, and Toyota. But he was still slightly excited as the engine died and silence filled the dusty air.

The greenery stirred at the side of the red dirt track. Augustus pointed and shushed again as a huge bull elephant ambled into the roadway.

'Jambo, Tembo!' He whispered, smile still blinding.

Tembo didn't appear to be that impressed with the beaming smiles.

He turned and faced the truck-full of oohing and ahhing tourists. Kicking up dust and waving his mighty trunk, the bull displayed his huge ears, and made a sound not unlike a gigantic cat purring underwater.

From the undergrowth came the herd, filing behind Tembo, orderly, unrushed, the matriarch finally awarding the long lenses with a brief look into camera and an even briefer trumpet call.
The bull snorted, flapped his ears once more, and turned smartly, then was gone, red dust settling in the heat haze the only indication that several hundred tons of animal had ever passed that way.
Gasps replaced oohs and ahhs as the truck's inhabitants took their collective breath for the first time in several minutes. Frantically stabbing sweaty fingers at replay buttons to ensure they'd captured the scene.

Charles Manson slid back into his own sweaty puddle and smiled to himself.

He'd seen that before, plenty of times a constable. Whilst the Toyota buzzed with chatter about how magnificent and wild the creatures were, untouched by humanity and modernity, Charlie beamed.

He knew why he liked elephants. Knew why he liked Tembo. A kindred spirit, well trained, observant…and bloody good at stopping traffic to let the kids and their mums cross the road safely! Paint 'Stop' and 'Children' on each ear and you'd have the ultimate school crossing patrol. Wasn't nature wonderful?

Human nature not so much. As Charlie was about to find out.

As 87 minutes later he was being bundled into the back of a Land Rover at gunpoint!

You see, Augustus had done his usual pitch at the end of the safari; would anyone like to visit his village on the way back to the hotel. Authentic African village. Not on the tourist itineraries. Most visitors never see real Kenyan village. Great photo opportunity. But you probably just want to get back, pity but… oh ok! We'll take a short diversion! Asante Sana!
The authentic African village was a bit of a let-down, more the tail-end of a small African town, complete with tourist shops, a few bars and even a small Italian restaurant.

Charlie left the others oohing and ahhing around a group of schoolkids playing with a stick, schoolkids who would happily be honoured to have their photos taken for just a few dollars…and sought out the shade of one of the seedy-looking bars.

A cold beer and a quick stand in front of the antediluvian electric fan on the bar, and Charles Manson was feeling less grumpy - not happy - just less grumpy. He popped back outside to have a quick smoke before resigning himself to climbing back on board the Toyota torture mobile.

'Jambo Bwana!' the gold-toothed tracksuit wearing teenager sidled up to Charlie.

'Yeah, Jambo mate, just going. Not buying, Bye now!'

'I have something very special, for my English and American friends, very special Bwana!'

'And I, my friend, have no interest at all in buying wacky backy! Christ, is that all you lot try and flog to tourists now?'

Goldy jabbed a cigarette stained finger at Charlie's shirt, ' Tembo yes? You like the elephant? Yes?'

Manson tried to walk away, honestly, he did.

Goldy fished in his tracksuit pockets. Charlie huffed, expecting the usual small bag of green herbs that tourists were being offered as cannabis everywhere they turned.

Instead the orange fingered, gold-toothed, tracksuit wearing scumbag actually thrust a bracelet at him, whispering, 'Ivory, Bwana, Tembo tusk, very rare, very special. For you just $200!'

Charles Manson saw red.

Very red. Crimson perhaps.

He reverted to type, and as the poacher pushed the offending trinket at his again, Charlie merely grabbed his wrist, locked his fingers, and twisted down. Hard.

Goldie's scream of pain echoed around the street, shouts coming from within the shady bar and several locals emerged from the nearby houses.

Charlie held on tight, temper and disgust winning the day as a small crowd gathered and shouted at his to release their neighbour.

Goldy fell to his knees as Manson maintained the wristlock. Nervous now as the crowd became hysterical, jabbing fists toward him. Shouts becoming more threatening than concerned. He was sure most of the words being spat towards him wouldn't be in any Swahili holiday phrase book!

Manson decided to get away from the side street, get to the Toyota and ask his guide to explain to the villagers that Goldy was a poaching, elephant-murdering scumbag and he, Manson, was trying to help….

A slight twist and Goldy yelped again, jumping to his feet, and being dragged along by Charlie towards the main street. He could see the oohing and ahhing tourists waiting to clamber aboard, weighed down by their latest must-have souvenirs.

Charles felt something awfully hard pressing into the back of his head. Something very, erm, gun-like?

'Release the gentleman now. Release him now, or I will shoot you, Sir! '

Manson released Goldy, who promptly bravely spat on his new elephant tee shirt, before bravely running away.

Four very excited Kenyan police reservists very roughly bundled Manson into the rear of the police Land Rover and, with the crowd of irate villagers banging and kicking and throwing rocks at the vehicle, piled in with him. Forcing their prisoner to the floor, shouting excitedly to each other, and the crowd, in rapid-fire nasty-sounding Swahili.

Charlie curled into a ball and prepared himself to be beaten or shot. He really, really, hated safaris!

Hakuna Matata, Indeed!

Manson felt rough hands searching his pockets as his face was pushed into the dusty floor of the Land Rover, helpless in the rather outdated chain link handcuffs, there was little he could do to stop them, oh great, he was getting robbed too!

One of the youngsters pulled out his wallet, counting out his cash and going through his credit cards.

Something was said in Kenyan and they all laughed…. probably the photo on his driver's licence? A boot poked his ribs and one of them remarked on him being stupid for carrying so much cash around, a fortune for the average villager, he was likely to be mugged! Again, more laughter.

Then the laughter stopped. Very suddenly. Nervous coughs, whispered words and then……

Charlie was very gently released from the restraints, even more gently helped up off the floor, and ever so gently lowered into a seat. He was handed his wallet whilst two of the guys tried in vain to pat the dust from off his clothing.

'We are truly sorry, Sir!'

'An unfortunate misunderstanding, Sir!'

'Of course, you are free to leave Sir. And we will escort you to your hotel immediately, Boss!'

The fourth simply offered Manson a small white plastic card. His own card. His Police ID in fact.

It would seem, even as a retired Detective Inspector, professional courtesy was international.

Manson took the proffered Id and flashed a smile, pointing to his photo, ' Long time ago now, I was Boss, forgot that this was even in my wallet, lads!'

More apologies and regrets that his treatment had been harsh. But they had responded to a call that a drunken tourist was attacking a young man outside a bar and….

'Hey, no worries lads, you were just doing what you thought was right, Hakuna Matata? Yeah?'

'Hakuna Matata B'wana, asante sana!'

'But, I would like a favour from you fine young Officers….'

Beams from the four of the young men as they dropped him at his hotel, the Police 'Rover was turned around and sped off back to the village. They had an International Mission to complete!

The following morning, Manson was given a beautifully written invitation to attend the Police Headquarters in Nairobi, luncheon with the Commander and a tour of the Police Barracks. Proper VIP stuff, a car would be waiting etc.

'Charles Manson ex-Detective Inspector – Commendation for bravery in apprehending a known fugitive.'

Charlie was grateful for the certificate, enjoyed a lovely lunch and was paraded around the nick to all and sundry, from the big wigs to the cleaners, everyone wanted to shake his hand.
It turned out that Goldy had been arrested, the 'ivory' bracelet was found to be one of several hundred fake plastic pieces of jewellery he'd been selling to anyone stupid enough to want to be conned. He was Charged with fraud and Going Equipped for Theft.

But more importantly, Goldie's fingerprints were run through the system and he was found to be wanted all over Africa and further afield for similar offences. A truly nasty piece of work. D/I Manson had single-handedly brought this fugitive to justice, whilst on holiday no less!

Manson was given a copy of Goldie's file, mostly petty stuff, cheat and theft, a con artist for gullible tourists. But (and his heart didn't know whether to leap or sink), there was also an Interpol request for his extradition to the UK.

Several months ago, Goldie had been in England, posing as a Kenyan agriculturalist, conning high value machinery from manufacturers in a charity scam that proposedly helped poor African farmers to prosper. The machinery never saw Africa but were sold on the black market.

His fingerprints had provided a match from one such agricultural machine that had been involved in a tragic hit and run…..

Manson wiped a tear from his eye, pleased that he had solved the one mystery that had haunted him, he silently thanked his late wife, for the trip, the opportunity, and even the bloody safari!

Now her killer was in custody, he prayed she could now rest in peace!

Freewayriding

07.09.20 Front Page

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