A Fool's Knot by Philip Spires Page B

with that John rose to his feet and offered his hand across the desk. Mwanza shook hands and left, giving the door an unintentional but almighty slam. He mounted his bicycle and set off along the road, ringing his bell almost constantly and greeting all passers-by, like some be-wheeled town crier. Before he had cycled a quarter of a mile, he met Janet, dismounted, and set off back along the road with her to return to John Mwangangi’s office.
    John heaved a massive sigh of relief when Mwanza left. He sat quietly for a minute or more to collect the thoughts that Mwanza had scattered and then, half-turning in his chair, he leaned back to push open the sliding door in the wall. “Syengo,” he called, “you can take lunch now.”
    Syengo replied quickly, causing John to turn just a little more so that he could see through the hatch and scan part of Syengo’s front office. “Sir, there is a teacher here to see you.” John’s heart sank as he caught sight of Mwanza hovering in front of Syengo’s desk. “Shall I send her in?” There was no answer. “She has come all the way from Migwani to see you, sir. It’s about the disturbance at Nzawa School.”
    John looked at his watch for a moment, relieved that at least it wasn’t Mwanza who again wanted another audience. “Send her in.”
    Janet entered the office to find John reopening the file on the case. It was already thick with papers. On seeing her, he stopped abruptly, his impatience instantly changing to a warm smile of recognition. “You are... Miss Rowlandson from the secondary school in Migwani?”
    â€œThat’s right. I am very pleased to meet you again, Bwana Mwangangi.”
    There followed some minutes of light conversation. “We met about a month ago, I think. Yes, it was after your school’s Harambee Day ,” he said. His voice had a lightness of tone that almost communicated relief. “Father Michael introduced us.” He enquired about her impressions of Kenya, of how she had come to teach in Migwani and how she found teaching Kenyan children compared to English. They even shared a few words about London, a place both of them knew intimately, it seemed. It was Janet who feigned impatience this time.
    â€œBwana Mwangangi,” she said, “do you think we could get down to business? A friend of mine is waiting for me outside and we are going to have lunch together.”
    Remembering his own impatience with Mwanza, John apologised and invited her to state her business.
    Janet explained that she had been told a student of hers had been arrested following the disturbance at Nzawa. She had come to ask whether the student might be released so that he could attend an important interview for a place in the Village Polytechnic in a few days’ time. She, herself, would provide any bail that might be necessary. She had brought the money with her.
    â€œLet me first check if we have in fact arrested your student. A lot of those originally detained were sent home after the identification parade. What is the boy’s name, Miss Rowlandson?”
    â€œJoseph Munyolo,” she replied, straining in her chair in an attempt to read the names on the paper John held.
    â€œLet’s see,” he said as he prepared to read the list. “Kiloo Mbiti, Mbusya Mwanga, Kimanzi Munovo…”
    â€œThat’s him,” said Janet.
    John said nothing, He looked at her across the desk in some confusion. “I thought you said his name was Munyolo?” He stressed the second name and then spelled it out.
    â€œHis Kamba name is Kimanzi,” said Janet. “Joseph Kimanzi Munyolo. That’s him, all right. The police officer who wrote down his name must have spelt it wrongly.”
    John scanned every paper in the file, seeking out every reference to the boy. It took time. Janet suspected that he was deliberately stalling. She started to fidget, running her thumb