Chapter 11
It all kicks off when I bring the bike to a loud revving halt outside Annie Oakley's. The motley collection of hangers on that usually skulks in the bushes around the entrance swarms to life as soon as they hear the bike. They are almost sprinting out of the bushes like startled antelopes and are instantly jostling, hugging, and beaming at us, waving and whistling as they mob us, as if Little Stevie and I really have turned into royal visitors, and there's something of a fight to be the first to shake our hands.
Little Stevie and I are anxious to get our helmets off and unzip our leather jackets, but progress is slow with so many hands to slap and so many greetings to return.
I recognize at least six of Fingers' original Kibera Crew, but not Fingers himself. Big Evans Majengwa is holding up a hulking fist stuffed full of thousand-shilling notes in my face and shouting Yaa maan, Yaa maan, look ad daat! It's a little rash perhaps, but I doubt if anyone will try and jump the former Kenyan middleweight for his stash.
Kevin is last to appear. The crowd seems to recognize the authority of his tall and taciturn figure, for he pushes his way to the front, goes straight up to Little Stevie and tests him out on the old high-five ritual.
That helps Little Stevie out of what could have been a tight corner and a swift return to the mole rat burrow, but I know I can back my son to remember the sequencing of all those hand combos to perfection, and of course he gets all the shakes and slaps in the right places. When they're done, Kevin looks seriously at Little Stevie like he's just killed his first lion and is finally ready to join the warriors:
'Hello, Little Stevie Wood. Welcome back!'
'Hello, Kevin,' Little Stevie answers, and he delivers it so precisely and so hesitantly that everyone breaks into a laugh and we follow Kevin inside the bar, like explorers welcomed to the Big Chief's kingdom.
I'm glad to see this ragtag gang again after so many weeks away upcountry and before long we're shaking hands all over again, slapping palms and re-living some of the standout football games we've invested in together while Little Stevie and I were in Meru.
Soon we are all packed in a great clump around the horseshoe counter. It's a modest soda for me as I'm going to be chewing for a while yet, but it's beers for sixteen of the Boys from the Bushes, while we talk over tonight's Champions' League tie and everyone fires me with questions about the Juventus players, their positions, strengths, weaknesses and style of play, then the same for Lyon. So, over the next ten minutes we've as good as talked our way to a Juventus win, and I'm finding it hard to see why Betfair doesn't simply give us our money and let us cash out right here and now. It would be the decent thing to do.
'She's here,' Kevin whispers to me, when things have calmed down some. 'Past the pool table, outside on the terrace.'
She's here. Such a simple utterance, but its sheer simplicity strikes me with a hallowed terror, as if the Great Priest of Isis has just translated the secret cartouche that reveals the awesome reality of the goddess's sacred rites. We both turn around to sneak a look in the direction Kevin's index finger traces, but when we do that we discover Kevin's information is a little out of date: Yasmiin is not sitting on the terrace any longer. Oh no, she's no more than ten feet away, has a pool cue in one hand, and with the innocence of a first-day kid at the School of Hard Knocks, is rashly about to take on Little Stevie on the pool table.
Little Stevie hangs crouched over the table on a long shot. Yasmiin is looking straight my way and I'm in heaven and then some, for I know that she won't need to move anywhere out of focus for some time to come. I can feast my eyes all over her at leisure, while my son works his way faultlessly through seven reds and the black. This is going to be nice. Real nice. I'll just stay right where I am for a while, ogle and chew, ogle and chew, for I can't believe the transformation in my goddess.
The hot weather has washed away the heavy robes of that first December night and I'm left staring at chest full of illicit pirate treasure, prised from the wreck and exposed on the sand bar by a freak low a tide. For Yasmiin is dressed in a thin, light brown diraa that Somali women wear, and through its thin veneer you can readily discern shape, figure and even the outline of her bra. Her long arms are bare to the elbow and latticed with henna; further down, open golden sandals reveal gold-painted nails that chase more symmetrical lines of henna to the hem of her dress. There's more gold too in the lip gloss and also in the eye shadow which compliments her dark eyes and soft, caramel cheeks. My eyes follow a sinuous coil of long dark hair where it twists past an intricate gold necklace to nestle on top of her left breast, whose lush dimensions are now precisely guessable.
She bobs her head to and fro and shifts her poise as she watches the balls whiz across the green velvet, while Little Stevie doesn't disappoint on the table, refusing to let up for a second, and each new cue ball lets me take Yasmiin in all over again and from a different angle. All the same, the game is over far too quickly for my liking when the black finally purrs over soft green lining and embraces the end pocket nearest me with a satisfied kiss. Maybe I should suggest to Little Stevie that he goes for a five-mile run between shots next time he plays Yasmiin.
'Another game?' Little Stevie asks. 'You can break first this time, Yasmiin.'
Yasmiin smiles demurely but shakes her head:
'Not now, thank you, Little Stevie. You're far too good for me. And besides, it's getting busy inside here now. But thank you.'
And with that, Yasmiin finally looks directly at me. Maybe I'm dreaming the next bit, but it certainly seems to me that there could almost be a flicker of encouragement in her eyes. And how I could suddenly wish a month of successive losers on the Kibera Boys behind me, whose boozy swagger makes my girl look suddenly askance and change direction.
Turning away from us, Yasmiin rests her cue against the table and retreats to the terrace, while big Evans Majengwa picks it up like a relay baton and challenges Little Stevie to another game.
Seeing my chance, I slip unnoticed past the two of them and reach the terrace just as Yasmiin regains her table in the shade, right over in the far corner. Her miraa is stripped of leaves, the pruned stems laid out in a neat and tidy pile and wrapped up inside an old double page of the Daily Nation, from which she selects then delicately nibbles a tender stalk as I take my scruffy bunches from the sweaty inner pocket of my leather jacket and cast them down on the table just opposite.
'Would you like to mix some giza with your kangeta? I offer, staring disapprovingly at her inferior bundle. 'Fresh from Meru this morning!'
'Thank you,' she replies, avoiding my eyes and looking straight down instead at my bundle of leaves, from which she selects a handful of my straighter giza, pruning each stem thoughtfully and without comment.
'I'm glad to see a serious Muslim like you can still chew qat,' I say. 'And I see you've met my son, Stevie. Sorry I didn't warn you about his pool playing, though.'
Our eyes meet at last and I see it's all too sadly a case of having picked up where we left off last time:
'Even the imams in Yemen and Somalia chew qat,' she protests a little too vigorously, her vehemence perhaps betraying a secret doubt.
Of course there is plenty I could say about that but there would be no point, for I didn't mention the qat chewing to debate the pedantry of Islamic restrictions. Oh no! The chewing is just what I want to see; this is an own goal that's gone my way in a tight match, and you take whatever you can get in my business:
'Good on those imams,' I mutter, and I sense that further conversation right now will just lead to more antipathy, so instead I just let the qat work its silent magic. In the ensuing lacuna, our fingers pluck quietly on different sides of the same table, working steadily through separate piles. Eyes are cast down and focused no further than the tip of the green stems, while our shared silence amplifies the good-natured groans coming from Evans Majengwa's third successive thrashing on the pool table.
'I like your son,' Yasmiin says finally, looking up. 'He's sweet!'
'Great!' I say, 'Then that makes two things we have in common now: qat chewing and my son!'
I'm still wondering, with some amusement, who threw the initial challenge in the great Little Stevie versus Yasmiin pool mismatch, but this is not the time for trivial pursuit. Not at all. Because look what's happening! I've finally done it! I've just gone and got my first ever Yasmiin smile!
'And the number three thing is football,' she continues, opening up even further. 'But not your gambling rubbish. I hate gambling; it's haram.'
I'm about to give my usual spiel about being an investor in footballing outcomes not a gambler, but no, that will only cause more arguments, so I try something more insipid instead:
'Football, eh? Well, what a great couple we'll make you and me, my qat-chewing habibti. Who do you support?'
'Chelsea. And you?'
'I used to follow a team,' I laugh. 'But that doesn't mean much anymore when you're in my line of work. So I just end up supporting whoever I'm backing on the day.'
We both hear a lot of cheering and shouting from inside, and it sounds like it's coming from the pool table. Yasmiin looks past me in the direction of the noise:
'Those mkora friends of yours were getting louder and louder all afternoon waiting for you to come, Brian. They never stopped talking about you for a second.'
And she mimics their ya-di-ya-di-ya.
'So you are famous already, Brian. But it's not just here in Nairobi they shout your name, even in Mombasa too I've heard people talking about the Football Man on the Bike and his boy. They call your son the Quiet Boy, you know.'
First use of my name. That sounds promising! Very promising indeed. And for all the predictable distaste of gambling, which Yasmiin professes to be unholy. All the same, she seems somehow smitten by it too, like a nun with a Mills & Boon novel hidden inside the prayer book.
'Mombasa? Funnily enough, we are going to Mombasa tomorrow,' I add, and Yasmiin looks at me quizzically again, like I pull too many aces from my hand.
'You too! I am going back home to Mombasa for the weekend. Islamic weekend.'
'Yes, Thursday - Al Hamiis, which is tomorrow. Well, now a trip to Mombasa, too. How much we seem to share already! Perhaps I can give you a lift on the bike and get Little Stevie to run behind with his running mate from Meru!'
I thought I might get a second smile for this, but no, not a bit of it. Instead, Yasmiin is looking down at her qat and has gone distant again. Finally:
'A lift? I don't want to ride on your motorbike to Mombasa, Brian. But you have made me think about something else. Maybe there is one favour you can do for me with your motorbike?'
'Sure. Anything. Just ask!'
'When are you coming back to Nairobi?'
I shrug my shoulders:
'That depends. I'm going to Mombasa to see a politician. You know what they're like!'
I lean back waiting for certain for that second smile this time, for everyone loves a dig at a politician's expense, but oh no, not a bit of it. Still it doesn't come.
On the contrary, Yasmiin looks suspicious again now, so I have to tell her a little about Dismas Mosiro and how I know him. But my explanation still doesn't get that elusive second smile, although at least Yasmiin does look a little more relaxed and she returns to her original question:
'So how long you will be in Mombasa, you think, Brian?'
I shrug again:
'Could be few days, could be a couple of weeks. Who knows? Like I told you before, I'm the last nomad in Kenya. My schedule is never fixed.'
Yasmiin leans across the table towards me, so close that one long lock of hair trailing a caramel cheek almost brushes mine. Her voice is the barest whisper:
'If you come back here before two weeks can you bring something back for me? A small package?'
Of course I will, but I'm getting curious myself now:
'A package, eh? Won't you be coming back to Nairobi yourself, Yasmiin? Or are you staying for good in Mombasa?'
She looks away, sipping absently at her soda:
'Of course I will come back to Nairobi, Brian. And I will collect the package from you then. But you know how Kenya is. If I go by plane I get stopped. If I take the bus, the police can give me headaches at roadblocks. Everywhere these days there are police checks and roadblocks, and they always abuse Muslim women like me. It's a real problem, Brian. The police think every Muslim in Kenya is one of those Al Qaeeda pigs or maybe those disgusting Al Shabab from Somalia.'
'And you don't want the police to place their infidel hands all over your package of Holy Korans?' I wink.
That doesn't go down too well, but I couldn't resist it. Yasmiin stares down at her qat again and nibbles a stem.
My eyes are busy in earnest now. With her head bent downwards, I watch Yasmiin's gold chain nestling in a firm, plump, cleavage, dancing above the soft flesh like a delirious bacchanal. Qat is a powerful aphrodisiac. My throat is tight, my body aches. I haven't felt this way since? Stop it!
Finally Yasmiin looks up and catches me at it, but oddly seems comfortable with my embarrassment, almost coquettish. Damn it, there's some inconsistency in this Muslim morality of hers! Maybe there's hope for me after all? The merest wave particle of possibility sends a hot flush straight to my chest that fans out and suffuses my whole body with a quivering tension.
'I'm sorry I bothered you, Brian,' Yasmiin sighs, shaking her head in a deliberately provocative way. 'I will ask someone else for this favour.'
'No, no, no, it's fine, Yasmiin,' I plead. 'I was only kidding! I'll be happy to bring your package with me, even if I have to make a special return trip back here to Nairobi just to help you out.'
'You mean it?'
'Sure.'
'Thank you, Brian,' she says, and now I do get that second smile, and wow, isn't it worth it!
Little Stevie joins us at this moment and sits down next to me. He's holding his ears and? shit! He's got his comfort books out again. Bad news. But seeing as we're only on Ronaldo and not Yellow Peril, I let Little Stevie have a good mumble through some of last year's Serie A scores while Yasmiin and I chew quietly in self-contained contentment, co-conspirators in a covert pact of motorbike courier secrets.
In the heightened buzz the qat chewing induces, I'm unusually attentive to Little Stevie's scores. My mind drifts and I start to wonder why we hadn't backed Napoli at home more often from last February onwards, but then I realize I'm missing the point; I should be asking myself instead what's bringing this on. But I'm not left deliberating on the causes for very long, for Little Stevie abruptly stops his recital just after Chievo Verona's 0-0 draw with Atalanta Bergamo and looks up:
'Dad, is Yasmiin doing the same business as Janet?'
'What's that?' Yasmiin smiles at him, and I'm thrown into an instant panic in case Little Stevie asks Yasmiin if he can have sex with her and Dad will give her some money for it.
'No, no, Stevie,' I almost shout, gripping his shoulders to get his eyes. 'You mustn't ask anything about that stuff! Leave all that for now. I'll explain later.'
Maybe it's the unusually rough pressure of my fingertips pressing into his shoulder blades that does the trick, for soon I do get his eyes, and instantly read a lot of confusion misfiring inside.
'What will you explain?' Yasmiin asks me, now looking highly amused.
Lying is not my strong suit, while brutal truth is Little Stevie's set of trumps, but I manage to slip a quick one in all the same before Little Stevie can bulldoze away all the ground I've been steadily gaining over the last twenty minutes:
'He thinks you want to join Football Kenya,' I say, then turn to Little Stevie:
'Muslims think that what we do with betting on football matches is very wrong, Stevie. And Yasmiin's a Muslim, you see. So don't ask her anything at all right now. Just concentrate on the Juventus game instead. How long till kick-off?'
Little Stevie checks his watch:
'Four hours and thirty-six minutes, Dad.'
; 'OK,' I say, sighing with relief, for it looks like my sidetrack was successful. 'We'll be staying in a hotel tonight, Stevie, so we can check in fairly soon and come back here in plenty of time for the game. There should be quite a crowd of us. Will you watch the game too, Yasmiin?' I ask, turning again her way.
The amusement on her face vanishes and Yasmiin looks startled once again. She shakes her head:
'No, no, I can't do that, Brian. Maybe you will see me here later, but please don't talk to me then. I have other business.'
Of course, I know exactly why that is. Twenty years ago, I would have seethed and roared at the implications, but I'm not doing that stuff anymore, and in any case, my complicity will make another secret for us to share now, Yasmiin and me.
'Promise,' I wink. 'We'll be as subtle as spies, won't we Stevie? And we won't embarrass you, Yasmiin. Besides we'll be too busy with the Juventus game.'
'Promise,' Little Stevie adds blandly, and I bet he's got no idea what he's promising, but like a dutiful son he'll sign up to anything Dad suggests.
All this is rewarded by a third smile from Yasmiin and this one is the loveliest of all. At the same time she pushes the remains of her qat my way then gets up and straightens her diraa in front of us. I'm in see-through heaven and almost forget something crucial:
'Don't you want my mobile number?' I ask. 'So that you can call me in Mombasa?'
Yasmiin puts her hand to her mouth like she's nearly forgot her handbag and nods. 'Oh yes, of course! Please do that, Brian.'
I call a waiter over and write it on a bar chit, which Yasmiin checks carefully, then folds and places inside her purse.'
I love to watch all this, and what's more my number on a secret bar chit is yet another bond tying us together. I'm planting them on Yasmiin like a succession of pre-tournament, ante-post bets that might just land me a big scoop at the business end of the season.
'Good bye then, Stevie and Brian,' she says, shaking our hands in turn, and looking suddenly shy, for all except Little Stevie understand that an innocent peck on the cheek might have been more appropriate at this point. Am I reading way too much into this, or am I right in thinking that this amazing woman was almost reluctant to leave us?
I'm certainly crestfallen enough to see Yasmiin go. My eyes mournfully follow her all the way to the exit, and I'm swallowing hard each time a swaying buttock kisses and pushes out the folds of her diraa. But at the doorway Yasmiin turns and smiles again, and it's the most beautiful yet for being so coy:
'And good luck with the game tonight!'
'Thanks,' we shout back in turn, and I crane my neck to watch Yasmiin's lithe outline swish past the inside tables towards the centrepiece bar, where Big Evans Majengwa and the boys are getting louder and more raucous than ever.
It looks as if Kevin must have been discreetly keeping the boys away from me while I was chatting with Yasmiin out here on the terrace, for as soon as she disappears, Little Stevie and I find ourselves mobbed by greetings from new faces and old.
They are all Football Kenya members of course, but their rag-tag clothes, street-trader voices and general reluctance to purchase anything from the bar with their own money, finally proves too much for the management, which duly appears in the form of a Korean lady, escorted by several heavies, and they set about removing all non-drinking customers from the bar area.
Although it is almost certainly all this hoodlum noise which is driving Little Stevie to his rendition of last season's Serie A scores, I can't help myself from standing up for the underclass:
'Hang on a minute,' I shout. 'These people are drinking! Give them all whatever they want. It's on me.'
In seconds there's an almighty hullaballoo all over the bar, with hordes of guys pressing up against the counter and all sorts of good-time girls who must have been lurking concealed in the shadows now revealing themselves like safari ants after a rain storm.
'You're buying for everyone, I see, Mr Brian! I came right on time!' a deep voice booms behind me.
It's Fingers. The baseball cap has gone now and Old Musembe's slicker heir-apparent looks ever smarter than his predecessor, dressed in a neatly starched stripy blue shirt with clean, pressed jeans and black cowboy boots. We embrace like brothers who've got much to catch up on:
'Come on let's get out of here,' I say, remembering Little Stevie, who must still be hunched up over his comfort books out on the terrace with his hands over his ears to stymie all the noise.
He is. And not even Fingers can rouse Little Stevie from the tattered book with rat-faced Ronaldo on the cover. It's doubly depressing, for I soon gather that my son has finished in Italy and progressed to scores from last year's Champions' League knockout stages, which reopens the wounds of our worst ever form, when I stupidly had us take positions on three or four games that were far too close to call.
The dusk is deepening, and even out here on the terrace, space at the drab, once-white tables is filling fast, mostly taken up by groups of young Kenyan males who are feasting on a glut of free beer they must have had on my tab.
I get frequent hand gestures and smiles from this brotherhood of reversed baseball caps, while good-time girls have gathered in clusters in between the tables, noisily squawking to each other about who did what to whom last night and making intermittent come-ons to me and Fingers, which we ignore as effortlessly as Little Stevie does, buried as he is in rehashed football data. Inside the horseshoe bar, the light is dimmer and an amorphous mass is whirling here and there around the horseshoe counter, like a massive black hole around which this galaxy of degenerate stars can orbit.
'How are Beatrice and Njeri getting on?' I quiz Fingers, as we settle down by Little Stevie.
'Good,' Fingers smiles. 'The baby is putting on weight now. And Mary has made the mother go to college.'
'College, eh? What's she studying?'
'Sewing machines,' Fingers replies, taking a thoughtful pull on his beer.
'Mending them or using them?' I ask.
Fingers is sharper than ever and right on my wavelength so we both have a long chuckle till, plucking another stick of miraa from my pile I add:
'Anyway, that sounds like a good idea. We can't all be football vultures, can we?'
'Football vultures!' Fingers laughs even louder. 'That's it, Mr Brian, we are all football vultures! Big, fat football vultures. And there are many vultures like us in Kenya now, spreading their wings out in every direction.'
And he mimes the circling action of the big bird of prey to the whooping delight of all but Little Stevie.
'Too right it's spreading everywhere,' I laugh. 'All the admin is giving me and Luxmi serious headaches.'
'What headaches?' a familiar voice asks.
I stand up to give Kiwi John a hefty slap into a dirty palm and see he's brought the whole family with him.
We hug like I've been as long lost in Meru as I was in the UK, and I kiss Laila and the girls several times over.
'Stevie, look who's here!' I have to shout above all the noise from the seething scrum that's thickening around the bar. 'It's Almas and Lulu!'
But my son won't turn around and his hands are scrunched ever tighter over his ears. This hurts. I didn't want Almas to see him doing more weird stuff. And despite what we've discussed before, I don't want him to give up completely on her just yet, either.
So I try to coax Little Stevie out of his introversion and squat down next to him with my arm around his shoulder.
'Come on, Stevie, It's Almas!' I whisper into his ear, when I've pulled off a resistant hand.
But it's no use. The hand is thrust back defiantly across his unprotected ear and his plaintiff tone becomes more dogmatic.
'Porto 1, Bayern Munich 1. Bayern Munich go through on away goals,' he persists, and every word he utters is deeply wounding, more painful than a succession of high-stakes games, each lost on an eighty-ninth minute penalty. Well, maybe not quite that much, but it's a crushing shame all the same.
Almas and Lulu sh
rug their shoulders and look as confused by Little Stevie as they are with the general rowdiness of Annie Oakley's. Almas has had her hair done and looks very sweet. How I wish my son would look up and take notice of her!
Fingers, Kiwi John and Laila are laughing and getting on just fine when I rejoin them, while Almas and Lulu sit down opposite Little Stevie with Coca Colas in their hands, both looking suitably perplexed.
A slender hand pats my back and I turn round to find it belongs to Guarav. He's got a clean white shirt open to a hairless chest, where a thin gold chain shimmers. His jeans, as ever, are pressed and starched. And yes, it's time for me to give up the qat and accept the bottle of Tusker which Guarav is poking my way, for it's starting to get way too social here for a silent chew.
'Jesus, Brian, our house is under siege! We've got to move the office somewhere else, man!'
Guarav is smiling but I can tell he means what he says, and more than that, he is probably under orders from the family elders to make the point.
We smile, I shrug my shoulders and we click bottles regardless, while Kiwi John gives Guarav's beautiful white shirt a mighty slap on the back with a workshop hand of dubious cleanliness.
'OK, I'll come over and sort something out with Luxmi,' I smile. 'But can it wait a few days, Guarav? We're off to Mombasa tomorrow.'
'Mombasa?' they all repeat.
'Make sure you're nowhere within fifty miles of Brian when he passes that fucked-up Safari City Themeworld venture down at Amboseli, Guarav,' Kiwi John grins, and everyone laughs, including Guarav, who almost spits out a mouthful of beer onto his clean shirt.
I let them all have a few jokes on me and even ham it up with some blood-curdling oaths muttered under my breath.
They all laugh even louder now and Kiwi John really starts to take the piss. But in a way it's sad that I'm just play-acting here. Gone is my old pathological hatred against the blood-soaked maw of the Development Machine. Either I'm too old to care properly any longer, or else the future of a planet which is munching forests and fisheries like they're buy one get one free snacks, while from the other end it shits out enough shredded plastic to turn the Pacific Ocean into a giant tapioca pudding is market closed, as we say on Betfair, so what's the point?
While they're all still chuckling I lean over towards Little Stevie and squat down in front of him so that my head is resting inside the cover of his comfort book. That way I get his eyes.
'How long till kick-off?' I ask gently.
He looks at his watch, then covers his ears.
'Two hours, thirty-seven minutes, Dad.'
'Are you OK, Stevie?'
'Too noisy!' he pleads.
I start to digest all the ramifications of this understandable lament and start to question whether I really will be able to make my son stay here amid this febrile crowd to watch the Juve game but before I can decide I feel my bum slapped and suddenly Janet has insinuated herself right in between me and Little Stevie with both buttocks plonked on Little Stevie's lap.
'Hello, Brian,' she winks at me, before planting a lipsticky kiss on my cheek and wrapping both arms around Little Stevie's neck. Then she catches my eye and lets out a shuddering groan:
'Ugggghhhh?. I want this boy so bad tonight, Mr Brian!'
Almas and Lulu are gaping in bewilderment, while Fingers and Kevin wolf-whistle from the far end of the table before striding over to slap Janet's palm. Guarav and Kiwi John are sniggering to themselves, while Laila looks priggishly at Janet, like she never acted this way in her own buy-me-a-beer, bar-girl days.
Janet's blue jeans are so tight they probably come with a sly urine tube hidden somewhere down the starched seams, because once on, she'll never get them off again tonight till she's shacked up in bed with some lucky bloke and ready for action. Her tight white top reveals almost all of her breasts, and I find myself inadvertently staring at the milk chocolate skin of that voluptuous cleavage while drinking in wholesome draughts of coconut body lotion, overpoweringly wafting my way from such a mass exposure of raw flesh.
Janet winks at me again, and despite the excessive lip gloss and make up, it's a neatly proportioned and very pretty chocolate oval of a face.
Little Stevie's face is hidden from me now, but I can see that his hands have left his ears and every time Janet wiggles her bum to gain a more secure perch on his lap, last year's Champions' League group stage scores are probably the last thing even on his mind!
Janet is veritably basking in the limelight, which she has forcibly wrenched from the table. She beckons me towards her with a finger then wiggles forward to whisper something in my ear:
'I think tonight is it, Mr Brian! Tonight I can finally have this sweet boy!'
And with that she turns towards Little Stevie again, bear hugs him and smothers one of his cheeks, this time in a wet kiss that leaves blood red lip marks on his skin. I catch Little Stevie backing away from Janet's excessive intimacy. She doesn't know it, but she should be careful how she proceeds with this kind of contact.
But then, all of a sudden, Little Stevie blurts out:
'Dad, I think I want to do sex business with Janet now.'
Even with my experience, I am caught completely unawares by this disclosure. Janet lets out a cackle of delight and slaps the palm of her hand onto a fleshy thigh. Fortunately, Little Stevie's delivery was so deadpan that I don't think anybody other than me and Janet picked up on what he just said:
'Excuse us,' I smile to my friends, springing to my feet. 'Janet, can we talk outside a minute?'
Still howling with laughter, Janet drags Little Stevie to his feet and pulls him away by the hand like a prize she has just won in raffle, following me all the while to the exit.
I would never have believed this place could get so crowded, and with my mind preoccupied, it only dimly registers that every few paces we go, a black hand is shaking my own and shouting Mr Brian! or Quiet Boy! at our backs.
I'll deal with all that later, though, and reckon I shouldn't be too surprised that Fingers and Kevin have invited what looks like half of Kibera shantytown to watch the Juve game with us. Can they really all be Football Kenya members? It's unbelievable to think so, but the frenzied adulation with which they mob Little Stevie and me leads to no other conclusion. This is major stuff in itself, but right now I've got an even bigger conundrum on my mind: Janet v Little Stevie - is this a game that I should allow to go ahead?
There's no macho bravado influencing my decision, nor any of that sowing wild oats crap. On the contrary, I'd give anything not to be involved in what's brewing here and how I wish Little Stevie could find his own way to his first sexual experiences via all those hit-and-miss cuddles and fondlings a proper teenage girlfriend like Almas could share with him. But I have to face facts and accept that Little Stevie is never going to have the social skills necessary for the time-honoured gropings at the back of the youth club, and if I don't help out in some fixer capacity, all those raging teenage hormones risk boiling out of control.
If we thought it was heaving inside the bar, it's worse still out here in the car park and everywhere around us slumdog, work-in-progress millionaires shout Hey Mr Football Kenya! or God bless you kind sirs! or Hello Mr Quiet Boy! at our faces and try to pat our backs or shake our hands, while Janet clip clops behind me in high heels with Little Stevie's hand firmly clasped in hers, basking in all the hoots and whistles she's getting, like she's Cristiano Ronaldo's new girlfriend.
There's an even bigger throng round the Africa Twin, all gesturing at the bike and breaking into cheers and whistles when they see us.
It's nice to be appreciated, but probably only nice for me, for Little Stevie has just about had enough of all this sensory overload, and I can hear him switching from stale Champions League scores to star data from the constellation Vulpecula, the little fox. That's a very worrying development, but when I say that in no way do I wish to imply that there's anything wrong with the innocent and eminently forgettable stars in the tiny constellation o
f Vulpecula. No at all. Vulpecula must not take the rap for this sudden mood-swing - its little-known stars are just the beach huts that risk getting blown away by the swelling tsunami.
Just as I'm expecting Little Stevie to hit meltdown, the crowd behind us suddenly swells and jostles, looking like it's collectively going to throw something up. It does. And the something is Fingers:
'Where are you going, Mr Brian?' he asks in consternation. 'Everyone has come to watch the game with you and Little Stevie. You can't leave now.'
I point to Janet and explain the situation with her and Little Stevie. Fingers laughs and then talks to Janet in Kikuyu. Their conversation goes on for some time with lots of airy 'aahhs' and 'oohhs' from Janet before Fingers turns my way again, his white teeth flashing fulminously in the anthracite background of a sly grin.
'Ok, it's settled,' he says. 'Janet can take a room behind the Eagle Star Apartments and she will bring Little Stevie back to us before kick-off. You must give her five thousand shillings, Mr Brian. I will call a taxi.'
If only I felt it would all be as straightforward as Fingers makes it sound. Racked with doubt I look into the curious faces hemming us all around. So much for privacy, but at least they take it all in without so much as a snigger, like we have just been discussing the weekly shop.
Janet is prancing around centre stage by the bike, blowing huge, noisy and self-confident bubbles in her chewing gum. In fact, the only person I'm big time not sure of here and now is the one who really matters. I grab Little Stevie's shoulders and pull him towards me.
'Stevie, are you sure you want to go with Janet?'
'Go with Janet,' he repeats catatonically.
'Are you sure?'
'Are you sure?' he mumbles in reply, and we're back to the parrot-style repetition of phrases the experts call echolalia. He hasn't done that since he was eleven or twelve. I'm concerned.
By now, Fingers is opening the door to one of the old white Peugeot taxis that loiter here daily without ever seeming to capture a ride. Fingers gives the instructions and Janet jumps into the back seat, pulling Little Stevie into the back seat next to her.
But as I hear the door slam, suddenly my doubts grow too strong:
'Stevie!' I shout, grabbing the side of the door. 'Are you sure about this?'
But he just stares forlornly at the back of the seat in front of him.
'Are you sure?' I can make out as he mumbles back at me from inside the car.
'Todie,' Janet tells the driver in Kikuyu. 'Let's go!'
And as the taxi starts to probe its way through the melee in front of us, I am instantly hit by a massive dose of remorse. I must stop this from happening. Little Stevie is going to blow. I must stop that taxi.
But the taxi has now started to make good progress through the crowd, and just as I prepare myself to make a final dash for the Peugeot, a section of the crowd is sent surging backwards right in my way by the arrival of a new Land Cruiser. I'm stranded. And the taxi is sidling off.
The Land Cruiser toots its horn several times and sitting at in the passenger's front seat I see Njeri, with Julius at the wheel.
Njeri's ill-timed arrival distracts me just long enough, and by the time I look away from her again, the taxi with Little Stevie and Janet inside has left the forecourt. Shit! There's no way back for Little Stevie now.
'We'll see you inside, Brian,' Njeri shouts, gesticulating in despair at the crowd. 'If we can find somewhere to park!'
That might be easier than she thinks as none of the hundreds of new arrivals who are now taking turns to pat me on the back and shake my hand look like they've made enough football money yet to buy a car and cause parking congestion. That should be a small mercy, but in these circumstances I'm not celebrating.
'Come on, Mr Brian,' Fingers beams at me. 'Let's get back inside. You and Little Stevie have chairs of honour reserved in front of the big screen. I will tell some people here to escort your son inside when he returns.'
And with that, Fingers shouts across to the entrance in Kikuyu, where a couple of loafing young lads nod their heads in affirmation to whatever they are being told.
'Thanks, Fingers,' I sigh, and turn around. There is nothing I can do now but wait and hope that my instinct is wrong.
Fingers pushes a path in front of me through the adulating crowd, like I'm some manager who has just won the Champions League final. But with Little Stevie cutting such a miserable figure in the taxi when he should have been ready for the thrill of his life, I'm a cup winning manager whose star striker has handed in a transfer request at the end of the lap of honour. How can I enjoy the party now?
I hold Fingers back outside the entrance to the bar and wait for Njeri and Julius to join us. Julius must be used to pushing his way through media scrums, for he is soon shaking my hand energetically, with Njeri trailing from his other hand.
'Brian!' Njeri greets me playfully, squeezing my hand and kissing both cheeks. 'You are looking so fit and strong on our Kenyan sun! I swear you look no different from twenty years ago.'
'And what a story you're making for yourself!' Julius adds. 'The whole of Kenya is talking about you and your son. Do you mind if a film crew joins us later when the game is on? I thought I would combine business and pleasure.'
'I had no idea myself that we had grown this big already,' I reply, looking bashfully around at the legion of the dispossessed now packing the car park like ticketless fans locked outside the stadium.
None of them seem to mind too much though at being left outside the gates, and you can feel a communal buzz here to rival any big match build up back in Europe. Some members of the crowd have got tinny radios on the go, but I'm not sure if any locally available stations will stretch to live commentary on the Juventus game.
Njeri grabs my elbow:
'What will happen if you lose tonight, Brian? There will be a riot!'
'I'm more worried about how all this heaving mass of people will be able to follow the game,' I smile back nervously. 'There isn't the space inside the bar to house the tiniest fraction of this mob, and I don't think those radios will be any good.'
'Don't worry, Mr Brian,' Fingers interrupts. 'I have arranged for that,' and he points out Big Evans Majengwa lurking just inside the entrance. 'Evans will listen to the TV and shout out what is happening to the people outside.'
Big Evans Majengwa now hears what Fingers has just said, breaks into one of his deep, resonant laughs and wants to slap me on the back one more time. The muscles in his knotted tree stump of a neck bulge taut as he does so, and Fingers takes the opportunity to usher me, Njeri and Julius inside the bar, which is about as full as any pub back home needs to get on a Christmas Eve, before the Salvation Army move in for the kill and shove a bucketful of coins in front of you, threatening you with a Christmas carol if you don't shower your change in quickly enough.
'Where's Little Stevie?' Njeri asks innocently.
I wish she hadn't and mutter something very vague by way of reply.
But it's the question on everyone's lips and Almas, in particular, wants to know where Little Stevie has gone and why. I feel doubly guilty dealing with her, and tell Almas that Little Stevie is just giving his ears a rest outside while he waits for kick-off.
'Hope Janet doesn't pop her chewing gum too loudly for him!' Kiwi John winks, sidling up next to me and putting a bottle in my hand.
And as I take the bottle from my old friend, I'm momentarily pulled away from my preoccupations and finally see what I've been seeing all night but have simply not yet taken in: Football Kenya has not only kicked off in Kenya - it's shooting up the league tables and is heading for the heights.
For the first time tonight I finally look around the bar with eyes that can see and begin to feel the immense weight of every eye in the bar trained right on my forehead. With Little Stevie and Janet on my mind, I've been staggering like a sleepwalker out in the courtyard, despite all the fan club. But now I'm sitting centre stage next to Kiwi John in the king's c
hair in front of the giant television screen, at last I am truly awestruck.
It's a seamless mass of humanity that confronts my eyes, all bobbing and murmuring to one rhythm, and the crowd doesn't just stop at the entrance to the bar or even at the far end of the forecourt.
No, not at all. The sinuous coils of this big beast unwind in unseen knots that stretch out in every direction, all the way down to Magadi and the kids from Njeri's brother's school, who long ago will have spread probing tentacles of their own into Masai land. It's coursing through grumpy Jonas and the bad-tempered batik boys of Nakuru town, who in turn must have passed the infection into random arteries criss-crossing all over the Rift Valley and maybe on up to the Lake itself. In the Highlands above, the miraa chewers of Meru will have lined their pockets aplenty and shipped Football Kenya through to the wilds of the north and the palm trees of the coast, flying our football gospel at express speed in their over-laden pick-up trucks to clandestine destinations all over Kenya. This is big now. We are all interconnected. We are one. And we're all less than an hour from kick-off in the Stadio Delle Alpi.
If I'm the big superstar here, I'm only just shading it for the time being, for Julius has caused a sensation himself and lots of Fingers' mates are mobbing him too, vying to shake the CNN star's hand.
Njeri is behind her husband talking to Laila, Almas and Lulu, and I remember now that Laila and Njeri must have met last time I was in Kenya, though obviously never again since now and then.
'You're bigger than the Central Bank of Kenya!' Julius says to Guarav, breaking out from his fan club a moment to shake Guarav's hand.
Guarav sighs, but I can tell he's loving every minute of his time up here on stage with the main idols.
'Tell me about it, man!' he replies, shaking his head. 'If Brian doesn't organize another cash office soon, all my family will be forced out on the streets!'
'Don't worry, mate, Brian's good with street kids!' Kiwi John cuts in. 'If he finds you and your family sleeping rough on the streets, he will scoop you up and cart you off to some stranger's house, then dump the lot of you on them for a couple of weeks! He's a master at getting his mates to do all the dirty work behind his Mother Teresa act!'
They all have a massive laugh at my expense and I flash my mate a couple of playful V signs.
So we chat away the time till kick-off. The buzz from the crowd, the beer and the great company have put Little Stevie to the back of my mind, and it's only when Fingers yells to the Korean lady to turn the sound full up on the television and we hear that Champions League anthem that sounds like Zadok the Priest echoing from speaker to speaker, while the black-and-white stripes of Juventus line up on the touchline chest-to-chest with the match officials and the white shirts of Lyon, that we all take our seats and I realize there's still a massive gap next to me, both physically and emotionally.
'Fingers, Little Stevie's not back yet,' I hiss.
'Don't worry, Mr Brian. My boys are looking out. They will bring him inside as soon as he arrives. But if it makes you feel better, I'll go and remind them now.'
It does, and I'm glad he has offered.
Only someone of Fingers' experience and authority could punch a passageway through the serried ranks behind. And when I see the squeeze Fingers is up against, I'm doubly relieved he has volunteered for this relief mission instead of me, so I settle down in my seat just as the Danish referee puts the whistle to his mouth.
And as he blows, there's a tremendous roar inside the bar, a cacophony that surely beats anything they can muster in Turin. It ripples back past the counter and on to the entrance, where it is taken up by the larger crowd outside, amplifies, and is passed on into the distance like a peel of giant thunder in a savannah rainstorm.
In fact, we've only just stopped staring around the bar, smiling at friends and saluting strangers before the thunder breaks again.
And this time it's truly deafening, for the veteran Juventus striker Alessandro Del Piero has only prodded home a Camoranesi cross with barely a minute on the clock!
It's mayhem in Annie Oakley's, and perhaps it's just as well Little Stevie isn't here after all, for the whole bar is jumping up and down and leaping into each other's arms. I tell you, they won't be partying like this when Jesus Christ makes his Second Bloody Coming and breaks the news on Twitter that all the shit about guilt, abstinence and original sin was one hell of a giant, monumental, and nothing-to-do-with-me-lads cock up, which must have been fabricated by some vicious old grey beards way back at the Council of Nicea in the fourth century AD, when they got pissed the first night of conference and woke up the next morning with stinking hangovers and choirboys in their beds.
In turn after ecstatic turn I'm hugging Kiwi John, Guarav, Laila, Almas, Lulu, Julius and Njeri (that's particularly nice!), while behind me I can distinctly hear Big Evans Majengwa roaring his lungs out into the car park like the Creator of the Universe in the moment of creation.
But it's only when Fingers slaps each of my palms five times over that I realize he's back empty-handed from the car park, though the grin on his face suggests he's not too worried about Little Stevie's late show at this precise moment.
But I am, and it casts a real downer on a perfect start, which eventually seems to spread from me to the game itself. For after a good ten minutes of cock-a-hoop doolally, the noise starts to simmer down all over the bar, and the game strangely starts to mirror my own private concerns.
Out on the pitch, Juve fail to exploit their early dominance and there are worrying spells where Lyon pile the pressure on, with their talented Brazilian midfielder blasting a succession of his trademark long range, missile launcher free kicks ever closer to Gigi Buffon's goal, like he's range finding for a howitzer hit.
And finally one does rattle the crossbar, or rather the reverberations can be heard unaided in downtown Nairobi. Gigi Buffon does us proud, though, in the Juve goal, glancing nonchalantly to his right at the site of impact with a look that says: if you want me to dive around and get my kit dirty, man, you're going to have to aim ten centimetres lower. Mama mia!
At half time I've had enough of both lots of tension; it's time to attempt a breakout. And when I try what I'm anticipating to be a Herculean task, it's miraculously easier than it looks. For me, the ranks of Football Kenya fans part effortlessly like the waters of the Red Sea, though unlike the biblical character of inferior popularity, every step of my procession requires me to slap palms, shake hands or simply smile and wave. And behind me, Fingers and Kevin have soon caught up with me and are revelling in all the posturing that goes with being my minder.
At the doorway, Big Evans Majengwa grabs me by the shoulders, stares into my eyes and lets out a victory roar. This is head-banging stuff. I reciprocate by leaning my forehead straight into his and letting my own lungs let rip. We rut back and forth this way for some time with adrenalin-filled veins throbbing in our necks. It's a performance that sends the crowd in the courtyard into further raptures and we only break off when Fingers whispers something in my ear and points to the far side of the car park.
At first it's not clear what Fingers means, but a gut feeling grabs me and I desperately push at the adulating faces in front till I see him there, kneeling by the Africa Twin, rocking, swaying and banging his head against the front tyre.
'Stevie, what's happened?' I shout, lunging through the mass of bodies towards him, sinking to my knees and throwing an arm round his shoulder.
'Antares, alpha Scorpionis?' I hear him recite, shrill and harsh.
He's being cradled by Janet, whose hands I furiously tear from my son's neck as if they're suffocating him, but as I do so she turns to face me and it's not Janet at all.
'Yasmiin!'
'Leave me with him,' she replies coolly. 'I know what to do, Brian. My brother at the coast, he has the same condition. He can get like this too.'
'But where's??'
And then I look up and see Janet standing in the circle of onlookers, all glum, guilty and sur
ly.
I'm on my feet in a second and it's as much as I can do to stop myself from slapping Janet across the face.
'What did you to him?' I shout. 'How the hell did you get Little Stevie in this state?'
But then the gum-chewing bravado shatters in a second before my eyes and Janet is suddenly no more than a sobbing little girl with big tits and a pretty face, who knows that the mob around us will tear her to shreds if I so much as lift an eyebrow against her.
'I? I? I? just? started? kissing him, Mr Brian. On the lips. That's all. But your son, he didn't like it. So I pulled him towards me and tried again. Then he became even worse. He just threw himself on the floor and started rocking and shaking. I didn't know what I have done to him. So I said, Little Bwana, I think we must go now! But he didn't want to listen even then. Instead, he started making some very weird noises. Very strange sounds I have never heard before.'
'Giant mole rat noises,' I diagnose.
'Giant mole rat?' Janet asks, like she's never heard of the infuriating creatures, and almost immediately I realize there's no reason why she should have heard of these elusive denizens of the Ethiopian highlands.
'Don't worry, Janet. It's not important.'
She shrugs.
'Anyway, Stevie kept on making these noises for such a long time. So I just called the taxi driver. But even me and the driver, two of us, it was so difficult to get your boy back in the taxi, Mr Brian. But I swear, I did nothing bad to your son! Nothing happened between us. I just don't understand what went wrong.'
I can see it all know, and am forced to admit that this whole debacle has been my fault. In my guilt, there's no more I can do than give little Janet a big, forgiving hug.
'I'm sorry, Janet,' I sigh bitterly. 'I should have seen this coming. Well, I did, but it was too late. Anyway, it's not your fault, so don't you worry - at all. You see, Little Stevie hates people touching his face. Only when he knows someone really well can he bear being touched on the face, let alone kissed full on the lips. It all happened so suddenly when you arrived in the bar. I didn't think to warn you.'
My admission only makes Janet even more tearful and I have to stand with her in my arms for some time, while make-up stained tears streak her massive cleavage with a dull-red goo. For once there's nothing sexual about Janet. I'm comforting a frightened little girl. Simple as that.
By the time I'm back with Little Stevie, something even more curious has happened. His head is resting against Yasmiin's shoulder, and I've never seen him so calm and peaceful. Yasmiin is gently massaging his feet and far from wriggling away, Little Stevie seems to be enjoying the cuddle that accompanies the treatment.
I crouch down beside them and pat Little Stevie on the other shoulder. And as I do, a strange sensation wells up inside me: I'm almost jealous of Yasmiin.
'Stevie, can we go back inside now? The second half's just kicked off. It's Juventus 1, Lyon 0.'
'Juventus 1, Lyon 0,' he repeats tonelessly after me. There's not much encouragement in his manner, but at least we have moved from star data to football, and that's a step in the right direction.
'Yasmiin, can you come inside with us?' I ask. 'You've obviously got the magic touch!'
She glances at me behind Little Stevie's back and shakes her head. Again, am I right in discerning a vague sense of regret on her part? And as for the glance she throws Little Janet!
'No, if Little Stevie is feeling OK now, I must go, Brian. My meeting is at another place tonight,' she adds, looking all around her with a trace of a smile. 'It's too busy here at Annie Oakley's, thanks to you and your football!'
'Meeting your American boyfriend, I suppose?'
I shouldn't have asked, but I couldn't help it.
Yasmiin glares at me and it's straight back to the hostility of the first night we met:
'He's not my boyfriend!' she spits.
I smile wistfully and look away:
'Whatever.'
Then I get to my feet and manage to pull Little Stevie up with me. He starts to reel off a few more old scores, but I can't make out where they are from. That's most odd, and I'd like to listen and check where they're from, but before I can, Yasmiin interrupts:
'I have to go now, Little Stevie. You will be OK without me now, I think.'
'OK now,' Little Stevie repeats blankly, without looking at his saviour, so Yasmiin turns away from both us and makes to leave, but just before she escapes, I grab her hand and pull her back:
'Thank you, Yasmiin,' I smile sheepishly. 'No really, thank you. That's all I wanted to say.'
Our eyes meet and Yasmiin's are full of mixed signals. She's back to the businesswoman dress of the first night with long chemise fully buttoned and hair pulled tightly, almost severely, back in a ponytail. But beneath the cool exterior there's something else I can't quite pick out, though it's not necessarily quite what I would have hoped for:
'You will call me in Mombasa, yes?' she asks.
I nod and want to add something more, but Fingers and Kevin have reappeared.
'Second half has kicked off, Mr Brian. Everyone is waiting for you.'
'Thanks, mate,' I sigh. 'But we're not going back in there, are we Stevie?'
'Not going back in there,' he echoes morosely.
'No way! We're going to load the gear back on the bike and check into the smartest bloody hotel in town, something like the Norfolk, where we can watch the rest of the second half undisturbed on satellite TV. All nice and quiet. How does that sound, son?'
'Will Farah be waiting at the hotel?' Little Stevie asks, finally sounding a little less catatonic.
'Shit, I'd forgotten all about your Boran running mate, Stevie! I'll have to check my texts later. But no time for running in the morning, son. We're off to Mombasa before the sun gets up.'
'Please don't go yet,' Fingers and Kevin plead again. 'Your people, Mr Brian; they will be disappointed!'
'Not my people,' I shrug, squeezing Little Stevie's shoulder. 'This is my people!'
They protest, but their voices are soon drowned out by the booming harangue of Big Evans Majengwa, whose own rendition of the television commentary is one of the most exciting I've ever come across, filled with so many gasps, aaahhh's and ooohhh's that he's completely captivated the audience out here in the forecourt, and our departure raises no more than a few stifled cheers and waves when I spark up the big Africa Twin and we disappear into the gloom.