Black Star Nairobi Read Online Free

pain—like you’ve been nailed to a cross.”
    “Sickle cell—never heard of it,” O said.
    “Why would you? If you think you are well, the disease doesn’t matter,” Kamau said.
    I didn’t know anything about hydroxyurea, but I knew about sickle cell. My ex-wife and I were tested for it before we got married. She wouldn’t bring a child into this world with sickle cell, she had said. Had someone told me that the next time I’dhear about sickle cell, it would be from a crazy pathologist, as a clue in a Kenyan murder case, I would have had
them
tested, for drugs. But here I was, happily thinking that at least my ex-wife had taught me something useful.
    “Sickle cell, one in ten black people are carriers. A carrier marries a carrier—they get a baby with the trait, chances are. Only problem with your theory, Kamau—our guy could be from anywhere two black people marry. He could be British—shit, man, we weren’t all sold in America. Spain? Brazil? Cuba? How do you know he isn’t Kenyan?” I asked, unable to mask my irritation.
    “Come on, Ishmael, how many Kenyans do you know that take any kind of medication? And don’t you think Haitians, Jamaicans, and what have you have enough on their plates without worrying about sickle cell?” Kamau responded.
    He was right. Of all the diseases killing people in Kenya, sickle cell would be like a migraine: take a Panadol pill and go to bed.
    “And you know what that means if I’m right?” Kamau said, pointing to O and me. “It means his death was a …” he lowered his voice, “a surprise. Who stops to take medication when they know their life is in danger?”
    “I think Kamau is on to something. Two clean shots—this is not murder Kenyan-style. Now that I think about it, the last clean political murder was in 1969—a trade unionist,” O reasoned.
    “Murder Kenyan-style? Remember what they did to Ouko? Tortured, burnt, and shot? My friends, this man is as American as apple pie,” Kamau said with a silly laugh, poking me in the ribs.
    “Okay. I can grant that he isn’t Kenyan. Could even be African-American. But let’s look at this the other way round. Howdoes a black American end up dead in the middle of Ngong Forest?” I asked, not expecting an answer.
    “How did you come up with this hydroxyurea stuff anyway?” O asked Kamau, genuinely intrigued.
    “My second bible,” he said, pointing at a thick yellowing book on his desk. “That and Google. My friends, I know this is thin, but sickle cell, an execution in Ngong, the clothes—but hey, you are the detectives—you have a hypothesis, go forth and produce.”
    We turned to leave.
    “One last thing,” he said, laughing hard. “Remember, the first shall be last and the last shall be first.”
    “What else you got, Kamau?” O asked him.
    “I found this in his stomach.” Kamau took a shiny silver ball bearing from his pocket.
    “What is that?” I asked.
    “This was his secret—this is what he wanted found. It’s a riddle I can’t unravel,” he said. “But I can tell you this, there is someone out there with a plan, and he won’t be too happy if you mess it up.”
    He could not have timed it better. Right at that moment, we heard a loud explosion. The floor beneath us shook. Then, a deep silence.
    “And that, my friends, that is the sound of the plan,” Kamau said into the silence. We rushed outside to see a huge fireball rise up in the air.
    A bomb had exploded somewhere in Nairobi.
    I was certain about one thing—our guy had something to do with the explosion. For someone to want our guy this dead, it had to be for an important reason, and my gut told me we had just heard it.
    All the people we needed to see would be at the bomb site; we might as well go see what kind of clues we could pick up. That, and curiosity, had us driving toward the city center without saying goodbye to Kamau.
    O called Hassan’s cell. After several tries, he reached him. The Norfolk Hotel had just been