Waterways II: Radar Safi

Waterways (Part 1)

For readers unfamiliar with Swahili and Sheng, see the glossary at the end.

The matatu announced its arrival with a cacophony of hoots, but as Nairobians confess, this is always unnecessary. Even the deaf would be startled by the stentorian speakers long before the bus came into view.

Okra acknowledged the distraction, nodding to the music. Gracefully, she lifted her gaze from her sketchbook and cast it through the café’s window. As it sped past, she stared, admiring the intricate artwork. Kenyans are a colourful people. They pour out their passions in torrents, letting them paint the places they inhabit. And so their buses are both murals and musical performances. She spotted her digital avatar etched on the side, a black wolf. She smiled, and instinctively draped her hoodie over her head.

Outside, the skies wept, turning the streets into a shimmering mirror of lights. The city had long emptied, not so much to escape the storm, but to return to their homes and plug into “Daima”, the national data grid.

Okra’s eyes were lured to a billboard screen in the distance. A polished, stylish woman clad in green and yellow was putting a device delicately on her head. She then turned, casting a perfectly unnatural smile towards Okra, and mouthed the word: “Daima“. Around her frame, a string of text floated, reminding all citizens with a Huduma Namba of their civic duty: to always remain connected, a duty she demonstrated again and again with robotic elegance. The loop played on and on, and for an eternity, Okra’s eyes were glued to the screen.

Eventually, the loop was interrupted, giving way to the portrait of The Supreme Leader. The butcher, Ali Ibanga Kura, wore his signature suit and towered over the map of the Greater East African colony, painted in his party colours: green and yellow. Between his outstretched arms, the word “Daima“. Then, another string of text: “Tunajenga na Data“. She sneered at the scam: surveillance disguised as progress. Disgusted, she withdrew her eyes from him.

The air hung heavy around her, flooding the bistro with the strong fragrance of roasted coffee beans and Dunhill cigarettes. She flicked her wrist and her band lit up. 10:30 PM. With a silent tap, she tipped generously for her tea, even though it had long gone cold. With another tap, her headphones buzzed, signalling they were fully charged. She yawned, stretching her arms above her head, and gave the room a sweep from the corner of her eye.

On a distant wall, a screen scrolled endlessly with quotas from across the GEA, ranking counties and sectors by compliance rates. As usual, all Ugandan sectors were still red, but Tanzanian sectors were quickly turning green.

The rest of the room had long cleared out, but three people still remained. No, three men. She had never seen them before, and all three had sat too close to the door. What were they still doing here? Sighing lightly, she turned her face towards the windowpane. The torrents had intensified, transforming the streets into shimmers and shadows. But this time, she did not want to watch the rain, but to read the reflections the window offered. To stare directly at them, she thought, would be too obvious.

The closest man was four tables away. He was young, barely a man, his mother’s cooking still clinging onto his frame. Twenty-five, perhaps? No, twenty-one. His face was backlit by colour after colour as he swiped distractedly on his tablet. She squinted at the glass, bringing his features into sharper view. His was one of those faces polished with the proceeds of corruption: handsome but dull. If she had to run, he would be the first obstacle to the door. An easy one. The other men sat behind him. Both of them bore the unmistakable build of middle age: solid and strong. These two would be a problem, but they seemed too engrossed in their world to be a nuisance. They laughed loudly, occasionally swapping holograms between themselves. Every ten minutes, one of them would light a cigarette, but the barista did not complain. This was Upper Hill, after all, the playground of the upper class.

Okra turned her attention back to the younger man, who was now ogling her. With a calculated nonchalance, she turned her face towards him, meeting his eyes. He smiled. She didn’t.
She looked straight through him towards an old friend, the barista. When her eyes met his, she gave him a nod, and promptly, Jonte had conjured up another cup of masala tea, which he delivered to her table without a word.

As she turned her eyes back to the young man, he had already reached her, offering his hand. She did not touch it.
“Hey, I’m Malik! May I… join you?”

It was too late for such encounters, but denying him could draw attention.
“Sure,” she groaned.
Malik settled into the chair across from her, disturbing the careful isolation she had cultivated for herself.
“What’s your name?” he pursued. His voice was soft and pleasant, but it was wasted on Okra. He was pouring warm honey over a plate of gravel. She brought her cup to her lips, regarding him through the rising steam and letting the awkward silence simmer.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” He giggled. “That’s fair. I probably wouldn’t talk to me either.”
“Why?” she hissed.
“Hot girl like you!” He shrugged. But before she could respond, he gestured toward her headphones.
“Wow, Focals! Really dope.”
“Focal Bathys,” she announced.
“Let me…” He reached towards her, clawing at the device. She recoiled beyond his reach.
“Oh, iza, I couldn’t help myself. I had them once. Focal Utopia, really loved them. My dad bought them for me kitambo. He’s the one sitting over there. With the glasses.”
“The smoker?”
“Haha, yeah. That’s him.”
“And?”
“Agh, well, long story, but let’s just say my ex broke them, and I deserved it.”

Okra placed the cup beside her sketchbook, her eyes fixed upon the young man. The boy had broken a sweat already, swiping his palm across his brow. Cute. Unable to bear it anymore, he broke the silence again.

“Why aren’t you, you know… plugged in?” He gestured to his temple. ” Tunajenga na Data! Ama you have chumz?” On the distant wall, the screen flickered, and The Supreme Leader came into view. Another ad, another sneer from her. He saw it, but pulled her back to his question. “Eh?” But all she offered was a blank face, half obscured by her hood. He couldn’t see it, but a spark had shone in her eyes. The way he spoke about it, with the same contempt that she felt.
“My dad lipas for us, so his famo can chill,” he continued. “But it gets pretty lonely jioni; it’s hard finding guys who haven’t plugged.”
Ah, of course. Another rich kid, enjoying what many others could not: the privilege of whiling away a Tuesday night without slaving for the government.

“No one should pay that shit,” she announced flatly, but her eyes betrayed her excitement.
“You guys don’t lipa?” he quizzed.
She winked at him, revealing for a brief moment a warmth behind her cold façade.
“You downloaded the Wolf Pack? No shit!”
“Yup!” she lied.
“Si guys say it has viruses, steals shit from your brain, sijui what.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” she sassed.
“Guys also say, if you download it, the Subaru Boys will beba you!”

He laughed at his own joke. She chuckled too, but only to mask the shiver that had just shot through her spine. She cast an eye outside, just to make sure no new vehicles were lurking nearby. And now that the downpour had intensified, she gave her tea cup one last swig. It was time to leave.

“By the way, you draw, right? I saw…” he stammered, pointing at the sketchbook. Instinctively, she pulled it closer to her chest.
“You were watching me?”
“Noticing, not watching,” Malik corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Smacking again into the walls she had erected around herself, he leaned back and licked his wounds. Using his smile as a shield, he pressed on.
“Sorry… about before… I shouldn’t have reached for your, you know, stuff, consent and all. I promise I won’t grab your book. But I’d love to see what you are drawing, if… if that’s okay…”

She scowled. “Why?”
“Well, you don’t talk much. Maybe you speak through your art?”
She rolled her eyes and sighed. She saw the way he was looking at her.  His eyes burned with a particular anguish, like a lover lamenting the torment of intercourse without release. For a moment, she felt like she was starting to like him. His eyes, brown and brilliant…his voice, passionate but hesitant.

Desire arrives with urgency, burns brightly but briefly. It always feels good to be desired, and in lust, there is no dishonour. We all must all curate taste for immediate pleasures, never demanding transcendence from what is transient. There’s pleasure in living in the moment, feeling….but no. Not tonight. But if this would get rid of him, so be it. She slid her sketchbook forward, but maintained a firm grip on it.

Malik’s eyes glowed with excitement, uncaring that she was reluctant to release it. He leaned into it, his eyes pouring over the page that was shown to him.
At first, admiration filled his eyes. Then, suddenly, astonishment.

“Fuck. You are…” he started, but the book was withdrawn before he could say more.
“I’m what.”
Speechless, he sank into his chair. For a moment, he embraced the silence between them. It was as if he had just been thrust into another universe and cast out of it before his eyes had drunk their fill. He tapped his fingers nervously on the table and kept his eyes on the book. That, he thought, was not just art.

“So, what are you guys doing here?” she asked, jolting him.
“Oh! Umm… Nothing much, just fixing shit for my dad. You know, configs and stuff.”
He kept his eyes on the book. Shit, she shouldn’t have shown him. Anyway, he may have looked at it, but to look is not to see.
“Configs?” she pressed.
“Yeah, you know, APIs, MCPs, relays, usual stuff. I’m kinda his tech guy, at least until I get a scholarship.”
“And the other guy?”
“Ah, that guy? Omosh. Works with Dad. He’s alright.”
“They are working? Right now? On what?”
“Oh, haha. My dad’s a cop. He’s RES, so yeah.”
“Your dad is RES!” Her voice remained flat. “Nice!”
She grinned, and Malik beamed with pride. “Yeah, they’ve been trying to catch the Wolf, ati orders from above. Can you believe this shit! Gava thinks the Wolf lives here, in Upper. There’s no way, right?”

No, she couldn’t believe it. The shiver that had just shot through her spine had now turned into a bolt of lightning. She was all alone, and surrounded. She looked again at the two officers and spotted the bulge of Kevlar under their coats. Shit! Her instincts ordered her to flee, but that would be stupid. If the Regional Enforcement Squadron was here for her, she’d have been abducted hours ago.

“Everybody knows the wolf is not real,” she mocked.
“Even if, it can’t just be one guy. It’s a movement,” he continued. “Like Anon, you know?”
“Anon in Kenya? Hah, bhangi!” Okra quipped.
“Not Anon, but, maybe the Ugandans, right? They didn’t want to join the GEA, and ever since the Busia bombings…”
“Yeah,” she interrupted, “and the Tororo massacre…”
“Fuck… I think it’s them man, its revenge. There’s no way some guy in Upper can fuck with the GEA this hard. Their Metaspace is offline, eCitizen, even Huduma Namba is down. Cheki.” He showed his tablet: a summary by Perplexity of the news week.
“Na si the GEA still denies the Wolf even exists?” she said, pointing at one link.
“Officially, yes, because Ibanga doesn’t want another war. Uganda may lose again, but no one will win.”
“You think they are planning something?” she asked, training an eye on the two men. They were still engrossed in their holograms, oblivious of her.
“Dunno, but if they did, si we’d be fucked man.” Malik continued. “M-U even announced their third AGI.”
“Makerere? Again?”
“Yup. Jana.”

As Malik continued, Okra was tapping her band relentlessly under the table. Jonte got the message, and the barista plunged the bistro into darkness.

Before anyone’s eyes could adapt, Okra slipped out of her seat and moved with precision. The darkness was absolute, but she didn’t need light. Ten paces to the kitchen, five to the door in the back. Behind her, the RES officers were yelling about the lights, but when the backup generators hummed to life, Okra was long gone.

Like a shadow in the night, she melted into the rain and flew into the stairwell of the adjacent building, her feet barely touching the ground. Clinging to the railings, she propelled herself upward, breath measured, calculating. “Please be open. Please be open, please…” she mumbled, fingertips reaching for the final door.

She burst onto the rooftop, glided to the edge and peered below. No movement, no cars, no people. She checked her band: 2 minutes and 35 seconds. Not bad. She tapped it twice, sending a single word: “Radar.”
Jonte’s reply came moments later. “Safi.”

Okra tilted her face skyward, letting the rain wash her panic away. In the distance, Ibanga’s face still beamed from billboards. Always watching. She thrust both middle fingers at him and turned her back on him. She tightened the straps of her backpack, fastened the chords of her hood, and set her headphones right.
Three taps on it, and the bass blasted into her soul. And then she was gone.

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Glossary:

• Ama: (Sheng) Or.
• ati: (Sheng) Supposedly. Used to imply hearsay.
• beba: (Sheng, from Swahili “carry”) To be abducted, usually by authorities.
• bhangi: (Swahili) Marijuana. Used colloquially to describe something as nonsensical.
• Cheki: (Sheng) Check (it out).
• chumz: (Sheng) Money.
• Daima: (Swahili) Forever; always.
• eCitizen: Kenya’s real-world government services web portal.
• famo: (Sheng) Family.
• Gava: (Sheng) Government.
• Huduma Namba: (Swahili: “Service Number”) Refers to Kenya’s real-world national digital identity number.
• iza: (Sheng) Sorry; a casual apology.
• Jana: (Swahili) Yesterday.
• jioni: (Swahili) Evening.
• kitambo: (Swahili) Long ago.
• lipa / lipas: (Sheng) To pay / pays.
• matatu: Privately owned minibuses, the most common form of public transport in Kenya.
• Na: (Swahili) And.
• Safi: (Swahili) Clean. Used colloquially to mean “cool,” or “alright.”
• Si: (Swahili particle) “Isn’t it that…?” Often used at the beginning of sentences for emphasis.
• sijui: (Swahili) “I don’t know.”
• Subaru Boys: (Sheng) Plainclothes enforcers known to use such vehicles when conducting abductions.
• Tunajenga na Data: (Swahili) “We are building with Data.”
• Upper Hill: An affluent neighbourhood in Nairobi, known for corporate headquarters, embassies, and upscale amenities.