Take Two, a serialized story, (Part III)

Lou reflects on the journey and charts a way forward

No press is bad press and Heimdall Research not only survived the fiasco but rose like the phoenix to become a successful software company. Maet sold it to a private equity firm and spread the dividends across the employees. The equity firm named a CEO and CFO and hired Priam as the CTO. Cam moved out of engineering and now assists the CFO with sales analyses. Dakota took a job with Heimdall. I warned her about the dogface patch, but she didn’t think it was anything she couldn’t handle. Penn got engaged to her high school boyfriend. Maet decided to pursue her doctorate in literature but still works at Heimdall part time in the marketing department. Dan and Jonathan continue to be Dan and Jonathan.

Me? Well, I had to think long and hard about who I was and how I got where I am. Instead of going back to Heimdall, I went home and worked as a sous-chef with mom at the Mulqueen, learning her techniques instead of just aping her recipes. I apologize to all those who bought any of my pastries at Java Jive!

Fate had accorded me some amazing shortcuts. And every time I needed a friend, a friend appeared. My unconventional path had sped up the process, but something was lost along the way. I decided I needed to circle back and take the road more travelled. It doesn’t happen often, but life had afforded me a second chance.  

So, I’m back taking classes at the University of Washington – as a very mature freshman. Mostly computer classes although I’m also taking Swahili as an elective, something that tickles Joseph to no end and causes him to write me long rambling letters in Swahili that I can’t make heads or tails of. I’m also back as the pastry chef at Java Jive (now called Amber Coffee and Knish).  Every morning I walk through the front door, past the C on the sign jangling in the wind and meet up with Roger and his aches and pains. He and Lydia have become foster parents, so I get to hear Roger’s stories of disobedience and disrespect—and see him so full of pride it wouldn’t be a surprise to see the buttons burst right off his shirt. As always, I enjoy all his stories, good and bad. I’ve developed infinite empathy for any work in progress. I cook them a meal once a week. Hasu, in return, makes me a meal once a week. I try to meet Maet for lunch every now and then. No dorm food for me!

I spend a lot of time reflecting on that last conversation with Maukston. He was right, of course, but he was wrong too. I had gone down to Kenya looking for revenge and redemption. But something changed in those weeks in Africa. I came to realize that revenge will devour you, and what it leaves isn’t worth having. And redemption is just fool’s gold—attractive only from a distance. But even as the quest lessened me, Maukston’s moment of uncertainty will stay with me forever.

I thought I would achieve closure. Luckily sometimes fate intervenes and ignores our desires. Instead I aspire to an ever broader perspective.  

Still, I’m proud of my past. One of my best feelings on any given day is when I walk into a room full of strangers and get the distinct feeling Dylan came and went fifteen minutes before. And another is when life gets hectic and I feel like I’m lost in the wilderness—if I sit quietly for a moment, I’ll recall some of Tyr’s advice passed along offhandedly on the way. And it’ll fit like a glove. Not closure but a continuum.

Best of all, I’m happy. Satisfied. I know I’ve taken two steps back, but at some point, I also know I’ll take that first step forward. It’s all in the journey. Besides, I feel like I owe it to someone.

Tyr mussed my hair. “That’s the great thing about software, Lou. It’s not cast in marble. It’s not a five-ton bridge. If you screw up, you get a do-over. Remember the good and forget the bad! Wipe the slate!” He smacked his hands together like a Hollywood clapboard. “Take two.”

Lou and Joseph track down Maukston, but nothing ever goes how you expect

I started to barrage Joseph with questions, but he grabbed my hand instead. We cut across the park to the reggae bar, which was already rowdy at two in the afternoon. Joseph grabbed a table in the back and got us two beers. He took a sip and a deep breath. It was only then that he was ready to tell me what happened.

He had to whisper but he was able to get his story out. His first day in Naivasha started slow. His cousin knew nothing about Maukston, but she did know one thing: Tuesday was market day. And, knowing how gossip works, if there was anything to be known, everyone who works in the white highlands would know it.

Joseph and his cousin were there when the market opened on Tuesday. They spoke with each customer until they finally bumped into someone who was a kitchen porter at a white settler’s house. She was extremely reluctant to speak, but eventually she pointed out someone who might be of assistance.

She was intent on picking out the best tomatoes and didn’t notice Joseph and his cousin. The cousin touched her gently on the shoulder and asked “Sister, can we have a moment of your time?” She shrugged but agreed.

Joseph started in, speaking in Kikuyu. “I am seeking a man who is wanted for crimes most egregious. It is believed that he found his way to Kenya and may be staying with Kenyan relatives here in Naivasha. He is a mzungu, white, tall, and distinguished looking. He may have arrived within the last four weeks.” Joseph showed her Maukston’s picture.

She thought long and looked around before softly replying. “He is no longer staying with us.” Joseph was deflated. But then she added “It is known that he has gone to Kakamega to do some research at the rain forest.”

Actionable information!  Joseph went back to his cousin’s house. Unfortunately, gossip travels at speed in both directions. Maukston’s uncle caught wind of this activity and called in some favors owed by the Kenyan police. The next morning as Joseph was loading his car to return to Nairobi, the police pulled into his cousin’s driveway. They took Joseph away and, with considerable alacrity, extracted my name and dissuaded him from any further activity.

I listened in silence. We were close but in the end it wasn’t meant to be. “Joseph, I can’t risk any more violence. I think we have to call it quits.”

He thought awhile. “Mr. Lou, this is no longer your quest. Now it… is now our quest.”

***

Joseph had a plan. He thought we could make our way to Kakamega, snap a picture of Maukston to prove he is in-country, and get back all before the police were the wiser. We made plans to leave the next morning.

I had no idea where Kakamega was. Turns out, it was far. Took us almost the whole day just to get up there. We got a hotel room and prepared to track down Maukston in the national forest in the morning. My return ticket was now in four days.

Lonely Planet Kenya said the Kakamega National Reserve was the only remaining rain forest in East Africa. It had two rivers, the Yala and the Isiukhu, running through it. You were allowed to walk the trails; no guides were necessary. The park’s most noticeable features were the water birds and the monkeys. They strongly recommended a raincoat and insect repellent. All I had was a baseball cap. They mentioned supplied housing. My eye was particularly drawn by the mention of luxury bandas. I couldn’t help but think that if Maukston was here, that was where he would be.

We pulled into the parking lot of the Kakamega National Reserve just as I was telling Joseph about the bandas. He agreed to start there but added that, if that failed, we should split up. And we needed to keep an eye out for the police – he didn’t think we were followed on the drive, but he couldn’t be positive.

We headed for the bandas. As a rain forest, it was legitimate. Joseph was wearing dress shoes and a suit, but it still appeared to me that I was getting the worst of the treatment. The colobus monkeys overhead went blithely about their business, which seemed to be to chase or be chased by other colobus monkeys. With their sleek black coats with splashes of white, well, whatever “it” is, they knew they had it.

When we got to the bandas, there was one that particularly showed evidence of a long-term stay. There were boxes of dirt and a rudimentary sluice set up just outside the door. My pulse quickened. We were about to sneak up and have a peek inside when the entry flap opened. Out of the banda stepped Maukston Rues. We shot off the trail and dived into the woods.

My heart raced. He looked the same; Kenya had not worn him down in the least. I was convinced he had spotted me—could there be anything easier to spot than a white guy crouching in an East African rain forest? But he gave no indication of even having heard us, which was even more surprising given I was hyperventilating like a steam locomotive. Instead, he set up a mirror and put down a washbasin and proceeded to start shaving. He had his back to me, so getting a photo wasn’t an option. We made our way farther off the trail and deeper into the rain forest itself, to wait for a better opportunity.

Maukston spilled out his washbasin and went back into the banda. We stayed crouched in the rain forest for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for Maukston to reemerge. My legs were starting to cramp when again the flap pulled open and Maukston stepped out with a rain jacket and a backpack. He headed up the hill on what appeared to be the main trail.

Joseph whispered to me that he was going to follow Maukston off-trail on the right and that I should proceed off-trail on the left.

It was heavy slogging and quite noisy, but I hoped Maukston would chalk it up to a clumsy colobus. I dashed from one set of trees to another, serpentining up the hill and trying not to lose sight of Maukston in the distance. The tall grass had me breathing hard, and even though I was the chaser and not the chased, I had had the same combination of fear and adrenaline as back when Greg had chased Dylan and me up our alley so long ago. Only this time there was no Dylan.

I had just reached one set of trees when I heard a large rustle nearly directly above me. Startled, I looked up just in time to see something huge drop to the ground. I let out a yelp as I came face-to-face with a baboon.

It was no accident. He had come down for a closer look or perhaps to establish who was king of this particular jungle. If I had been a cat, it would have cost me one of my lives.

He eyed me intently but without any noticeable fear or concern. Although he was big enough to snap me like a toothpick, he didn’t appear dangerous. Instead, his eyes met mine, as if he was just curious as to what led me to that spot. I could have explained, but he would have just thought less of me.

After a while, he must have given up on the possibility of any answers. He stood up to his full height, paused, grabbed a branch, and made his way back up the tree. Point taken. It wasn’t until he was completely out of sight that I felt safe enough to start breathing again.

The interlude over, I looked back up the trail, convinced I had lost Maukston. But I was just able to catch his backpack as it disappeared onto one of the thin tributaries off the main trail. I decided common sense was the better part of discretion and started to follow him on the trail, although at quite a distance.

The trail—and I wasn’t convinced that this qualified as a trail—proceeded to go up at an incredibly steep rate, all the time getting narrower and narrower. No switchbacks to help, just a straight climb up. The forest got so thick that even though I could still hear the rain, none of it was making its way to the floor. It wasn’t long before I was breathing quite heavily again, every breath drawing in the fertile smell of the forest.

As the path got narrower, I started to worry that it would peter out altogether and that on my way up, I would bump into Maukston on his way down. I got my phone out just in case a photo opportunity revealed itself. As I did, I looked behind me to see the hill I had just traversed. And off in the distance, two Kenyan policeman on the trail. They were intent on the hill and didn’t notice me. I looked over to signal Joseph, but I couldn’t see him. This had all the makings of my worst-case scenario.

Nowhere to go but up. At the thickest part of the growth, I popped out into a clearing. And with that, I was almost at the top of a hill overlooking the forest below. It reminded me of that moment on a plane when you pop out of the clouds and into a deep-blue sky with the fluffy white of the cumulus below. In this case, it was the same deep-blue sky, but instead of clouds, the horizon in every direction was an endless canopy of dark green. Still, it had the same calming effect.

I must have stood there spellbound for quite a while until a noise to my right broke my reverie. And there, not more than twenty feet away, at the absolute top of the hill, stood Maukston Rues.

“Lou, this is an unexpected pleasure.” He looked exactly as he did the last time in the office—tanned, rested, practically perfect in every way. I didn’t reply. I was suddenly acutely aware I had nothing to say. I did point my phone and turn on video though.

Maukston, on the other hand, had plenty to say. “I must admit I was disappointed in you, Lou. All those television interviews, and the best you could do was that tired Trojan horse analogy. You of all people. I expected better.” He turned his back on me and surveyed the forest below. “NetLocii and Compendia were my own personal experiment; my living thesis—evolution as a computer system. Accelerating the time necessary to correct through trial and error.”

“What crap,” I shouted. “Tyr quickly saw through your sandcastle.”

He put his hands in his pockets. “That was unfortunate. I was keen to analyze that further. In nature, parasites eventually have to force themselves to be expelled before their host perishes. In a way, NetLocii took on a life of its own and took independent action.”

Then that flash of anger I had seen on the roof of NetLocii surfaced once again. “And Tyr died trying. Few people cross me. No one crosses me twice. Tyr learned the reason why. He just wasn’t up to it.” He took a deep breath and regained his composure. “Which brings us to today’s question: What are you doing here, Lou?”

I answered with the only thing I could come up with. “Why, Maukston? Why?”

He looked directly at my phone recording him and bowed. Just then another head popped out of the woods and into the hilltop clearing behind me. It was Joseph. “Mr. Lou,” he said as he took a few steps until he was alongside me.

Maukston took one small step backward. And a touch, just the smallest hint really, of smugness left his face. And at that point, I realized why I was here. Not for redemption, revenge, or closure. It was for this exact moment: when a shadow of doubt finally flashed across his face.

We had what we came for, video proof of Maukston in Kenya. But, before we could leave, two more people crested the hill. It was the Kenyan policeman.

Again, this caught Maukston by surprise, and for possibly the first time ever in his life, he took yet another step back. And, in the blink of an eye, he disappeared. He was gone.

The four of us stood there transfixed. It wasn’t until his body hit the treetops below and scared hundreds of birds that then flew over our heads that we realized what had happened. The birds broke the spell and the four of us rushed to the top of the hill. There was nothing to see though, the forest had swallowed Maukston without a thought. Maukston had just ceased to exist. The forest had barely acknowledged it.  

I could have sworn we were the first people ever to look over that cliff. But when I looked down at my feet, there was a small pedestal commemorating Richard Leakey opening up this viewpoint to the public.

***

The Kenyan police radioed for assistance, then escorted us down the hill and drove us to the Kakamega station. They had a strong desire to arrest us for something but, with four eyewitnesses including two policeman and a video, the evidence was hard to refute. They told us not to come back. That was a given.

We drove back to Nairobi in near silence. I kept replaying those last moments. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn Maukston walked backward through the exit. Just like Dylan all those years ago.

Lou and Joseph begin their quest … and draw the attention of the Kenyan police

Joseph greeted me at the table. He looked sincerely happy to see me. I was sincerely happy to see him. He sat down and ordered chai for both of us.

I told him everything. I had that old uneasy feeling of simultaneously standing behind him, eavesdropping on the conversation, but I didn’t leave anything out.

There was a long pause after I finished my story, extending quite a bit past awkward. Another man would have got up and left but, instead, he summarized my main points so as to make sure he understood my predicament. He had it exactly right. I had been done wrong by a descendant of a white settler, and now I was playing a hunch that he had returned to Kenya. He looked down at his hands and then back up at me. “This does not appear too difficult.” My heart skipped a beat. It was only much later that I realized Kenyan culture required this type of answer. (“not too far”, “not too hot,” “not too late”). Regardless, it was lifeline, and I grabbed hold.

There must be a little bit of the Hardy Boys in everyone, because as Joseph barraged me with questions, I could sense his skepticism slowly being replaced with enthusiasm. Who doesn’t love a lost cause? His questions were rapid and right to the point—he wanted to know the uncle’s last name, Maukston’s physical characteristics, the location of their family’s homestead. It felt a little like speed dating.

Joseph quickly had a strategy in place. He explained that Kenya is a country comprised of dozens of tribes and each geography was likely to have a dominant tribe. Joseph was a Kikuyu, the predominant tribe of Nairobi and the Great Rift Valley. He remembered having some distant cousins living in Naivasha and felt confident they would know the town and its comings and goings. As I told him more about Maukston, he also felt it was likely he was spending time in Nairobi, that Naivasha was too small and too sleepy for a sophisticate like that. When all was said and done, Joseph was surprisingly upbeat. He shook my hand. “I am most confident we shall have this criminal apprehended and brought to justice.”

My return ticket was in ten days.

The game was afoot! Joseph gave me my first assignment. He drew a map from the Jacaranda Inn to the Hilton and one to another hotel called the New Stanley. He felt that as a mzungu, I would be able to go in and out of these hotels without any questions being asked. He thought that if Maukston was in Nairobi that is where he’d be, and he wanted me to loiter and see what there was to be seen. Joseph would track down his contacts in Naivasha. He promised to get in touch with me in three days.

Being given an assignment seemed to shake me out of my agoraphobia. Early the next morning, I made my way out of the hotel, past the beggars at the gate and headed to the Hilton.

Once out and about, Nairobi started to feel like a regular bustling metropolis, although there was no denying I was part of a distinct minority. That all changed once I stepped into the lobby of the Hilton. It was an island of white in the sea of black. Joseph was right, people took little notice and no measure of me. I sat down and started reading some of the safari tour information that had been thrust in my hand by the touts as I approached the hotel. One was particularly interesting—“Come see the hippos of Lake Naivasha.”

I took a shot in the dark and used the lobby phone to ask for Mr. Rues’s room. Never heard of him. That was really no surprise; Interpol was convinced the Gang of Four had set up alternative identifications. Nothing left to do but loiter.

In those first two hours, I saw an equal mixture of businessmen and upscale tourists, but no one familiar. Joseph was right about the clientele. If Maukston was somewhere in Nairobi, it would be here. In a weird way, I was back in my element as well, seen but not noticed. When it started to get dark, I made my way back to the inn and slept the sleep of the just. Today I had actually done something.

The next day I made my way to the New Stanley. It was the Hilton, only more so. Less businessmen, but the tourists were even more upscale. I didn’t see any pith helmets, but they wouldn’t have been out of place. It was a different type of hotel—more a set of cabanas than regular rooms. No record of Mr. Rues here either. I sat back and took in the bustle. Sitting there killing time, I looked down and noticed my fingernails were dirty. I could tell the air in Nairobi was grimy, but I had never been anywhere where the air was so dirty you actually got dirty just being in it.

After spending the morning at the New Stanley, I circled back to the Hilton and took Joseph’s advice to sign up for one of the safaris. I signed up for a day-trip to Lake Naivasha. I knew Joseph was researching the Naivasha connection, but what the heck.

The next morning, I boarded an SUV with four Japanese tourists. They were keyed up to spend the day at Lake Naivasha; I was more interested when the tour guide mentioned we’d stop in the village of Naivasha to pick up some provisions before making our way to the lake.

I thought I’d get a chance to read my tour book on the way up, but I ended up white knuckling the whole drive. He drove the SUV as if it was stolen—alternately flooring the gas and jamming the brakes. And driving on the left was clearly more of a recommendation than a rule in Kenya. I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally made it out of the traffic of Nairobi and out into the more deserted countryside. Even in the country, there were countless Kenyans going to and fro, some walking, some riding bikes so overloaded as to defy the laws of physics. Still not sure how we managed not to hit anyone.

We made one stop at an overlook of the Great Rift Valley. I stumbled half-asleep out of the van and didn’t really focus until I walked over to the ledge. And that was the first time it hit me. Africa in all its glory. The bluest sky showed above walls of sloped farmland reaching down to the greenest valley I’d ever seen. Below us, hundreds of Kenyans scurried about their business, oblivious to the splendor. The Japanese did it credit with their high-powered cameras; not sure my iPhone did.

We reached the town of Naivasha about thirty minutes later. There wasn’t much to distinguish it from the surrounding area, but we did pass one elderly white man walking toward the post office as we made our way to the market to pick up supplies. I stared intently as he slowly disappeared, as if somehow he would do something that would reveal him to be Maukston’s shirttail uncle. It occurred to me later that if I had gotten off right there, he may very well have known the family. But the opportunity passed as quickly as it had arrived, and we continued down the road.

Once I gave up on spotting Maukston by the side of the road, the rest of the trip was delightful. Saw hippos on the way to Longonot National Park (well, we were on the way; not sure where they were headed) and then a tower of giraffes munching on acacia tress.

When we made it back to Nairobi, and I made it back to my hotel room, I was both invigorated by the trip and disappointed not to have any messages. I was hoping for a progress report from Joseph, but no luck.

So it was with renewed vigor that I took up my post in the lobby of the New Stanley the next morning. I even brought along my tour book—part of me thought it completed my disguise, and part of me wanted to look up other possible daytrips before time or money ran out.

I noticed the Kenyan policeman as soon as he walked into the lobby. His uniform was clearly marked as a cop, but it was the fatigue green of a military uniform. That and the AK-47 strapped around his neck commanded complete attention. He walked up to the concierge, shook hands, and exchanged greetings. His eyes worked their way around the room until they found me. There they settled, and there they stayed.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention as he walked toward me. My white-man-gains-immediate-credibility theory blew away like dust in the wind. He stopped in front of me, and my mind raced. He cleared his throat and spoke. “May I see your passport, sir?” I took it out and handed it to him. He studied it for a good five minutes, as if planning his next move. Then he said, “Could you please to be so kind as to follow me.”

As I walked out, the doorman help open the door. The only thing I could assume was that I hadn’t been as invisible as I believed, and the help had called me in as a vagrant. I was expecting a talking-to and a dismissal. Instead, without further words, he led me to his car, and we drove out. No explanation was given or asked for.

I was driven to a nearby police station, a clay brick building with the Kenyan flag flying and policeman loitering outside. Once inside, I was shown a chair in the captain’s office. He came in holding my passport.  On his desk was a manilla folder and a nameplate identifying him as Nicolas Bure. Nicolas Bure, the man with my passport.

“Mr. Mulligan.” He started talking, and his eyes focused away from me and onto the closed folder. “You are a guest of the Republic of Kenya. Kenya has a long history of welcoming guests with open arms. However, it has also become known for you to be engaged in suspicious behavior.” My mind raced—peculiar yes, suspicious no. “We mean you no harm. We also believe you may have been misled by a Kenyan national. This Mr. Ndube is not your friend,” he said. With that, he stood up and walked toward the door. Opening the door, he shouted down the hall, “Űka haha.” And in walked Joseph.

Joseph had been beaten. His left eye was completely shut, and his jaw was so swollen I was convinced it was broken. He took the seat next to me without so much as a glance in my direction. Captain Bure resumed. “As a foreigner, you are not expected to be aware of Kenyan rules and customs. Unfortunately, there are locals who should know better and yet behave most poorly. Now I am afraid I must charge you both and set up a hearing for next month. We will hold your passport until that time.” My return ticket was in six days. The whole time he looked only at me. “However, if you so choose, you can pay the fine and clear up this incident today without any paperwork.” He paused. “The fine is ten thousand shillings.”

I couldn’t stay another month; I couldn’t leave without my passport. Not trusting my hotel room, I had taken to Nairobi’s streets with all my money in a small purse tucked into my left shoe. I took off my shoe, took out the wallet, and counted the money. I was 1,500 shillings short.

Captain Bure was amused by my security strategy but looked at me with disgust when he counted the money and saw that it was short. However, he took the money and put it into his top drawer. “Since you are a friend of the Kenyan police, we will accept the more modest amount. This transaction is complete. You are free to go.” When I glanced at Joseph, he added, “Alone.”

I looked down at the manila folder and then back up at Joseph. He gave me a slight nod. There was one more thing; Nicolas Bure had neglected to return my passport. The silence grew longer and more awkward until I realized he was waiting for me to ask for it back. “May I please have my passport?” It was the first thing I had said since I had walked into the police office.

He smiled at me, having accomplished his point. He picked me up from the chair by the elbow. But before escorting me out the door, he did hand me my passport. One gentle push, and I was outside looking in. The door closed behind me.

I made it back to the hotel right at dusk. I took out one hundred dollars out of the ATM at the lobby—about 11,000 shillings. My intent was to pack up, check out, and head for the airport. Even if I had to wait twelve hours for the next stateside plane. There was no place I’d rather be than in a boarding area. I quickly packed and then walked back down to the lobby to explain I was checking out. It didn’t matter to me if they decided to charge me for that night or not. I wanted out. I was sick and tired of passing out misery wherever I went.

But when I got down to the lobby, there was Joseph waiting patiently for me in one of the chairs.

I apologized profusely. He signaled to take the conversation outside, away from the lobby. I explained that I was leaving for the airport but that once I had the taxi fare, he was welcome to the rest of my money. He raised one finger to get me to stop talking. He paused as if to say something, but first he had to collect himself. Then he took out a pen and paper. He wrote down four words. “He has been found.”

Lou sets off to track down Maukston. It doesn’t go well…

Thus began the internal battle – my obsession to see things right versus my inclination to just bail.

I bought the tickets to Kenya, assuming I would just cancel them at some point. I got the e-visa knowing there was no obligation to use it. I made sure my shots were up to date, but when isn’t that a good idea. On the day I took a Uber to SeaTac, knowing I could just as easily turn around and Uber back to Roger and Lydia’s. When I boarded the plane I thought, well, I could just end the trip in London. Everybody likes London. And when I got off the plane the first time, the airport was full of smiling, reassuring, English-speaking people. I bought a breakfast of bangers and mash, bought a copy of Viz and some caramels, and waited. And, after all that, I surprised myself  when I found myself boarding the plane to Nairobi.

As people stowed their belongings, it looked like an equal mix of tourists and Kenyans. And me. I stuffed my bag into the overhead and found my middle seat.  The seat to my right was empty, but at my left sat a very black man, wearing a nice, albeit slightly threadbare, pinstripe suit. He smiled and nodded as I pointed at the middle seat. “Welcome,” he said in a thick accent as he stood up to let me in.

We both settled in, and I was acutely aware that as soon as the wheels hit the air I was now a stranger in a strange land, while he was homeward bound.

He took to reading a London Times that he had brought with him. I just stared at the back of the seat in front of me. He must have noticed my Lonely Planet Kenya guidebook because he pointed at the weather forecasts in the paper. “It should be the start of the rainy season, and yet it looks most sweltering.” I looked where he was pointing. Nairobi had a predicted high of 27°. Celsius. Great, Celsius. I nodded agreement.

“Joseph Ndube.” He held out his hand.

“Lou. Lou Mulligan.” We shook.

“Well, Mister Lou, what takes you to Nairobi? Safari?”

I gave him a look to try to determine whether he was having me on. There was no sign of guile in his face. I decided misdirection was the better part of valor. “Yup.” Then I feigned sleep to avoid any other questions. A little too well, I guess;  Joseph had to gently nudge me awake so I wouldn’t miss the first meal.

He peacefully continued to read his Times as I ate the dinner. Joseph looked over. “Well, since our destination is Nairobi, I say karibu, ‘welcome,’ to you. I want to tell you that the airport is amidst one of our national parks. So, you may very well start your safari before we even alight.”

I could ask him some of the questions I had meant to research before we took off. “Mr. Ndube, how far is Nairobi from the airport?”

“Please, Lou, it is Joseph. Not so very far. And where are you staying?”

“The Jacaranda Inn,” I said. Probably the only thing besides my passport and shots I had actually arranged beforehand.

He seemed satisfied with my answer. “Oh yes, very nice. You will find the Jacaranda Inn most adequate.”

I smiled and thanked him. Since he had reminded me, I decided I should do some of that research. I took out my travel guide and started reading. Joseph peered over my shoulder but was too polite to say anything. Within moments I was back asleep.

I slept sporadically the entire rest of the flight. Didn’t see any of movies, didn’t read more than ten pages of my tourist guide. I would wake up, stretch, get up and walk around, get a drink of water, come back to my seat, and fall asleep.

He didn’t nudge me awake again until the plane had almost landed. When I came to, he pointed out his window. “Twiga,” he said. I looked down below, and not only had we almost landed, but sure enough—we were flying over giraffe galumphing across the veld. And that’s when it hit me. This was really Africa. And this was really me in Africa. Joseph just smiled when he saw the recognition come across my face. “Seeing a giraffe as your first African animal portends a good visit.” I could only hope he was right.

I stuck close as we deplaned and picked up our bags. It wasn’t until he pointed me out of the Kenyan citizen’s custom-check line and into the international line that we parted ways. I looked for him once I cleared customs, but he was gone, and I was awash in a sea of African faces.

I grabbed my bags, used the ATM to get some Kenyan shillings, switched my phone SIM card and made my way through customs. I was standing in line for the bus to City Centre when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Joseph. “Please, Mr. Lou, do not take the bus. It is full of thieves and pickpockets. You will be so much happier with a taxi.”

I decided to heed Joseph and made my way to the taxi stand instead. He was right—the driver took me directly to the Jacaranda Inn. I parted with the first of my Kenyan shillings and made my way to the hotel lobby. A solemn man in a blue uniform and a gun held the door for me. In no time, I was sitting on the bed in a hotel room in Africa. I meant to go out and get my sea legs and maybe the lay of the land, but instead I just continued to sit on the bed as dusk settled in.

The next morning, I was awoken by a knock on the door from the cleaning crew. I hollered back that there was no need today. And there wasn’t—I had fallen asleep in my clothes on top of the sheets. I had a splitting headache, so I had a breakfast of a couple of leftover caramels and a sip of water, changed out of my clothes, and got into the bed this time.

My mind must have been racing because I woke up in a jolt in what felt like the middle of a conversation with myself.

I made up my mind to make my way outdoors, but when I looked out it was nighttime in Nairobi. From the window I could see the lights of a nearby bar and hear the reggae music pouring out. People were having a good time. From the sound of it, probably too good of a time. Closer I could see solitary men standing in the doorways leading up to the hotel. I assumed these were more doormen or armed guards, but in my mind’s eye, they were all watching my room. It served to totally intimidate me, so instead of going outside, I put my earbuds in, played some music, and pulled out my travel guide.

I remembered Maukston mentioning Lake Naivasha so that’s where I started. It was the closest I had to a starting point. I cursed myself for not doing this sooner (like when I was stateside, for instance), but I opened the index and looked up Naivasha. My stomach grumbled as I sat in the chair, which made me curious as to just how potable the water was in Nairobi. I had another caramel and dived into the book.

Naivasha was a town about ninety miles northwest of Nairobi along the Great Rift Valley. It was an area known as Happy Valley, where many of the British white expatriates had settled and accumulated much of the fertile farming land. The guide even provided a list of the bars and clubs frequented by the aging settlers. Somehow I had to get up there and poke around. Since I was in the book anyway, I looked up the recommendation about the water. They said to make sure the seal hadn’t been broken (otherwise it was likely to have been refilled with tap water). I looked at the half-empty bottle sitting on my nightstand. Well, no sense crying over a broken seal. I had the last of my caramels for supper, finished the water, and went to bed.

I woke up with a plan. I needed to get up to Naivasha and just start hanging around the places where the expats hung out, like a shy teenager courting his crush. At some point I would bump into Maukston and have my proof to deliver to Interpol. Not great, but a plan.

The catch was that I couldn’t seem to talk myself out of my hotel room. On this side of the door, with my iPhone and my caramels, was America. On the other side of the door was Africa. I was stuck in the cocoon of this smelly, beat-up hotel room. I had hotel-room agoraphobia.

Funny, I had predicted multiple places where my tendency to give up would surface; this wasn’t any of them. Feeling momentarily resolute, I was out of my hotel room for the first time since I had checked in. I walked down the stairs and into the restaurant on the first floor. I was plenty hungry for some breakfast, but I was too late. So, I ordered lunch instead—quite possibly the world’s soggiest, greasiest french fries. They were delicious.

While I was eating, I looked out at the street scene. People were scurrying about their business. I couldn’t tell you whether I had ever seen so many black people in one place. Right outside the door was a collection of street kids. They’d run up and beg from anyone that stepped out of the hotel, not stopping until the armed guard came and chased them away. Only to repeat the exact same sequence when the hotel door opened once more.

As the waiter handed me my check, I knew I hadn’t quite broken the spell the Jacaranda Inn had over me. I had successfully made it out of my hotel room but still hadn’t left the confines of the hotel. I eyed the drugstore at the end of the block. If I could just make it there and back, the spell would be broken. Hell, I could even buy more caramels and a fresh bottle of water.

But apparently not today. When I stepped out of the hotel, I turned around and went right back up the stairs to my room. At that moment I was as disgusted with myself as I had ever been. But it didn’t stop me from skulking right back into the room. Who was I kidding? I had flown nine thousand miles in some scheme to track down Maukston and bring him to justice, and it took all the energy I could muster just to get me out of my hotel room. The great white hunter! I made up my mind to call British Airways and see whether I could move my flight up and take the next one home.

When I sat down on my bed, I noticed a letter had been slipped under my door. I assumed it was from the maid staff (I had repeatedly declined their offers to clean my room). But I was mistaken.

When the only person you know on an entire continent offers help, well, that’s not the time to start counting teeth. I picked up the phone in my room and asked for an outside line.